Category Archives: The Wheel of the Year

The Storm Moon’s Wild Daughter

Photo by Linda Xu on Unsplash

The Storm Moon’s cradle is empty; her wild daughter delivered into the grim, pale days to whirl in crystal smoke under polished bone sky.

Heedless of secrets and scars, she weaves through ice-bound shadows, the Storm Moon’s wild daughter, in and out of blanched forests of memories, sorrows and fears beneath the drumming woodpecker. She puts her mouth to the crack between window and leaning wall and takes in air breathed too many times, wan and desiccated with furnace and stove and a thousand ashy ghosts, exhaling platinum spiderwebs of frost . . . silvery sharp feathers
and flowers of frost.

She is the icy scent of eucalyptus and peppermint, knifing through the sinus-clogging cold that is reluctant to loosen its thick clutches. She is the rich taste of chicken stew made in the ponderous red dutch oven, its chipped white interior stained with a hundred hearty meals.

Photo by Das Sasha on Unsplash

She is the stinging slap, the bitter bone ache, the ice needle under our fingernails that thrusts us out of apathetic futility. Love is not pointless. The grim, pale days are passing away. The hoary sun is warming again. We have tended our souls’ graveyards long enough. Our lives await an end to our grieving.

Her skirts layer the numb ground in a frozen froth of salt and snow creased with ash and sand while she cavorts and teases, naked iron and pearl, in the arms of the wind, their mingled hair crusted with silver.

Her step echoes in the sleeping roots; trees shudder at her passing caress; far below the ice, frogs stir in their cold, muddy blankets, the green sound of spring mute and patient in their chilled throats.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

The Storm Moon feels herself age and leaves motherhood behind, looking down as ewes labor to give birth to early lambs; as her wild daughter whirls with tempest and tumult, careless and thoughtless with youth; as we struggle with chapped hands, clumsy layers of clothing, ice-muffled pipes and feeding the insatiable maw of furnace and stove.

And this, too, shall pass. The Storm Moon shall fade into crone darkness, cradle left behind as a planter for violets. The wild maiden shall learn the secrets of womanhood, her draggled skirts unravel and sink beneath a green mist. The blanched forests shall warm into leafy suppleness, intoxicated with clear-running sap. Glaze of ice and frost shall soften and fall away, drop by drop, and frogs wake and release their insistent song of mate and spawn. Water shall once more run effortlessly through pipes, breath effortlessly through body, and the furnace hibernate, the fire go out.

In our souls’ graveyards, grey stones lean and weather, draped with moss and lichen. There is no clash of voices, no agony, no anguish. There is a bench in the sun, a bird on a branch and a puddle of bluets where the Storm Moon’s wild daughter trod when she passed by.

Photo by Nyana Stoica on Unsplash

All content on this site ©2019
Jennifer Rose
except where otherwise noted

Please Bring Strange Things

Photo by Pascal Müller on Unsplash

I came across this poem by Ursula K. LeGuin and found it beautiful and timely. The wheel of cycles and seasons has swung around to the resurrection of light once more, and we wish one another a happy new year, each of us with our own hopes and fears for the months ahead.

For much of my life, I equated love with protection. When I became a parent, the vulnerability of my sons added exponentially to my own. In common with many parents, I struggled fiercely to protect them through infancy, childhood and beyond. Naturally, we protect others from what we ourselves most fear. In my case these fears include pain, loss, addiction, abuse and abandonment. I tried to shield my children from those people and experiences that hurt me, lest they be hurt in the same ways.

Photo by Nicole Mason on Unsplash

Certainly, in the case of small children, animals and others who have no voice or are unable to use it, protection can be an act of love, but I’ve thought for some time now that we carry it too far, especially when we seek to “protect” our perfectly capable adult children, partners and friends. At some point our impulse to protect others becomes selfish. We do not want to bear witness to a loved one’s pain, let alone our own. We do not welcome the responsibility of telling the truth. Protection becomes a pathological means of disempowering others and binding them to us because we don’t want to be alone or the independence of our loved ones threatens us.

To be over protected is to be without the freedom to develop confidence in our own good sense, strength and courage. We’re never allowed to stumble and fall and we don’t have to figure out how to comfort ourselves, clean our scraped knees and move forward. We over protect out of fear or control, not love, and our constant vigilance of our loved one or loved ones teaches them fear as well. Fear makes our lives smaller, not bigger.

This new year, I don’t wish you photoshopped health, prosperity and happiness, and I don’t have a list of resolutions I hope will lead me to those things, either.

This year, I wish us each the ability to stand in our own power.

May we learn to love our bodies as they are. May we live joyfully in our skin. Let us teach our bodies new things and work with them to become as strong and healthy as we can. May we allow our bodies to be and to change.

This year, may we make mistakes. May we become lost and confused, and then find our way again. May we find out we’re wrong, and tell everyone. May we be vulnerable, get hurt and heal ourselves.

May we wander far from home without a map and walk a thousand miles, exploring new places and ideas. May we listen to a different kind of music and read a different kind of book. May we do something we’re afraid of.

Photo by yatharth roy vibhakar on Unsplash

Let the new year bring us laughter that makes our bellies ache and tears that fall like warm rain on our anguish. Let us fall head over heels in love with something or someone as though it’s the first time we’ve ever done it and we just know it will all be perfect. Let us make friends with our rage and give it something productive to do. Let us tell someone about our deepest shame.

May we know loneliness, boredom, disappointment and humiliation, and balance them with companionship, engagement, satisfaction and validation.

Photo by Miranda Wipperfurth on Unsplash

May we risk, dare and dream. May we learn to believe in ourselves. Let us burn the candle at both ends. Let us wear ourselves out with living. May we hear our lives whisper and speak our own truths. Let us learn and grow. Let us allow ourselves to be seen and rejected.

May we long for a home, find one, make one and lose it. May we make another and choose to walk away from it. May we learn how to come home to ourselves no matter where we are or who we’re with.

May we let go of our protection. Let us tear ourselves away from it. Let us outgrow it. May we feel what we feel with every cell of our body. May we make our thoughts, emotions, curiosity and creativity big and hold nothing back.

Go out into the sun flood of your life, my friends, my sons, my family, and know that I hold you in my heart. Know that I believe in you. Know that I neither ask for your protection nor seek to protect you, for none of us need it and love is bigger than that.

Go out from me into the new year, dear ones, and if you choose to return, please bring strange things.

Please bring strange things.
Please come bringing new things.
Let very old things come into your hands.
Let what you do not know come into your eyes.
Let desert sand harden your feet.
Let the arch of your feet be the mountains.
Let the paths of your fingertips be your maps
and the ways you go be the lines on your palms.
Let there be deep snow in your inbreathing
and your outbreath be the shining of ice.
May your mouth contain the shapes of strange words.
May you smell food cooking you have not eaten.
May the spring of a foreign river be your navel.
May your soul be at home where there are no houses.
Walk carefully, well loved one,
walk mindfully, well loved one,
walk fearlessly, well loved one.
Return with us, return to us,
be always coming home.

Ursula LeGuin

Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash

All content on this site ©2019
Jennifer Rose
except where otherwise noted

What is Your Harvest?

I follow the Neopagan Wheel of the Year. I’ve never felt satisfied by the calendar holidays we currently observe, but when I began to research older, more traditional cultures and found the Wheel of the Year I recognized a spiritual home. Unsurprisingly, the Wheel is built around seasonal cycles and the solstices and equinoxes; all important markers and milestones for people living close to the land and animals.

Photo by Morgan Sessions on Unsplash

August first is Lughnasadh (LOO-neh-seh), the first harvest festival. It marks the halfway point between the summer solstice and fall equinox. The light is decreasing at the same time the harvest is increasing. Traditionally a Gaelic festival, Lughnasadh ushered in weeks of backbreaking work to gather in the harvest, plant as well as animal, and prepare for winter. A good harvest was often the difference between life and death over the winter, and people took advantage of the still lengthy daylight and warm nights to work long hours in the fields.

Each of the eight turns of the Wheel of the Year (about six weeks apart) is an opportunity to pause and reflect on some particular aspect of our lives in the context of the natural world. Lughnasadh is one of my favorites because it is at this time I ask myself how my harvest is.

For me, this is a much deeper and more honest self-inquiry than New Year’s resolutions. I don’t want to try to re-make my life or myself. I want to examine how I’m living the life I have and expressing the person I am. The Wheel of the Year is about spirit, not consumerism.

This time of year, as we prepare for the longer nights and cooler weather, the school year ahead and the fading of this cycle’s growth and abundance, we rural people notice how our gardens and orchards are. We notice the fading flowers and the leaves starting to look dull and tired. We observe the effects of this year’s weather on our fruit, vegetables and herbs. Hunters look forward to hunting season. We count canning jars and pull out our dehydrators to deal with a tidal wave of produce. We consider how the haying season was, if we need to buy more hay to see our animals through the winter, and which animals to cull. In Maine, it’s berry season.

Photo by Bartłomiej Jacak on Unsplash

Rural or urban, this natural and ancient cycle and rhythm can be reflected in our private lives. How is our harvest this year? What did we reap from graduations, weddings, reunions and vacations over the spring and summer? Did our investment of energy, time and love provide abundance? How did our choices work out? Are we happy? Are our needs met? Do we feel connected to ourselves and others?

Did we try to plant too much in an inadequate plot? Have we exhausted our resources in any particular garden or field? Is there land in our soul that needs to lie fallow? Is our spiritual well dry, or sparkling and full? Are we allowing discarded material to compost and break down and returning it to the soil of our life? Does the tree of our life need a good pruning? Have we been lightning-struck, or blighted, or had branches torn off by storms? Do we have enough sun? Enough water? Enough nutrients? Do we need more shelter from wind and storm?

Are we still growing?

Can we bloom where we’re planted, or do we need to grow in another place to nurture the roots of our being?

Photo by Henry Be on Unsplash

This is the time to reflect on seeds, literal and metaphorical, that we’ve previously planted. Lughnasadh is a teacher, slightly past middle age, benign, ample of body and experience. She helps us look back at the previous cycle when we prepared and planted for this growing season, evaluate our current harvest, and ready new seeds for the next growing season. It’s now that I begin to form intentions, review my hopes and dreams, and have long conversations with my fear. Where I’ve been is behind me. The next cycle is before me. Here, hip-deep in a field of golden grain and poppies, is this year’s harvest. What do I want to do with it? How do I want it to be different? Do I need more, or less? Will my choices sustain me through the winter?

Lughnasadh is not about mistakes or failures. It’s an honest assessment of needs and feelings, observation about what grew well for us and produced value in our lives and what did not. A bountiful harvest does not occur strictly through the efforts of human beings, but as a happy outcome between favorable external conditions (out of our control) and the choices we make (in our control). Perhaps we have no harvest at all. Perhaps our internal terrain is blasted and scorched and we feel we’ve lost everything. I’ve had years like that.

Maybe the harvest during those times is the most valuable of all — a clean slate. A newly cleared field.

An entirely new cycle.

So what is my harvest, and how do I feel about it? How are my boundaries? Do I experience reciprocity in my close relationships? Do I feel safe in my relationships? Do I express myself authentically, or do I keep secrets? Do I feel my feelings? Am I effectively managing my rightful power?

Am I my own best advocate, parent, lover and friend?

Evaluating my harvest and planning for the next cycle of sowing seed and growth are not social media activities. This kind of self-inquiry is private, shared at most with a trusted partner or friend, or perhaps a big-hearted dog. It can’t be done superficially or quickly. Traditionally, there are three harvests, and this is only the first. The last is on Samhain, which we call Halloween. By January first, I’m resting. The work of harvest is well behind me and spring approaches. I’m watching the light return and feeling the gathering power of the new cycle.

It takes time and courage to look honestly at our lives and evaluate where we are. It takes self-love to celebrate our triumphs and mistakes. The search for teachers, friends and support to improve our harvest next year is a journey in itself. If we recognize we make ourselves small and limited and thus have a small and limited harvest, we’re not going to magically change that on January first. Now is the time to begin to challenge the fears and beliefs that keep us small and silent. Now is the time to begin to run, walk or even crawl away from toxic relationships and situations that destroy our harvest.

The Wheel of the Year turns. Fall approaches. Change continues to flow through our lives. Notice it. Feel it. Dance with it.

I wish you the joy of the season, friends. What is your harvest?

Photo by Sven Scheuermeier on Unsplash

All content on this site ©2018
Jennifer Rose
except where otherwise noted