The March Continues Placidly

I've spent long hours outside doing hard labor in my gardens.  It's not done, but I'm feeling a little reprieve since every available space in the veggie area is planted.  I've turned my attention to the flower beds.  Oy.

The record heat is a blessing and curse.  Sensually, I love it, but it's hard to germinate in these temperatures.  I've been using every trick I know to keep the vulnerable seeds moist.  Yea, the temperatures speed up the process, but only if the seeds don't dry out!

The heat has also brought an opportunity to test out my summer clothes choices after the big closet purge.  I decluttered two items yesterday, a dress and a shirt.

After my gardening stint, I showered and was looking for something cool to wear.  (We don't run the air conditioner unless there's a compelling reason.)  I tried on a blue, knit, sleeveless, tube mini-dress I had saved.  This revealed lumps in all the wrong places!  I peeled that off and tagged it for donate with no regrets.  I turned, instead, to my reliable collection of mini-skirts.  They are my go-to for hot days in the house.  A cotton skirt in a small, green print was cool and light.  I tried to pair it with a skimpy, knit top.  Trying that on, I remembered why I seldom wore that shirt.  There is a seam that cuts across my boobs in a most uncomfortable and unsightly fashion!  Again, donate pile and no regrets.

I really didn't have anything that matched the skirt, so I went another direction and pulled out a sleeveless cotton shirt with an orange print the same size as the green of the skirt.  Perfection.  Both items light and easy to wear.  I wore it all afternoon, even cooking in an already hot kitchen.  So comfortable I could take a nap in it or wear it to the store.  Bonus: Before bed, I rinsed the shirt in the sink and hung it on the shower bar to dry.  I simply folded the skirt to reduce wrinkles and put it away.  No laundry!  Don't you love summer?

Last night, after my mini-purge, I dreamed of decluttering.  In the dream, it didn't go quite as smoothly as it did in the light of day in my house.  I don't know if that means anything or not. 

Wild Garden Flourishing

I was foraging through my garden for salad a couple days ago when I made a discovery that made my heart sing.  Oh, it is very little, hardly earth-shaking news, and decidedly apolitical, but it made my feet feel light like dancing.  I have to tell it as a story though, so it begins with planting parsley.  Actually, it begins with planting cilantro...no, as far back really as the lettuce.  Oh, never mind!  I have to begin somewhere, so it will be with the parsley.

In the only corner north of the greenhouse that receives any light (the east end), I planted a lone parsley and a lone fennel, and that was as much room as there was.  The north side is sunless, and the soil is not the best because it has never yet received a nourishing load of chicken gold for reason that it is sunless and not a great producer anyway and, thus, low on the priority list.  Usually, I plant a cool weather crop there like lettuce.  In the winter, I have tossed a few field peas in for a cover crop, but they do not do well without sunlight.

The fennel did well and so did the parsley.  The parsley, in fact, grew so enormous that it branched out three or more feet over the pathway causing me to work around it to my great inconvenience all summer, yet I didn't cut it back.  I had my reasons.  Now many people know, and I am one of them, that the caterpillars of tiger swallowtail butterflies live on and eat parsley.  They will chew every leaf down to the stem and even chew on the stems when the leaves are all gone, completely denuding a plant even as large as three or more feet like mine.  In years past, I have planted parsley with the intention of leaving it for the caterpillars of tiger swallowtails.  In return, I have great numbers of beautiful, yellow and blue and black butterflies fluttering over the purple coneflowers (which I also have in abundance), and the effect is magical, pure bliss.

It was the same this year.  I planted the parsley and fennel, and the caterpillars ate the parsley, but not all of it.  There was enough of the plant that it flowered, copiously flowered, and I watched it.  That is, I squinted at it when I was in the garden without my glasses, not sure when the flowers were blooms and when they might be seeds.  I was watching for the seeds, because it was my intention to gather those seeds and save them to plant next year.  Not ever sure, I waited until very late in the season to gather.  I waited for a warm, dry day so my seeds wouldn't be moist, causing them to rot in their jar.

On the day that I gathered, I took my glasses and a pair of shears, and I lopped off the umbrels whole and gathered them in a loose, plastic bag, the grocery type.  I used this kind of bag because I didn't want to seal in any moisture with the seeds.  I then left the bag out on my porch in the warm, dry weather until I was really sure I wasn't going to seal the seed heads in the storage jar only to find that they had rotted.  Operation successful.  I have a lovely jar of seeds now, but that's not the story.

Now back at the plant, there is nothing but stalks and two umbrels of late flowers, which I have left in the off chance that they will produce seed before winter.  The fennel beside it had faded back or been eaten, but with rain and cool weather, it is reviving from the root, so there is a lovely, ferny plant in that corner now, too.  Surrounding the duo, there were the numerous seedlings of the cilantro, which is self-propagating on the north side of the greenhouse.

This is why I suggested the story started with the cilantro.  The cilantro is my great success at doing nothing, that is, letting the garden tend itself, my ultimate goal of rendering myself nearly useless, becoming the mere, protective shell to the living production therein.  I planted the cilantro years ago, a single row, but I didn't harvest all of it.  Instead, I ate what I could from the young plants, and those that grew too bitter, I let them go on to flower and seed.  Ever since, they have inhabited the waste space on the north side, sprouting at their leisure, cilantro at all different heights and ages and stages of development, varying only with weather and season.  I harvest it whenever I like, because there is always enough save for the deepest cold of winter.

As I was saying, I was foraging in the garden for a salad, and there were cilantro seedlings in the path at the east end of the north side of the greenhouse.  Being very efficient, I harvest any plants in the path first in order to preserve it (the path), and instead of just taking the tops, I pull them out by the root.  I did this and did not detect the extremely familiar scent of crushed cilantro.  To my delight, it was parsley!  I tasted it to be sure, and it was definitely parsley, a small, but solid carpet of parsley seedlings from my denuded plant above it.

What this means is that I not only have a semi-wild, self-propagating stand of cilantro in my waste space, I have a lovely mixed bed of salad herbs, parsley and cilantro, requiring nothing on my part except the residual water from an occasional soaking of the garden proper and an annual weeding to keep out the trees and volunteer tomatoes in the spring and summer.

As I said, it was not earth-shattering news, and some people would not think parsley was such a great treasure.  Of course, these same folks may never have grown their own.  This variety (heaven knows I don't remember what kind, something flat-leafed) is very tender when young, not bitter at all, almost sweet with only a faint sharpness to entice the palate.  It tastes fresh as dew!  This is why I felt like singing and dancing in the garden and maybe I skipped a little on the way back to the house with a handful of fresh parsley and cilantro and maybe I sang a little bit, too.

First Week of February

January may be an inevitable Jotun, but Spring is just as inevitable. Like augurs of Rome, we read the signs of her in the flight of birds first. She does not dwell in February, but she sends her heralds, and by the end of this month, I will have bulbs sprouting, maybe even a few blooming, like the silly Scylla, which are the color of the clear sky exactly.

The star magnolia will bloom in February, as well. Its blossoms are flouncy, snowy white against a bare-branched skeleton of the mother tree. It is ghostly on a cloudy day, but sparkles in the sunlight. I might even see the first spears of daffodils, particularly the precious tête-à-tête, which are small and early. Invariably, the white stars of Bethlehem will spear up and form buds.

In fact, when this snow thaws away, there will be warmth and moisture enough that all the small, hardy, plants, which are ridiculously fragile looking but not at all, will shake off slumber that has become ever more fitful and extend their tendrils, shoots, buds or martial spears. To greet them will be sunlight in adequate portions to assure everyone, plant and creature alike, that it’s not all a hoax.

And then the frivolity will begin!

Moonlight drifts down to the snow;
one glitters, one glows.
Silent is a great, old owl.

A Note on Winter by Emily

LXXX

The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates if it will go.

A narrow wind complains all day
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.

Big'un

The kitchen window opens out onto a screened deck under which we have a large, messy lumber pile the inner depths of which we haven't shifted for twelve years. All of this faces the riverbank, which begins to slope down only a few feet from the house toward the water . In a few words, PRIME habitat for growing these monsters.

This is not the first of this spider's generations I've photographed and surely not the last, but it's the first one intrepid enough to creep in the open kitchen window and splay itself among my dirty dishes!

I usually leave these wonderful creatures alone, happy that they're fulfilling their niche under the woodpile, but this one had to go I'm afraid...under a newspaper and the flat bottom of the nearest, empty vase.

If you open that link above, notice the date, May 18, 2009. Next year I shall be looking out in late May!

A Song for Mother's Night

The Mothers´ Night of Yule

Stanza 1
The mother´s night of Yule has come,
Another wheel is turning,
To Asgard´s hall we strike a call:
Come join us and share in your learning.

Chorus:
Hail, hail to the Ase and Van,
Your might and main known to every man.
Come, come to our hallowed hall
And join us for drink and boasting.

Stanza 2
The wall between our fallen kin
and us is ever thinning,
We feel their might course through the night
The web of wyrd we are spinning.

Stanza 3
Together stand we, lovéd kin,
Our hearts and strength are we bringing.
As Yule draws nigh, our spirits high
Will fly on the love of our singing.


© Karl Donaldsson
Tune: Greensleeves

Six Days til Mother's Night

I'm looking forward to Mother's Night on the 20th, just my personal, quiet celebration--like I do most things--a Mother's song (to the tune of Greensleeves) I found and a pine candle I bought. For a display, I thought I'd bring in a few sprigs (I'm not big on denuding my trees) of evergreen and add some apples and nuts from the grocery store. Frigg, Freya, Idun and Sunna will be the honored goddesses, and I will ask blessings on all the grandmothers, mothers, daughters and sisters I know. If that's not good mojo, I don't know what is.

About Idun (Idunn, Iduna, Idhuna): Ramblings

Idun ("She Who Renews") is the Norse goddess of youth, who grows the magic apples of immortality that keep the gods young. Her husband Bragi was god of poetry.

Remember Pagan immortality doesn't mean "forever pacing in heaven." It's about the never-ending cycles of renewal and death that we observe and in which we participate. Despite all the fearmongering, ancient and modern, there's no uncertainty in spring and winter; ya gotta love that. And when the sun and earth runs out, there are other stars, and when the stars all run out, there is still the universe, and when the universe runs out, there is rest and another universe. Do your worst, you dirty, carbon dioxide polluters, you can't outdo the gods!

But about Idun...

Loki, the god of mischief and fire, was once responsible for arranging Her abduction by the giant Thajazi. Without Her apples, the gods soon began to age, and threatened Loki until He agreed to rescue Her, which He accomplished by borrowing Freyja's falcon robe and fleeing with Idun who He had changed to a nut. (This story must be a season-cycle tale; there are lots of them like this, apple to nut, etc.)

Some say that Gerd the Giantess is another aspect of Idun. Freyr brought her eleven golden apples and Draupnir. Sunna may also appear as the aspect Gerd, whose beautiful white arms, raised aloft, illuminated sea and sky. Freyr could see her from a great distance and fell in love.

As we are in love when the morning sun rises or when She returns from southern climes as She will begin to do on Mother's Night, gracing us with her light and warmth a little more each day. Even in the coldest winter, the longest night (literally), she holds the promise of renewal. I'd say that's a miracle or...humankind's propensity for hope. In either case, it's worth celebrating.

End of Ramble.

Plans for Soup

Inspired by the turning leaves and colder weather, I'm planning soup for supper. I've had a butternut squash in the crisper for a couple weeks now, waiting for this particular idea to pop into my head. Originally, I planned to bake and mash the squash like potatoes, which is great, too, but today soup seems even better!

Recipe for--um, what shall I call this?--Butternut Cheese Soup!

I already cut the butternut into fourths and deseeded it, turned the open sides down in a glass, baking dish and added about a 1/2 in. of salted water. It's baking right now at 375F. Takes about an hour to be soft enough to mash, which is what I want.

With that done, I have to make the cheese sauce, a simple roux to which I will add shredded cheese, sharp cheddar, because that's what I like.

Here's how I make the sauce (this is mostly for Kami):

1. Begin with a melted fat/oil like margarine, butter, bacon drippings, depending on what flavor and how many heavy calories you want.

2. In equal amount to the hot/warm oil, add a helping of flour. So if you used a tablespoon of margarine, use a tablespoon of flour. This stirs up into a paste.

3. Now add a liquid; water (if you don't want flavor) milk, cream, beef, chicken or vegetable broth. You add only a few tablespoons at this time. Let it sit in the pan to warm before you try stirring it in. I don't know why, but I like to use a wooden spoon. The first "stir-in" is the most important. If you can make it creamy at this point, then you don't have to worry so much about how fast or how much liquid you add after that. Continue to add the liquid until you've gotten to the volume you want as your sauce or gravy.

4. Important: Taste and salt and season. I like pepper in gravy, for example. For stroganoff, I add paprika, etc.

5. You want to let this heat for a while so the flour cooks (uncooked flour tastes pasty) and the sauce thickens. O, and you can't stop stirring at this point. It's stir and serve.

If you use only butter, flour, salt and milk/cream, then you have what my mom called white sauce. She made it for nearly every meal. Now if I add shredded cheese to melt, then I've got cheese sauce.

AND, if I puree butternut squash and incorporate that, I'll have soup!

Chasing Butterflies in August

Bountiful July

How many times did Dad complain that his zinnias weren't as bright and bountiful as he'd like? And how many times did I say...just wait, Dad, they'll come on...

Marigolds that self-sow each year. Not much now, but like the zinnias, they'll come on in their own time. In my gardener's eye, I see them bold and gold. Soon, very soon...

Fuzzy picture of the 4 o'clocks, which we do not enjoy as we should, because they bloom in the evening. But sometimes, when the night is mild, I step out on the porch to find them glowing in the dark.

Every year, I strive to do picture-justice to the crepe myrtle, which are the royalty of my yard. I fail miserably in these two pictures, above and below, but use your imagination with me...

Dry, hot weather always causes the leaves of the paper birch to yellow and drop, as now. They're pretty and a harbinger of autumn to come, scattered over the plumbago.

This butterfly and his kin are all over the purple coneflower, but here is a stray I chased in order to put his pic on the internet. He's famous now!

Perfect, and it's not the only one. Loads of large, rounded, smooth-skinned, delicious fruit this year. We're eating them sauteed (green and red), fresh on salads, sliced on sandwiches, grilled on fish, chopped up in pasta. It is truly a bounty, and we are appreciating our marvelous, tomato fortune as we indulge in the grandest of the summer fruits. See below!
Not as bountiful, but nearly as satisfying is a wagonload of onions, fresh dug from their bed (below).
When I let it go, propping up here and there, weeding out what threatens to mar it, then I end up with this carpet of impatiens each year. Below, the cilantro happily co-exists with the flowers. Above, a sunflower from the birdseed I offered this winter.

Lilies Expectant

Like these zinnias, the face of Rivergarth is turned toward summer and the light.

Poppies are perfect...

and pretty with purple.

Which is the loveliest and sweetest-smelling of chicken coops? The one at Rivergarth draped in honeysuckle.

Summer lilies poised to pop.

Is there anything more beautiful than morning dew on the tomato leaves?

Only this, a baby tomato, fat with potential.

Every Year the Miracle

Honeysuckle and roses. How can it be that they bloom together every year?

Dad and I are simply in awe each time we step outside the door. My pictures are sad shades of the glowing colors of the roses, and there is no pictorial facsimile at all for the heavy, drowsy, drifting fragrance of honeysuckle.

"But what of the elegant, the exquisite, poppies you posted last year, Angel? And how go the zinnias?"

"Never fear. I'm getting to that, gentle reader. Post pending."

edit: exchanged cloudy morning pic for a new photo taken once the sun (Bless Her golden heart.) sizzled away the clouds; added a sunny photo of the red roses

My Continuing Love Affair

My love affair with things that are small, secret, quietly lovely or silently remarkable continues unabated. I posted pictures of this delicate fern unfurling last year, and here I am again, enthralled both by its form (fascinating) and colors (achingly subtle). If I think about it too long, I'm positively overcome by the mechanism, the movement, of a fern uncoiling.

Delicate flower on a plant as hardy as they come. The contrast interests me. This is the only shade of columbine in my garden, because it's the one variety tough enough to return on its own year after year. I'm a sucker for plants that are both beautiful and independent!

Here are those Stars of Bethlehem that had me awestruck back in February. A few of them are blooming, this one beside a volunteer poppy. This spot was supposed to be new grass, planted in the vacancy left when I moved the garden east, but it was so thick with poppies that I decided to leave off mowing until after they bloom.

My close-ups are abysmal, I know. Sorry about that. You may be able to distinguish the two plants here. The heart-shaped leaves are the American Redbud. They sprout up everywhere, and if you don't move them before they're about 8 inches high, they have already grown a tap root nearly 2 feet deep, making them difficult to dig out. This redbud's companion is poison ivy; those are the notched leaves. I'm not particularly sensitive to it, but Al is, so the chore of removing it falls to me. Although if it were not for Alan, I'd probably just leave it, because it doesn't bother me, and the leaves are stunning red in the fall. By the way, the long, knife-like leaves are of faded daffodils. All these had to be moved when I was digging out bricks.

The First of May

Walpurgis Night from Wikipedia:


From the Mystical Cauldron website:

Celebrated on May 1st, this is a lusty and glorious Sabbat, rich in World history and tradition. It is called by many names, including Walpugisnacht (Germany), Sheila-na-Gig (Ireland), Tithe Day (also Germany), and Festival of Pan (Greece).

Beltane Around The World

In Britain, the royal family still burns a balefire each May Eve to keep the family line going.

In Norway, old brooms are thrown into the balefire and new ones are dedicated to their purpose. .

In Scotland the balefire was lit for the 'need fire', the only non-ritual fire allowed to burn on this day.

The Norse believed you had to sleep at home on Beltane Eve and keep the hearth fire burning strongly until dawn.

In Wales the balefires were kept burning for three days, because 3 was a sacred number to the Celts.

In the Alps of Italy, the festival is Floralia. Flowers and plants are picked on May 1st and a very potent wine is made from them. Each year, all the old wine has to be comsumed before midnight and more flowers and plants gathered for the next year's batch.

In China, it is considered good luck to eat noodles in the Springtime.

Beltane Traditions

Mischievous fairies were believed to abound at Beltane and great care was taken to protect against them. Daisy chains were woven just prior to ritual and places around children's necks for protection.

A hot coal was placed inside the butter churns to keep fairies out ot them.

Livestock was fed fresh dill for protection.

Bells were hung on altars and worn on the ankles of dancers and ritual goers. The ringing of the bells was believed to hurt the fairies' ears and keep them away.

Brooms were ridden hobbyhorse-style over fields and through pastures in symbolic fertility rites.

Ashes from the Beltane fire were scattered over the fields to bless and protect them. The ashes were also placed in a small bag and worn as fertility amulets by infertile women.

Special summer pastures for the livestock were used only after May 1st since fields were the realm of the Pooka from Samhain to Beltane.

Livestock animals were driven through or between waning balefires for purification, protection and healing.

Although May is the month of the sacred marriage of the God & Goddess, it is considered unlucky for humans to marry in May, which is why June is the traditional month for marriages.

The term 'Maying' refers to celebrating all of the traditions of May Day. It was traditional to go on outings and picnics in the woods or meadows to enjoy the beauty of Nature, pick flowers and/or make love. Couples who consumated their relationship in this way were considered to have had a "greenwood marriage". Children conceived while 'A-Maying' are born in February and are referred to as "Merry Begots".

Dancing around the Maypole may be the best known Beltane tradition.

Comment: I was born in February. :)

From the fish eaters website:

Sadly, the word "Walpurgisnacht" is nowadays mostly associated with pagans, who see the day as a mere adjunct to Beltane (May Day) and even dare to use the label "Walpurgisnacht" for their festivities. Where Walpurgisnacht is celebrated, it is usually celebrated wrongly, in a non-Catholic -- sometimes even anti-Catholic -- manner. Odes to May, Spring, fertility, and the earth, the playing of pranks -- these are the things most often thought of when "Walpurgisnacht" comes to mind, and thoughts of the great Saint are all too rare.

...But it doesn't have to be that way. Bonfires-- practically ubiquitous in Catholic celebrations but which pagans also light today in honor of the god (demon) Bel -- recall the divine light that illuminated Wallburga's monastery, and as their hypnotic beauty is enjoyed, one can pray a litany to St. Walburga. The ancient Swedish tradition of collecting branches at dusk to decorate homes? Make those branches oak branches, and decorate them with symbols of Christ and the great Apostles to Germany to recall the Benedectines' victory over paganism, as perfectly seen in the story of St. Boniface and the "sacred oak." As to foods, German fare and beer brewed by Benedictines or their brothers, the Trappists, sound perfect.

Now, because Walpurgisnacht does fall on the same date as Beltane Eve, this will be, for pagans, a night much like Hallowe'en (the Eve of All Saints) insofar as the pagan Samhain coincides calendrically with our Feasts for the dead. Therefore, prayers for pagans and for witches who hold their sabats tonight would be a wonderful thing. May St. Walburga -- who, with St. Boniface, her brothers, and other Benedictines -- brought the good news of Christ to Germany intercede for them now and bring them to Jesus through His Church.

Comment: The veneer that Christians gloss over their appropriation of pagan customs is thin indeed. By the way, Walburga was made a saint only after it was discovered that oil was oozing from her remains. Icky!

from the Irminenschaft website:

Walburga Frouwa [An Freya] Walburga Frouwa is Ing Fro's twin sister, and most popular of all Goddesses among Heathen of eldritch times as well as today. In the Norse sources, Walburga Frouwa is named strictly by her title (Freya) as is her brother Ing Fro (Frey): Lady and Lord, respectively, and its from this association of name that Wicca’s ‘Lord and Lady’ is drawn. The Frouwa is infamous for her abilities at magan-craft and witching, and it's of no surprise to find her as the patroness of witches and the center of praise on Walburganaht (a long-standing witches’ holiday). Walburga Frouwa’s wain is drawn by cats, which are thought to be sacred to her -the popular image of a witch accompanied by a (black) cat originates from the association of the felines to the Goddess.

Comment: There is continuing discussion about the identity of goddesses mentioned in the Northern literature. Because their roles overlap, this is especially true between Frigg (wife of Odin) and Freya. They are, however, distinct entities, Frigg being of the Aesir, Freya of the Vanir, and their natures vary accordingly.

From the Central States Heathens reminder:

Walburg is better known as Walpurgisnacht or May Eve. Walburg is a Goddess of our Folk, combining some of the traits of Her better-known peers. Reflect on Freya, Frigga and Hel as the repository of the glorious dead; then you will have an idea of Walburg's nature. On this day, pour a horn of Mead upon the Earth in memory of our heroes.

Good Walpurgisnacht and Happy May Day!

State of the Garden

Here, roughly, is how the tomatoes are set up. They're planted about 4 feet apart on center, caged in 5 foot high surrounds of what I call "hog wire" and watered by soaker hose. I gambled and planted all Bush Celebrity, hoping for a big crop of big tomatoes. If the variety fails, then I lose it all. There are 16 plants. Three already were clipped off at mulch level by cutworms, but I was expecting that and replanted immediately with backups I purchased at the same time. The plants are now about 3x the size of when I planted and, hopefully, beyond the size of their cutworm vulnerability. Naturally, I'm braced for the next disaster.

Here's the first view (I think) that I've published of the new firepit in the "Annex," that piece of land I stole to add to the garden's eastern end in order to obtain more sun-lit acreage for tomatoes. (That's why I can squeeze in 16 this year.) At this stage, I'm merely collecting stones and playing around with the arrangement. Once I have enough, I'll purchase sand and set them in. There's also a possibility that I'll move the pit. Nothing is definite yet as I only stole this land last winter and need time to think and play and watch how the seasons change it.

Here's the garden layout (minus the Annex where I'm standing). There are more raised beds, more mulched paths, better borders. The A-frame was necessary for peas, because the entire northern fence length is devoted to tomatoes this year. I took this picture this morning after very heavy rains last night.

What's this? It is my bane and my blessing, a morning glory seedling. To my eye, it forms a prominent "M." Does anyone else see it? They begin sprouting as soon as it's warm and wet enough, that would be about now, late April, early May, and I fancy the M is for May, a herald of the 1st. There are thousands and thousands of these little seedlings and as fast as I clear them from the beds, they sprout again, fat, little M's from fat, little seeds forming carpets of M's that will grow into mats and mats of twining vines to lift pink whirls that will daintily unfurl in worship of all those yellow, morning suns to come.

Big Loss

The recent thunderstorms that moved through here came with high winds and deluging rains. One of the casualties of the storms was this tree in the neighbor's yard. It's a big loss, and we'll miss it this summer and for many summers to come.

Labyrinth: Choosing a Site

I have the special honor in May of receiving an expert in labyrinths, the creator of Mindful Labyrinths, who happens to also be my uncle. I mentioned my desire to build a labyrinth at Rivergarth and also my previous difficulty, and he offered to help me when he's here. Yeehaw!

.

He also suggested I begin a record of the labyrinth's development--an excellent idea if I can keep it up!

A pic taken this evening of a potential site for the labyrinth, this open space in the front yard.


I took this pic last summer. The bush loaded in pink panicles is the same as the large, leafless bush in the upper left quadrant of the first pic above.

Our Earliest First for Hummingbirds

Calloo, Callay! O, Frabjous Day!

Previously our first sighting date at Rivergarth was May 5. Traditionally, I hang the feeders on May 1, but after sighting a hummer sipping from a vinca major blossom, I set them out. Only April 24! Yay!

This is a view of the feeder at Dad's window.

Garage Sale Poetry

...those poems that have sat in the garage for years, not good enough to use, but not quite ready for the dustbin if only someone with a little effort would take the time to salvage them, patch a rip, revarnish, mend a broken slat or maybe tease it all apart and make the resulting cloth into something new. I have some of those broken, garage sale poems that I should throw out, but can't quite make myself do it. I get that pack rat gene from my mom, a trait against which I must have constant vigilance--and still the stuffs pile up in the nest. Here's one I really should trash, but it holds the sentimental memory of a certain time of study around 2000, a time of Classic gods and of the Kalevala and other connections I made around then. It's not of much use except to store away, only to bring it out once in a while, blow off the dust, sneeze and remember.


Tell the Lay of Ol' Pan Horny
How he prances spry and randy
By the brook of living waters,
Where the hollow reeds are soughing
By the pines with cones and pollen,
By the pillar lofty rising,
In the moonlight he is dancing.
Not alone the goat God dances,
But with maidens fair and lusty.
All his satyr girls adore him;
On the lawn they love him rutting;
In the trees they love him laughing;
On the rocks they watch him gambol;
Over hills they watch him trotting,
Hills that quake when rage is breaking
Like the raptured issue bursting.
Expectation stirs the ether.
Spritely lasses shake their nubbins,
Hairy tails of piebald patterns,
While above the clouds are moiling.
Then the rain and hail are striking.
Lightning strikes the highest oak tree,
Thunder quails the nymphic lovelies
As they covey then they scatter.
In their Panic rushing blindly
Into arms so strong and tender,
Of the all-embracing Lover,
He who rules the mighty thunder,
Lord of Sea and Sun and Nature,
He who banishes the Fury
With a strident stomp, a mandate,
Where the damsels find their refuge,
Sanctuary, arms encircling,
Like the seasons that are turning.
In the Spring they love him nightly;
Summer warms their blood for dancing;
In the Autumn surge their urges;
Winter finds the goat girls lounging
In the cave of Pan's reclining
With his wine and bread and honey,
With his goat girls by the fireside,
With his maidens sweet and musky,
Passes winter drunk and lusty
Till the southern Sun approaches
From the south whence He was summoned.
Then the goat God herds his ladies,
With their bellies fat with babies,
On to pastures green and springing,
By the swollen, warbling streamside.
Heavily the gravid goat girls
Welcome spring in quiet fashion.
Then the night hears in the meadow
Groans abundant, blood and birthing.
In the starlight Pan is pacing
On the hilltop till the morning.
Then the kids, the little Pan kids
With their itchy horns just budding
And the lively, infant faun girls
With their silky hair just growing
Play on lawns among the daisies,
Tumbling, innocently prancing,
Till their cloven hooves are weary
And their little tummies grumble.
Off to rest on mama's titties,
Ample dugs divine and milky,
While their Father, God and Ruler
Sage and mighty, watches over.
Yet another good year passes
Under Sun and Moon and Heaven
While the Lord is merry-making
Through the sacred seasons burning.
Thus immortal insight springs up
Like the blossoms He has bidden
In the meadow as he passes,
In the goat God's cloven hoofprint,
Like the seed that He is planting
In the flesh of pretty satyrs.
From the pipes that He is playing,
In the drifting songs of goat herds
And the goat girls they are tending,
Is the harmony and timbre,
Of the wisdom for tomorrow.

-me