Winter arrived this morning

 Not exactly this morning...several days ago the temperatures dropped into the twenties. But even so,

this, from Danielle Barlow:

Winter arrived this morning. Her icy shawl spread across the land, and the low glimmers of early sun had turned the willow stems to glowing copper and gold. It was as if there were flames dancing on the edge of the meadow.

And with her arrival a sense of peace landed in me. Despite my best efforts not to, I am usually running at full tilt at this point in the year, swept up in the tide of ‘ more, more, more’ that is blasted at us. It’s a relief when she arrives. It is my reminder to stop. To be. To embrace the long nights and the fallow land. To go deeply into the Dreaming Days.

Of course, life doesn’t stop. Winter is hard, physically. There are logs to chop, and roofs to mend, ditches to clear and horses to tend. But this is good work, anchoring into the seasonal flow of living on the land, which my mind and body needs.

And this illustration:

Here are a few more words and pictures for this last day of November:

artist: Catherine Hyde

“Forests will

always hold your

secrets, for that’s

what forests are

for. To separate and

hide things. To

protect, to comfort,

to hold, to envelop,

to demonstrate, to

slow down, to hold,

to teach. Go to the

trees to explore

your questions and

dreams. Go to the

trees to desire

and seek. The world

will listen as you

walk, watch, soften

and breathe.”

~ Victoria Erickson, Writer, “Edge of Wonder: Notes from the Wildness of Being”

full moon...artist unknown

November moon .... artist only known by Martina

MAHMOUD DARWISH

WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO LOVE AUTUMN

translated, from the Arabic, by Munir Akash and Carolyn Forché

 

And we, too, have the right to love the last days of authumn and ask the grove:

Is there room now for a new autumn so we may lie down like coals?

Like gold, autumn brings its leaves to half-staff.

If only we never said goodbye to the fundamentals

and questioned our fathers when they fled at knife-point.

May poetry and God’s name have mercy on us!

We have the right to warm the nights of beautiful women, and talk about

what might shorted the night of two strangers waiting for North on the compass.

It’s autumn. We have the right to smell autumn’s fragrances

and ask the night for a dream.

Does the dream, like the dreamers themselves, sicken? Autumn. Autumn.

Can a people be born on a guillotine?

We have the right to die any way we wish.

May the earth hide itself away in a blade of wheat!