Christopher

Christopher

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This blog is for Christopher Johnson who gave me now cherished books of poetry by 'AE' and Fiona Macleod (see previous posts). This morning I reluctantly went to work with a heavy head cold and the niggling feeling that today was an important anniversary. I found myself thinking of Chris, one of my dearest of all friends; a musician, writer, publisher and one of the kindest men I had had the privilege to know - so strong was his sense of presence, I typed his name and that of Skoob Esoterica, the publishing company he helped to set up, into Google's search engine. Up came an obituary which had been published in the Independent - Chris had died on April 7th 1996, thirteen years ago today. This was the first year I hadn't consciously remembered .... the past few weeks having been somewhat up and down as another close person became seriously ill, threaded together with more life affirming activities such as walking over the downs in the spring sunshine - with new friends.

But I hadn't forgotten Chris - all that he loved returns in each new spring.

*******

In the hollows of quiet places may we meet, the quiet place where is neither moon nor sun, but only the light of amber and pale gold that comes from the Hills of the Heart. There, listen at times: there you will call, and I hear: there will I whisper, and the whisper will come to you as dew is gathered on the grass, at the rising of the moon.

From 'Silence of Amor' by Fiona Macleod.

The Golden Age

A chalk water stream in a magical wood, leaves of new growth unfurling almost before our eyes

One of the many chalk water springs - in an enchanting place, which for now will have to remain unidentified.

This little blog has almost done a full circle, I started in May last year and now it is another spring - perhaps I have completed what I wanted to say, perhaps not quite yet.

The Golden Age

When the morning breaks above us

And the wild sweet stars have fled,

By the faery hands that love us

Wakened you and I will tread

.......

Where the lilacs on the lawn

Shine with all their silver dews,

In the stillness of the dawn

Wrapped in tender primrose hues

.......

We will hear the strange old song

That the earth croons in her breast,

Echoed by the feathered throng

Joyous from each leafy nest.

.......

Earth, whose dreams are we and they,

With her heart's deep gladness fills

All our human lips can say,

Or the dawn-fired singer trills.

.......

She is rapt in dreams divine:

As her clouds of beauty pass,

On our glowing hearts they shine.

Mirrored there as in a glass.

.......

So when all the vapors grey

From our flowery paths shall flit,

And the dawn shall begin the day,

We will sing a song to it.

........

Ere its yellow fervour flies: -

Oh, we were so glad of youth,

Whose first sweetness never dies

Nourished by eternal truth.

George William Russell (AE) 1867-1935

...........

For the small group of people I walked with on Saturday - each one eloquent in their own way. Thank you for showing me the springs and wood, alive with birdsong and the first dragonflies of the year - an enchanted place.

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To Blossom

One of the esoteric writers I hold in high esteem is someone called William Sharp who used the pseudonym of Fiona Macleod, he writes of the luminosity of spirit in nature. Here are some of his thoughts on Spring.

The tides of Blossom have begun to flow. The land will soon be inundated. Already a far and wide forethrow of foam is flung along the blackthorn hedges. Listen .... that chaffinch's blithe song comes from the flowering almond! ... that pipit's brief lay fell past yonder wild-pear!

The shores, the meadows, the uplands, on each there is a continual rumour. It is the sound of Spring. Listen ... put your ear to the throbbing earth that is so soon to be a green world: you will hear a voice like the voice which miraculously evades the hollow curves of a shell. Faint, mysterious yet ever present, a continual rhythm. Already that rhythm is become a cadence: the birds chant the strophes, flower and blossom and green leaf yield their subtler antiphones, the ancient yet ever young protagonist is the heart of man. Soon the cadence will be a song, a paean. The hour of the rose and honeysuckle will come, the hour of the swallow hawking the grey gnat above the lilied stream, the hour when the voice of the cuckoo floats through the ancient woods rejoicing in their green youth, that voice which has in it the magic of all springs, the eternal cry of the renewal of delight. [from the Silence of Amor 'The Awakener of the Woods' by Fiona Macleod aka William Sharp]

To Blossoms

........

But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave:

And after they have shown their pride

Like you awhile, they glide

Into the grave

........

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,

And so to bid good night?

'Twas pity Nature brought you forth

Merely to show your worth

And lose you quite.

.......

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past

But you may stay yet here awhile

To blush and gently smile,

And go at last.

..........

poem by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

Ephemeral and fragrant - blossom in the afternoon sunlight

A perfect day - spring Equinox

My three companions walking on ahead on the ridge of Fosbury Camp Hillfort

Walking today with three friends we spent a few hours out in the glorious spring sunshine at the vernal equinox - we walked to beautiful and peaceful village Lower Chute where we stopped at the village pond for lunch - then onto Fosbury Ring, 26 acres, Iron Age hillfort via the lovely village of Chute Standen. We found an ancient beech on one of the ramparts which, with a girth of six and a half metres, is thought to be one of the largest in the country.
http://www.ancient-tree-hunt.org.uk/discoveries/newdiscoveries/2008/fosburyhillfortbeech.htm

Frog spawn (and a frog) in the village pond of Lower Chute on the Wiltshire/Hampshire border. On the quiet village lane there was a road sign saying "Caution, frogs and toads in the road".

Wild primroses growing in the mossy undergrowth of woodland

Wild violets spotted along a bank on our walk today
...............

A poem for Equinox 'March morning unlike others' by Ted Hughes

...................

Blue Haze. Bees hanging in the air at the hive-mouth

Crawling in prone stupor of sun

On the hive lip. Snowdrops. Two buzzards,

Still-wings each

Magnetised to the other

Float Orbits.

Cattle standing warm. Lit, happy stillness.

A raven, under the hill,

Coughing among bare oaks.

Aircraft, elated, splitting blue.

Leisure to stand. The knee deep mud at the trough

Stiffening. Lambs freed to be foolish.

...........

The earth invalid, dropsied, bruised, wheeled

Out into the sun,

After the frightful operation.

She lies back, wounds undressed to the sun,

To be healed,

Sheltered from the sneapy chill creeping North wind,

Leans back, eyes closed, exhausted, smiling

Into the sun. Perhaps dozing a little.

While we sit, and smile, and wait, and know

She is not going to die.

Ted Hughes (1930-1998)

......................

It was one of those perfect days, I felt completely at ease with my three companions - the cool breeze and warm spring sunshine combined to make ideal walking weather. Sitting by the village pond in Lower Chute I was in harmony with the world as we watched frogs rising to the surface of the pond in the amongst the frog spawn. (I still haven't managed to kiss one, oh well, too late now).

We walked on to the Hatchet Inn where we sat outside with a drink - as we chatted I watched a buzzard soar overhead and had the best view ever of their beautiful under-feather markings.

Later, as we made our way down from the Iron Age hillfort of Fosbury Camp, I was treated to a rare sighting of a barn owl in flight - looking snowy white in the sunlight.

A perfect spring Equinox day!

The fragility of butterflies

The Brimstone (image courtesy of Internet butterfly images)

This week spring arrived, bright chilly mornings turning into warm sunny days. Earlier in the week on my lunchtime walk I saw the first butterflies of the year - yellow Brimstones and a Red Admiral, so delicate and lovely, the very sight of them can only bring joy to the beholder.

I've watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly!
Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! - not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
~William Wordsworth, "To a Butterfly"

Last night I watched a French film called The Diving Bell & The Butterfly (Le Scaphanfre Et Le Papillon) a very moving film about a 43 year old editor of the fashion magazine Elle, Jean-Dominique Bauby, who suffered a stroke leaving him with 'locked in' syndrome. He could hear and see but could not speak or move. However, with the movement of his left eyelid and the use of a special alphabet code he went on to dictate his moving memoir and died 2 days after it was published. The film affected me deeply and I came away reflecting on the strength of the human spirit. How it can lift itself out of the most deadening of physical imprisonments to soar like a skylark. As fragile and resilient as the first butterfly of spring.

Notes on word association with butterflies:

Chrysalis from the Greek Chrysos meaning gold - the name for the gold coloured sac the caterpilla is coccooned before its metamorphosis into a butterfly.

Metamorphosis - meaning transformation. This is a word I like a lot, it seems to define all sorts of possibilities for creative or artistic change.

Ancient woodland in north London

I was visiting north London this weekend and found our capital city never looked lovelier in the spring sunshine - cherry blossom and daffodils suddenly appearing everywhere. Having spent nearly two decades living in Highgate, near to both East Finchley and Muswell Hill - going back to visit one of my sons and his family often feels like going home. Although I now live within a short journey of some spectacular and ancient downland scenery in Wiltshire which I much love, I still miss the ancient woodland of this part of London. There are four woods all within a square mile of each other - Highgate Wood, Queens Wood, Coldfall Wood and Cherry Tree Wood - a small wooded park which I visited yesterday with my little grandchildren.

The plaque on the drinking fountain in Highgate Wood has a quote from the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) he lived his latter years out in Highgate and died there on July 25th 1834.

"Drink, Pilgrim, here! Here rest! And if thy heart

Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh

Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound

Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!"
-------

Spring sunlight in Highgate Wood today - surely as lovely as Paris, as the smiling people of London wandered through the woods enjoying the warmth of this beautiful mid March day.

One of the entrances to Highgate Wood

Coldfall Wood

I visited here for the first time today - a lovely little wood tucked away in Muswell Hill. Unlike Highgate Wood which is so very popular this little wood was empty except for the occasional dog walker.

For Samuel and Hope my dear little grandchildren - I didn't expect to care for them quite so much. They will probably grow up in this part of London as both their parents did before them - may they enjoy these ancient woods, rare enough to find but so very rare to find in a city and the reason why this part of London is actually quite beautiful.

The magical yew

Taxus baccata Linnaeus - the yew. Yesterday I was in the churchyard of Avebury's St James's church when one of my companion's pointed out this pollen laden male yew. I don't think I have ever seen this phenomena before, or at least have never noticed. Male yew trees flower later winter/early spring producing small catkins with abundant pollen which is borne on the wind. The friend who pointed out the tree yesterday shook one of the branches and a cloud of pollen drifted into the air. On the other side of the path the female tree stood awaiting pollination to produce crimson berries in late summer. Another friend tells me that on a hay-fever calendar of when pollens are released from spring onwards, the yew is shown as the first.

Although the leaves, bark and seeds of the yew are poisonous, the leaves are now used to produce the drug Taxol which inhibits cancer cell growth permanently. The berries, however, are edible - just don't swallow the seeds. So, although toxic if ingested, with the right knowledge the yew's chemistry can be turned into a healing drug for cancer - that's more than a bit magic.

Almost all churchyards have a yew growing in them - the yew is considered one of the sacred trees of the British Isles and has associations with the ancient druids. The yew was planted outside farms and homesteads to act as guardian spirits and they also perform this role in churchyards symbolically watching over souls passing to the Otherworld and protecting from evil. Yews are extremely long lived and there are examples of yews that have survived 2000 years.

Yew wood is strong and elastic and was once used to make long bows and is still much sought after today for wood carving. In the ancient tree alphabet of Ogham it represents the letter I (Idho) and is associated with the eve of Winter Solstice.

I found website about ancient yews - where two poems about yews can be found:
http://www.ancient-yew.org/poems.shtml

The business of Spring

The busy wind opening a tulip for a bee

A children's illustration by Frank Pape from 'At the Back of the North Wind' by George Macdonald

...........

This spring morning broke bright and chilly - I awoke to the sound of birds singing, the dawn chorus so beloved of the summer months. As I walked along later, I noticed how busy the birds have become, nest building - a blackbird with a piece of dried fern, a magpie with twigs - there was a large magpie nest in the tree-lined street I walked along on my way to work.

I thought about how birds are so synonymous with spring and life - every year the same birds appear with their birdsong and business. I saw a robin today on a high branch, its trill song no doubt calling to its mate. The blackbird, tit, chaffinch, sparrow, wren - the crow, jackdaw and magpie. Townie birds all busy and yet .... though they seem the same, they are not the same birds of a year or two ago. I do not know the life span of garden birds but I suspect it is not that long. Their springtime song reminds us that the lifeforce continues, the same renewing cycle - though not the same ..... and we really only have a walk on part.

..........
Work Without Hope
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair -

The bees are stirring - birds are on the wing -

And WINTER slumbering in the open air,

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring !

And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.

Bloom, O ye Amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may,

For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away !

With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:

And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul ?

WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve,

And HOPE without an object cannot live.

.............

Samuel Taylor Coleridge - written 1825

Note: the capitalization in the poem's text is as the poet wrote it.

The March Wind

An illustration by Frank Pape from the children's book At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald.

I read a page this morning from a book of daily meditations for the turning of the year called The Celtic Spirit by Caitlin Matthews. The passage was called Colours of the Wind and and made the point that the weather vane of our emotions and moods is very much attuned to the winds. March has just arrived and, after the coldest winter in quite some years, there were no daffodils for St. David's Day.Today we have had wind and driving rain and my mood feels somewhat indigo and mauve - yesterday when it was bright and springlike, it felt silvery like the colour of dew in morning sunlight.

As the month progresses towards the equinox and spring, the occasional rainbow will appear across the sky in between showers - and once again the land will be flecked with blue, green and yellow as warmth returns to the northern hemisphere.

A bridge over the Winterbourne

The Winterbourne viewed from the foot bridge, looking towards Silbury Hill

The little bridge that connects Avebury Trusloe to Avebury. Although there are several small foot bridges crossing the Winterbourne this is probably the one most used.

...........

The Winterbourne is a beautiful river that meanders from its source somewhere near Winterbourne Bassett through the village of Winterbourne Monkton along the edge of Avebury, past Silbury to meet up with the river Kennet and eventually the Thames. The Winterbourne is joined by the Sambourne and today, for the first time, I saw the spot where they join. I have walked across the small bridge in the photo many times but have never viewed from afar before.

The river is called the Winterbourne because traditionally it dries up in the summer though with our recent wet summers this has not been the case. The Winterbourne has been written about extensively elsewhere so I can only write from a personal perspective. I understand this little river renowned for it 'magical' quality is linked to goddess worship of old when sources of water were equated with the life giving aspects of Mother Earth.

Thank you to the small group of people I walked with today. Pete and Steve, both local to Avebury and very knowledgeable about the hidden elements of the landscape. Rose and Sue, two lovely nurturing women, thanks to Sue for her truly sublime muffins. The two children that walked with us and who searched for flint arrowheads in the mole hills on Windmill Hill - I was pleased to find I am still in touch with the 10 year old within as I joined them in this activity. And last but not least, Betty the black labrador who jumped in the Winterbourne to chase a stick just before we returned to Avebury.

I close this piece with a reflection on the well known adage 'water under the bridge' - meaning, I believe, having the wisdom to know when something that once seemed important is now finished business.

Walking to Swallowhead Spring

Swallowhead Spring - the source of the river Kennet

Where the rivers Kennet and Winterbourne meet

Silbury Hill from the top of Waden Hill - the grass looking somewhat sad after the snow.

Walking up Waden Hill - I was not alone, nor ever am on this mystical hill.

Setting off and returning - through the south east quadrant of the Avebury Henge
............

Yesterday, I was in one of my favourite hilltop places in my north Wiltshire town - the snowdrops had survived the snow and the sun had just come out. In the distance I could see the snow covered downs and I was suddenly filled with a curious happiness which is perhaps better described as the joy of being alive.

So today I headed for those misty, distant hills - on a bus out to Avebury. I was surprised at how much snow still covered the downs. It started out as a cold, clear morning though soon started to cloud over - the above photos track my walk from Avebury, along West Kennet Avenue of Stones and up Waden Hill, where the snow was still untrodden and frozen in places. Stopping at the top to take in the land/skyscape, I then had to choose between walking to West Kennet Long Barrow or to Swallowhead Spring - I chose the spring with all its symbolism of new life.

As I retraced my steps back to Avebury, I climbed Waden Hill and was thrilled to see a large hare appear. It loped downhill in no particular hurry, stopping to just sit and look for a few moments - another sign of the imminent arrival of Spring.

Thaw

Over the land freckled with snow half thawed

The speculating rooks at their nests cawed

And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flower of grass,

What we below could not see, Winter pass.
Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

(The poetry of Edward Thomas has featured on this blog before - sadly many of the elms have now gone from our landscape.)

Solitary stone in snow

Solitary stone

Stands alone

Still

A lone monolith in the snow. However this stone is not out at Avebury or the Marlborough Downs but very close to where I live near a town centre. It feels like 'my' stone and I suspect no one else cares about, or even notices it, as old stones have a way of becoming invisible. I know nothing of the stone's history except that it is ancient and probably local sandstone. It stands on the side of a hill in a small Victorian cemetery - I do not know if it stood there before the land became a cemetery or whether it was placed there subsequently. It is in fact aligned with the morning sunrise (though this could be coincidental) and I haven't been able to test whether there is particular significance to certain times of year such as midsummer, as the hillside cemetery is surrounded by Victorian streets and houses. The stone is still, and holds fast its secrets.

Sand and Water

Solid stone is just sand and water ......

Sand and water and a million years gone by .....

I will see you in the light of a thousand suns

I will hear you in the sound of waves .....

(Beth Nielson Chapman)

People are often flawed; we pursue goals with single-minded determination until one day something happens to wake us up and see the beauty of nature around us. One day we wake up and to our surprise we are no longer young and, as with some ancient stones, we find we have become less visible.

But old stones can survive thousands if not millions of years; they deserve our homage.

Location of the lone stone

A peaceful little cemetery, also designated as a local nature reserve - today covered in virgin snow ..... and silence. When the snow finally melts the wild primroses will appear.

A combe wood

A chalk water stream running off the downs through this magical little wood

(photo taken looking down from a small bridge)

Bracket fungi growing off the side of an old tree
...........

Today, the last day of January, I went out for a ramble with a small group of fellow walkers. Our walk started by Morgan's Hill and took us downhill to the peaceful hamlet of Calstone Wellington - clusters of snowdrops out along the sloping path from the old church. We headed towards the stunning Calstone Coombes taking in, on our way, a magical little wood tucked away in one of the deep combes. A chalk water stream flowed along the combe bottom, the water running straight off the Downs. Moss covered branches and fallen trees, fungi growing in profusion and last year's leaves still soft underfoot, gave the wood an enchanted air. I wonder if Edward Thomas was walking here when he was inspired to write his poem, The Combe.

...............

The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark,

Its mouth stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar;

And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk

By beech and yew and perishing juniper

Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots

And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,

The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds

Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper,

Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark

The Combe looks since they killed a badger there,

Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,

That most ancient Briton of English beasts.

Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

.............

Edward Thomas had a great love of nature and the countryside, especially around Wiltshire. He wrote the biography of Richard Jefferies plus other successful books and poetry before enlisting to fight in WWI. He was killed in action at the age of 39.

Note: Combe is also spelt Coomb. The National Trust have spelt it as Coombes. With reference to the stream, a friend who knows Calstone very well has told me that I may have found the Calstone Springs ..... I must go back for a more thorough forage.

The river of life

Fast flowing - the upper river Thames, near Kelmscott

The Thames near Inglesham - the last navigable point for boats

...............

Today I went walking along the upper Thames near the lovely Cotswold town of Lechlade. A beautiful January day that started out cold and then became almost spring-like, lots of snowdrops out under trees. Later, in the afternoon sunshine, I spotted the first crocus.

The two photos above show the same river on the same day. In one it is tranquil, safe and calm, in the other it surges forward becoming a larger river, gathering tributaries along the way until it eventually becomes the mighty ocean. In so many ways life mirrors nature - going with the flow is usually so much easier than swimming against the tide, though there are times during the course of our lives when that is just what we have to do. And sometimes events flood over us and it becomes a case of sink or swim.

I like to think that, as with my walk today, eventually the river of life becomes calm and gently flowing. A place where the sound of birdsong can be heard, a smell of woodsmoke, and the first flowers of spring can be seen.

The first snowdrops

The Snow-Drop

Fear no more, thou timid Flower!

Fear thou no more the winter's might,

The whelming thaw, the ponderous shower,

The silence of the freezing night!

Since Laura murmur'd o'er thy leaves

The potent sorceries of song,

To thee, meek Flowret! gentler gales

And cloudless skies belong.

...........

Her eye with tearful meanings fraught,

She gaz'd till all the body mov'd

Interpreting the Spirit's thought-

The Spirit's eager sympathy

Now trembled with thy trembling stem,

And while thy droopedst o'er thy bed,

With sweet unconscious sympathy

Inclin'd the drooping head.

The first two verses from Samuel Taylor Coleridge peom The Snowdrop

............

My favourite flower, the snowdrop - the flower of Imbolc. So fragile yet, in the language of metaphors, so brave. To Francis of Assisi, known for his love of the natural world, they were considered an emblem of hope ...... and so they still are. At the start of 2009 with so much to concern us in the world, this little flower remains just that, a symbol of hope as a new cycle of growth starts to unfurl.

Swans in flight - nature's ballet

Swans in Flight

Image courtesy of 'Waterfowl Wallpaper'

A local swan - seconds after landing on the thawing ice
-----------

I don't know how serious writers manage but it seems to me that I sometimes spend quite a while with the seed of what I want to say lying dormant. Earlier today I had been walking back along the canal path looking out for the lone swan, spotted about half an hour earlier - it had been sitting on the ice, looking for all intents and purposes, stuck. It was nowhere to be seen so I assumed it managed to make its way up onto the bank on the far side of the canal ..... then I saw it. A swan in flight, it circled round and was flying back towards the canal. As it came into land, its great wings silently beating the air, it flew past me at head level. I fumbled in my pocket for my little digital camera but too late, the swan landed on the ice with balletic grace. The three youths I had just passed (with their scary looking dog) turned to watch with me - I was pleased to see the awe on their faces. We all smiled at each other, we were after all just people.

The first time I saw wild swans in flight was in Lincolnshire against a blue sky, the sight thrilled me and the image never left. More recently (a couple of autumns ago) at a local beauty spot I observed the magic of parent swans teach their grown cygnets to fly the length of the lake. Again I was unable to capture the moment on camera. A few mornings later I looked up to see five young swans flying west across the town - they turned out to be the same cygnets I had watched learn to fly.

Later this month I am going to see the loveliest of all ballets at our small local theatre, the Wyvern - Swan Lake by Tchaikovsky - here is the music, which will no doubt bring to mind one of nature's most wonderful sights. Swans in flight.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=1ea90L91eZk

The return of vibrancy - bullfinches

Bullfiches

image courtesy of Gerd Rosen

http://www.digital-nature-photography.com/nature

Illustration by Alan Harris from the Kingfisher Field Guide to Birds - Britain and Ireland

Bother Bulleys, let us sing

From the dawn till evening! -

For we know not that we go not

When the day's pale pinions fold

Unto those who sang of old.

from Thomas Hardy's poem, 'Bullfinches'

Today I was conscious that my last two posts were somewhat monochrome. As it approached lunchtime at work today (hard going) I noticed that the freezing cloud cover had lifted giving way to bright, though very cold, blue sky. As I looked out towards the the bird feeders on next door's apple tree and the ivy covered poplar I was treated to an arial display of two male bullfinches and a female - quite rare I believe. They generally move around in pairs (male and female) so it was unusual to see two males together. The male has a vibrant bright pink breast whilst the female is more of a dusky pink - to see them together is a joy, bringing much needed colour into my day.

The bullfinch is on red alert by the RSPB see:

http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/b/bullfinch/index.asp

New Year's Day

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

William Blake from Auguries of Innocence

That it will never come again

Is what makes life so sweet.

Emily Dickinson

The Pied Wagtail - 'road-runner'

This little bird has been flitting in and out of my vision ever since I moved to the terraced street where I now live. I have never seen it in woods or parks and only ever see it running or hopping across roads or pavements near where I live (although I have seen it in other built up areas around the town). My street is home to crows and magpies - often spotted on tv aerials and chimney pots en route to other leafier places. There seems to be colony of pied wagtails along the next street which runs parallel to the route of the old canal so I imagine they are roosting in the eaves of these houses - and have done so for many generations.

The illustration above is a wood-carving by Agnes Miller Parker taken from The Old House at Coate by Richard Jefferies. Here is what Richard Jefferies writes about the wagtail in his autobiographical piece 'The Blue Doors':

The legs of the wagtail are so slender that they scarce seem capable of sustaining even its light weight; each appears a mere black line; the plumage is shaded with delicate precision and every tiny feather besides that side or tip that meets the eye is equally carefully marked underneath, and where it cannot be observed, so much "work" is there, so much thorough honesty in nature's art. Everything out of sight is as tenderly touched as that open to the passing view. The wagtails, like the ibis, were sacred; they were never shot or disturbed; wagtails, swallows, swifts, turtle-doves, yellow-hammers, robins, wrens, green plovers and even thrushes, if not semi-sacred were rarely fired at. (Richard Jefferies 1848-1887)

For more information on the pied wagtail go to: http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/p/piedwagtail/index.asp

Addendum: New Year's Eve, a hard frost over everything as I came out of the house this morning - by my gate were a pair of wagtails, pecking at the pavement. They hopped across the road and watched me from the kerb as I quietly closed the gate behind me. A drop of magic to start the day.

January 3rd: Still freezing (the coldest winter I can remember for quite some time). Some pied wagtails have moved into the eaves of the houses across the street so now I have the pleasure of looking at the rooftops and seeing them run-hop across the tiles, their long tail-feathers wagging all the while.

A year and a day - Mistletoe

Mistletoe acts as a master-key as well as a lightning conductor; for it is said to open all locks. (From the Golden Bough by Sir James Frazer)

Jon Dathen author of OGHAM (Wisdom of the Trees) writes that Mistletoe rules the 23rd December which is the extra day set apart from the rest of the year due to its sacred and sacrificial nature. There are 13 Ogham months in the calendar year, the last being ruled by the Elder tree, ends on December 22nd. The first month, ruled by the Birch tree starts on the December 24th. Therefore, December 23rd belongs to neither the old or the new year - and gave rise to the old country saying "wait for a year and a day". Mistletoe represents health, return to health, fertility, success, good fortune, a reminder of our responsibilities to others, the need to respect all beings and see ourselves as part of a whole - an individual part of a vast universe encompassing both the spiritual and physical realities (acknowledgement to Jon Dathen).

The plant grows on various trees, particularly the oak and the apple. The ancient British Druids venerated it and traditionally the plant was cut with a golden sickle and used during rites accompanying the sacrifice of a white bull. In mythology mistletoe has a sexual symbolism as it usually grows two berries together - representing testicles. In the classical tradition Uranus was castrated by his son Cronus with a golden sickle. His testicles fell into the sea changing into blood and foam from which rose Aphrodite (Venus) the goddess of love. The twin berries and leaves are also symbolic of the celestial twins. In Scandinavian legend Balder, god of light and son of Odin and Frigga is said to have been slain with an arrow of mistletoe. The plant was dedicated to Frigga, goddess of love - many customs, such as kissing under the mistletoe, would seem to have originated from the belief in its phallic power. In feudal times mistletoe boughs were gathered on Christmas Eve to decorate homes though it was believed to be unlucky to cut the plant before Christmas Eve (acknowledgement to Josephine Addison's The Illustrated Plant Lore).

Mistletoe has come to represent the 'life-force' and life itself as it grows on leafless trees in the midst of winter. At Yuletide it is symbolic of the rebirth of the 'god of light', it is not uncommon for Yule Mistletoe to be saved until Imbolc on February 2nd (Candlemas) to be burned in the fire, thus completing the transition from the winter solstice.

This post is for anyone who finds the number 23 significant in their life (see Cosmic Trigger by Robert Anton Wilson)

Night and Day

Image courtesy of http://www.utahskies.org/

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Today, this Midwinter Day (winter solstice) it is a time to spend a while meditating upon light and dark - day and night.

There was a time when people carried the lunar rhythm of the moon close to their hearts and often collected healing herbs by the light of the moon. They told variations of a legend when Night was dominant over Day. I recently came across this myth from 'The Prose Edda', Tales from Norse Mythology by Snorri Sturluson (thought to have been written in 1220). It told of a woman called Night, daughter of one of the original giants. Night was dark-skinned and dusky-haired like the family she came from. Then she married a god called Shining One, the Sun ...... and they had a son called Day who took after his father's side being bright and beautiful. So Night was conceived as the original state of the cosmos.

The story goes on to tell that Night and her son Day were given two horses and two chariots and they were put in the sky, so they could ride round the world every twenty four hours. Night rides first on a horse called Frosty-mane and every morning he bedews the earth with foam from his bit. Day's horse is called Shining-mane and the whole earth and sky are illuminated by his mane. Thus Night is regarded as ushering in day - the nocturnal came first.

There was a time when people lived in harmony with nature and, as with Night and Day, the year was divided into Winter and Summer with winter being the dark side of the year when nature sleeps. Today marks the longest hours of darkness - gradually, imperceptibly at first, the light will now creep back and by Imbolc on February 2nd the first stirrings of green shoots start to appear in the soil.

Acknowledgement of source of material to: Professor Brian Bates author of The Real Middle Earth - Magic and Mystery in the Dark Ages

Woody and the Goldcrests

Walking back from my lunchtime forage along the nearby cycle track today, two tiny birds appeared right beside me in the leafless hawthorn hedge. I stopped very still and listened and watched - they were about the size of a wren, though with a gentler song, completely new to me. I hurried back to work to see if I could identify them. At first I thought they were siskins and mentioned them to someone I work with who is a fellow bird lover - she told me straight away that they were goldcrests. I had only ever seen goldfinches before and I'm not sure I had even heard of goldcrests . These tiny little songbirds are quite rare and apparently the UK's smallest bird, along with the flamecrest which is very similar. Somehow they seemed to be the highlight of an otherwise ordinary working day.

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Also today, our old friend Woody made a reappearance at the bird feeder hanging from the old apple tree in the neighbouring garden (the window of my office faces it). Last winter the Great Spotted Woodpecker delighted myself and my colleagues as we caught glimpses of it pecking the bark of the tree. Although brightly coloured, it only stays for a matter of seconds before taking off into the nearby copse. No sightings at all during the summer - it was good to see this illusive bird back.

Observing garden birds is one of the joys of winter, something I never tire of - here is a strange little poem called The Woodpecker:

I once a King and chief

Now am the tree bark's thief

Ever 'twixt trunk and leaf

Chasing the prey

William Morris (1891)