Since March 1st is the feast day of St. David, the patron saint of Wales, I thought I would share a Welsh poem with you. And since March 1 is famously the start of a windy month (March either comes in like a lamb (as it is in Seattle this year) or like a lion, reversing its nature at the end of the month), I wanted to share a poem (see the YouTube video below) about the Wind by Dafydd ap Gwilym (who is named after the saint as Dafydd is the Welsh spelling of David).
Dafydd ap Gwilym is one of my favorites of the Welsh poets. He wrote in the fourteenth century and his poetry is clearly influenced by the troubadour tradition. His favorite topics were nature and romance and he combines them beautifully in poems about trysting with the woman he loves in a grove of birch trees. In this particular poem, the poet addresses the wind and asks him to carry a message to his beloved.
If you would like to hear the Welsh version of this, you can listen to it here.
For a really interesting (but somewhat academic) article on the meter of Welsh poetry and why Wales has produced so many great poets, check out this article on “Extreme Welsh Meter” by Gwyneth Lewis from Poetry magazine: I’ve tried writing poetry using Welsh meters myself while I was in Wales and it is both incredibly difficult and incredibly rewarding. Can still recite whole verses form the poems I wrote because the rhyming and meter schemes made it so memorable.
The photo of the bird flying over the ocean was used to illustrate the month of Windy in my French Republican Calendar in 2013 and was taken by Melissa Gayle West.
by Kelly Fine
January is the middle of the long wet season here in Seattle. It’s mid-January and I’m sitting beside a fast-flowing stream, a piece of vinyl between me and the wet sponge of the forest floor. I’ve come to my favorite neighborhood park – a remnant of second-growth forest – to see what drizzle, rain, and fog have made of the woods.
I visit these woods often enough to know that the leaf litter surrounding me has been wet for months. The water and fine sand splashed over its surface give it a matte sheen. On cold nights the leaves freeze brittle, and over the course of the overcast mornings, each leaf slowly relaxes again. As usual, it’s overcast today, and beyond the trees I can see a stretch of the white stratus cloud blanketing Seattle. That’s because the maples and alders surrounding me have lost their leaves for winter, and most of the taller shrubs have done the same. If I were a tree facing six months of cool, dim winter, I’d probably give up my leaves and go dormant too. But winter brings plenty of rain to those plants that keep their leaves all season, and the clearings in the canopy allow plenty of cloud-strained light to reach the understory evergreens — Oregon grape, young conifers, sword ferns, salal, and the mosses and lichens that grow on every surface of these woods and thrive in the Northwest winter.
When I lived in southern California, I thought I knew what health looked like: chaparral growing steadily in the sunlight, ravens gliding overhead. But in these wet woods, health looks like moss slowly pushing forth into another white day, drinking water from the air. On the lower branches of a small hemlock near me, moss grows long and thick. Sprays of hemlock needles emerge from the mats of moss, but it’s the moss that will shade the ground during the next cloudbreak. The moss reminds me of a retriever’s fur, muddy but drying in clumps after a dunk in the river.
Big-leaf maples must be the mossiest trees in the Northwest. Running my hand over the damp moss of the maple trunk beside me, I notice a pale dust lichen splattered over its surface and fir needles caught deep in its net. Springing from the moist decay held in place by the moss, I find a small mushroom, its delicate cap thin as an inner artichoke leaf. But the most prominent living things springing from the moss are licorice ferns. Moisture-loving, they poke their tips out from the moss every fall when the rains return. After the maples lose their leaves in November, the ferns come into their prime; maybe this access to the sky gives them the light and water they crave. Now they’re extending more than a foot out from the maple trunk beside me, and their tips are just starting to feel the pull of gravity. I’m not sure I’ll ever adjust entirely to the sight of ferns growing from live tree trunks, but almost every big-leaf maple in these woods supports at least a few of them.
Rain is never far from these woods in winter, and now it arrives, a few hard drops splattering my notebook page. Soon the mere tug of a pen will tear that page. I have a lot to do today, and the cold is starting to stiffen my writing hand. Rain gathers at the tip of a sword fern leaf, sags into a teardrop, and rips free. I want to stay and see more, but I should go. As I’m debating, a black lab discovers me on the ground and gives one startled bark. I tell him it’s okay, and he comes wriggling to bury me in steaming breath and dog delight.
Kelly Fine writes from suburban Seattle. Find her at Cracked Offering.
The fifth day after the new moon of January (January 24 in 2015) marks the first day of spring in the Hindu holiday calendar and is celebrated in India and Nepal. Yellow is the auspicious color to wear: the color of happiness and the color of the mustard that is blooming at this time. (In my neighborhood in Seattle, witch hazel is already unfurling its yellow fragrant petals.) Like the early spring festivals in the Christian calendar (Mardi Gras) and Western European calendar (Candlemas), this holiday falls 40 days (or rather a moon cycle and a half in the Hindu calendar) before the full explosion of spring celebration at the full moon of Holi (or Easter or Spring Equinox)
In ancient India, the festival honored Kamadeva, the god of desire, whose bow is made of sugarcane and strung with bees, and whose arrows are decorated with fragrant flowers. Dancing girls performed, and songs of love were sung in the royal court. It is still a day associated with love and an auspicious day for a wedding.
Now it is Saraswati, the goddess of art and learning, who is honored. Her statue is often dressed in yellow clothing. On this day, Kayastha scribes would retire their ink pots and adopt new ones, filling them with new ink for the following day. Children are encouraged to say their first word. Schools take a break. People attend art and painting competitions, music festivals, and poetry readings. Seems like a great day to set aside time for creativity, whether visiting a museum, attending a concert, writing a poem or creating something wonderful to eat.
Since yellow is the color of the day, people wear yellow garments and eat saffron rice and yellow desserts. You can find recipes for Hindu desserts online (here’s one link but there are many) but if you can’t easily obtain the specialized ingredients, a rice pudding colored with saffron would be appropriate. I am planning to go to my neighborhood Indian restaurant, Kanak, and sample some of their yellow-colored desserts.
The photo of gulab jamun comes from the dessert site above. Gulab jamun is made from khoya (a dairy product) and flour, rolled into balls, deep-fried and finished off with a sugar syrup containing saffron.
*If you use the link above to Amber Lotus, I will get a small commission on any purchases you make.
This blog was originally written for the holiday lore blog at Amber Lotus. The Jewish holiday of Hanukkah, like the stringing of Christmas lights on trees and houses, and the lighting of the Advent candles, celebrates light during the darkest time of the year. The Jewish holiday calendar is still a lunar calendar and that means that the theme of light and dark can play out in the timing of the moon as well as the sun. Hanukkah always begins on the 26th of Kislev, three days before the dark moon closest to the full moon that is closest to the Winter Solstice, so at the darkest time of the moon and at the darkest time of the sun. Most Jewish holidays are linked to a pivotal moment in Jewish history. For Hanukkah, that moment is the victory of the Maccabees against the Hellenistic overseers of the Land of Israel who outlawed Jewish religious practices (and punished them with death) while reinstating pagan rituals. In 166 BCE, when the Maccabees recaptured Jerusalem, they chose the 26th of Kislev as the day to purify and rededicate the temple which had been desecrated three years earlier. But the temple contained only one sealed flask of oil, only enough to light the lamps for one day. Miraculously that oil lasted for the eight days of the ceremonies. But as Arthur Waskow points out in his wonderful book on Jewish holidays, Seasons of Our Joy, the Greeks were probably celebrating a Winter Solstice ritual on that day and by claiming the same day for their festival the Maccabees
were rededicating not only the Temple but the day itself to Jewish holiness; were capturing a pagan solstice festival that had won wide support among partially Hellenized Jews, in order to make it a day of God’s victory over paganism. Even the lighting of candles for Hanukkah fits the context of the surrounding torchlight honors for the sun.
The main ritual for Hanukkah involves lighting candles in the menorah, a candelabra that contains eight candles in a row. The first candle on the right is lit on the first night (December 16 in 2014) and each night an additional candle is lit until all eight are burning. Since the lit candles are not to be used for any practical purpose, many menorahs have a space for a ninth candle, a shammas or shammash, which is set above (or below) the others and used to light them. The candles are lit just s night falls and are left to burn for a half an hour. No work is to be done while the candles are burning (just as the candles are not to be used for practical purposes). Instead this half hour is a time for contemplation, for saying blessings and singing songs, eating special foods and playing games. In some Sephardic communities, women do not work at all on the first and eighth days of Hanukkah, and in some places, they don’t work on any of the eight days. Just as the Sabbath is the day for rest provided during the week, so are the eight days of Hanukkah a time of rest at this pivotal point in the year. Hanukkah foods are cooked in oil: potato latkes and fritters and jam-filled doughnuts, all recall the miracle of the long-lasting oil. Children play with a dreidl and are sometimes given gifts, particularly Hanukkah gelt. I’ve always loved those thin gold-foiled chocolate coins which remind me of the gifts of money so common at New Year festivals (the Romans, for instance, gave coins as New Year Gifts) and certainly,with the return of light in the darkness, the new year is born. Photo of Hanukkah gelt was taken by Liz West and posted at Flickr. Photo of the silver menorah (found at Wikipedia) was taken by Ladislav Flaigl and released into the public domain.
Most Americans know the semi-mythological story of the first Thanksgiving, how the Pilgrims of Plymouth Colony after a successful harvest in 1621 shared a meal with members of the Patuxet People of the Wampanoag tribe who had helped them plant their crops. But what we may not realize is that they were both acting out long-standing cultural traditions. The harvest festival, although it is celebrated at different times of the year and with different foodstuffs, is something found in every culture around the world.
The English settlers probably brought with them memories of the Michaelmas feast (September 29), the harvest festival on the English holiday calendar, a time to return home to eat together. The Wampanoag tribe had their own harvest festivals which coincided with the appearance of green corn and the arrival of certain fish species. In many African countries, the harvest festival, Odiwera, occurs at the time of the yam harvest. In Ireland, the first potatoes. In Hungary and Italy and Argentina, the grapes. In Papua, New Guinea, the pigs. In Bali, the rice. Everywhere, the festival usually involves a lavish meal, dancing, drinking, and ceremonies expressing gratitude to those (the gods or the farmers) who provided the food.
I am sometime annoyed by the insistence on recreating the ideal big family experience that accompanies Thanksgiving, an experience that is elusive but even in sitcoms, always triumphs over the forces of dysfunction arrayed against it. But I am ever so grateful that we have one holiday on the American holiday calendar that has not been co-opted by consumerism, that gathers us around a table to celebrate the food we’ve raised and cooked and shared with those we love.
This blog post first appeared at the Amber Lotus website, as part of a commissioned series of weekly posts on holiday lore.
The painting is called “The First Thanksgiving” and it’s by Jennie Brownscombe. I think it nicely illustrates the semi-mythological nature of the first Thanksgiving.
The Romans honored the Sabine goddess of blossoms and spring with six days of celebrations including games, pantomimes, plays and stripteases, which went on into the night illuminated by torchlight. Everyone wore their most colorful clothes and decked themselves and their animals in flowers. Goats and hares were let loose–they represented fertility and sexuality and Venus in her role as patroness of cultivated nature. Small vegetables (one imagines cucumbers and zucchinis) were distributed as fertility tokens. Flora represented the sexual aspect of plants, the attractiveness of the flowers, and was the matron of prostitutes.
In this Roman statue from Hadrian’s villa, she looks a little too prim and proper to preside over such frivolity. The painting of Flora and the Zephyr by Waterhouse captures Flora in a more wanton pose.
Floralia sets in motion all the delightful holidays associated with May Day. The English have a saying about children born between May 1 and May 8 (Between the Beltanes): they have “the skill of man and beast” and power over both.Blackburn, Bonnie and Leofranc Holford-Strevens, Oxford Companion to the Year, Oxford University Press, 1999 Kightly, Charles, The Perpetual Almanack of Folklore, Thames & Hudson 1987 Rufus, Anneli, The World Holiday Book, Harper San Francisco 1994 Wikipedia has a well-documented article on the Floralia here.
There are many unique celebrations that take place on Easter Monday but most involve playful pranks, splashing with water, whipping with switches and spending the day outdoors.
In England, particularly in the Northwest and along the Welsh border, young men roved around in a group, carrying a stout chair decorated with greens, flowers and ribbons in which they placed each woman of the house and lifted her three times in the air. They then claimed a kiss and a small gift of money. On Tuesday, women went around with the chair and lifted the men. The lifting ended promptly at noon on both days.
In some places the observance was rowdier. Both men and women were hoisted into the air and kissed by roving gangs. Sometimes a rope was stretched across the road and those who were halted by the obstacle were then placed in a chair and lifted. Christina Hole in her book on British folk customs suggests that lifting was the remnant of an older agricultural and magical custom, perhaps a rite of fertility designed to foster the growth of the crops.
In Shropshire and Herefordshire, the feet of the person being lifted were sprinkled with water from a wet bunch of flowers, recalling the watery sprinkling of the Easter Service (the purification and new birth symbolized by baptism) and the New Year festivals of Thailand and Sri Lanka (Apr 13 & 16).
Gertrud Nelson Mueller when writing about how she celebrates Christian rituals always takes the day off to take her kids to water. Usually they go to a nearby marsh for birding, but splashing is a part of their celebration.
The Poles celebrate the Monday after Easter under the name of Dyngus Day or Smigus Day. The customs are familiar: boys splash girls with water on Monday; and also strike at them with pussywillow wands (both sound like remnants of fertility rituals). In earlier times, the girls had to wait for a chance to get revenge until Thursday when they threw crockery at the boys. However, now it is more common for them to fight back with water on Monday. This article discusses both names and traces them to the pagan practices of splashing with water and whipping with pussywillows.
In American cities with strong Polish communities, like South Bend, Indiana and Buffalo, New York, Dyngus Day is celebrated with parades, pussy willow whipping and squirt-gun fights and traditional food, like kielbasa and pierogi.
When my daughter and I were in Prague around Easter time 2012, she took a photo of these willow switches that were for sale for use on Easter Monday.
In Italy, this day is called La Pasquetta, Little Easter. Everyone goes on a picnic, meant to last all afternoon (like the Persian festival of the Thirteenth Outside). They take along an antipasto of a hard-boiled egg and salt and local bitter herbs like aurugula or radicchio or fennel.
Feast of the Blajini
In Rumania on the Monday following Easter, women throw red Easter eggs into running streams for the benefit of the Blajini, the lost race of spirits which live on the bank of the river fed by all the streams in the world. They live so far away, they don’t know what’s happening in our world, so this is how they know that spring has come.Hole, Christina, A Dictionary of British Folk Customs, Paladin 1978 Field, Carol, Celebrating Italy, William Morrow 1990 Nelson, Gertrud Mueller, To Dance with God, Paulist Press Spicer, Dorothy Gladys, The Book of Festivals, The Woman’s Press 1937
I’m a big fan of Debra Prinzig. Naturally. Since she wrote a book called Slow Flowers (it was originally titled A Year in Flowers which worried me a little since that’s the working title for the book I’m writing about connecting with nature in my city neighborhood).
Debra is a garden writer who became alerted to the issues inherent in purchasing flowers after reading Amy Stewart’s Flower Confidential, which was a wake-up call for me as well. Stewart traveled internationally to learn about the cut flower trade. In her chapter on roses, she documents the unnatural conditions in which the flowers are grown (tricked into blooming out of season with lights) , the efforts to breed flowers that are strong and long-lasting (thus breeding out fragrance and fragility), the poisons in which they are dipped (which affect the workers as well), and the long distances they travel, via airplane and refrigerated trucks, to get to your local grocery store or florist shop.
Debra began visiting the new breed of florists, flower farmers and floral designers who are focusing on local and seasonal flowers. She documents their work in her book The 50 Mile Bouquet, a play on the slow food movement’s exhortation to eat foods grown within a 50 mile foodshed.
Inspired by what she learned, Debra decided to create a banquet every week, using only local and seasonal flowers and foliage. She showcase the results in her book, Slow Flowers, and she continues to post seasonal arrangements on her blog, like those gorgeous dahlias from October 2013.
I gave myself (and the students in the Year in Flowers class) the assignment to make a flower arrangement using local and seasonal flowers. And it’s completely changed the way I walk around the block. Instead of looking at plants and naming them or pondering what I can do with them (a cordial, a salad, a salve), now I’m noting color, texture and shapes. My perception has shifted from useful to aesthetic. Now what would I pair with that fabulous leaf—purple on one side and bronze on the other? Some bright yellow calendulas? And what about those black berries? What would happen if I paired them with a cloud of white Michaelmas daisies?
I’m also noticing flower arrangements more when I encounter them. Waiting for a friend at a café, I was struck by the beauty of an arrangement of green hydrangeas in a tall jade green vase, with a few rust-colored leaves, red berries and cedar branches. And later in the day at a café in LaConner, I was impressed by the simple yet artful bouquet on our table: unique maroon buds with a sprig of something with tiny lime-green leaves tucked in on the side. I don’t even have to know their names to appreciate their beauty.
By Fiona Doubleday
Wreaths are my complete and utter passion. For me, they are a homage to the changing seasons and a ‘must have’ for every home. They help to keep us grounded in the season and connected to all that it has to offer. Traditionally a wreath is a mark of celebration and welcome and are hung on doors especially at Christmas.
The first thing to consider is the base. I am not a polystyrene foam sort of person so, for me, the base must come from our natural environment. Willow is always my first choice because the making of the base is creative in itself. Growing willow is incredibly easy and this tree thrives on being coppiced every year. You might consider growing different varieties that have different coloured wood as that makes for an enchanting wreath base. Working with willow is very therapeutic and connects you with the guardian of the garden.
Other bases include pine tree branches wrapped around a wire circle, driftwood and straw. Your wreath does not have to be a circle although that is a soothing shape to have in your home.
Taking account of seasonality presents the creative challenge in wreath making. A decorated wreath is a lovely way to welcome in spring and I adore fresh spring flower wreaths using blooms such as daffodils, hyacinths and tiny crocuses. Of course this wreath will need replenishing every few days as the blooms fade but that is part of the joy of it. An Easter wreath can follow a similar pattern but might include quail eggs for additional patterning and detail. Pussy willow catkins are usually in full glory at this time of year and add a special delicate touch to an Easter wreath.
A summer wreath should capture all that is wonderful about summer and at the heart of that is fragrance. Summer fragrance should fill your home from both fresh and dried flowers. Lavender is an obvious choice for a summer wreath and can be attached fresh and left to dry. As it dries it will shrink slightly but you can just add some more bunches into the gaps the shrinkage creates.
I love large willow circles capable of holding lots and lots of beautiful fresh blooms such as sunflowers and hydrangeas with smaller details from scabious and cornflowers. All of these blooms can be left to dry on the wreath and then you can use them in your autumn wreaths. I always adorn my summer wreaths with lots of organza ribbons to drift in the summer breezes.
Another favourite summer wreath is made using beach fragments creatively arranged on a base of driftwood. You might have to just tackle the glue gun with this type of wreath but it will be worth it. Lovely for a bathroom or a quiet place in your home.
Moving into autumn we are into the harvest season and possibly the best wreath making season. Straw bound onto a wire circle with detailing from barley makes a simple wreath. Then you can add dried blooms from the summer wreath. Orange, yellow and red are the colours of autumn but purple does like to make an appearance.
Autumn is the season of preserving summer’s bounty for the winter so I like to make herbal wreaths. I tie on small bunches of herbs—rosemary, thyme, bay, oregano and lavender–on a willow base. As they dry, I use them in my cooking and replace them with fresh bunches. Much as it is lovely to hang this herbal wreath in your kitchen it will have to contend with condensation from the cooker so put it as far away from there as possible.
Christmas is the time to create the ultimate celebratory wreath. As such it needs some preparation. I begin my preparation in September when I begin to harvest and dry seed heads such as fennel and cow parsley from the hedgerows. In October and November I am always on the hunt for rose hips which I cut with fairly long stems and dry on frames covered with muslin. They will turn a deep red colour and wrinkle slightly as they dry. You should still find fresh rose hips in December that you can add to your wreath to give the lift of a brighter red–a Christmas wreath must have red on it somewhere.
I am not a fan of wreaths made of fresh pine branches but then I am not a fan of pine trees. I prefer to use my coppiced willow as a base and tie the hedgerow bunches on with rustic string for a more natural look. I also attach cinnamon sticks and string some nutmegs attached to some dried fruit. If you want to dry your own fruit you will have to slice it into thin slices and place on a baking tray and bake on a very low oven for at least 4 hours. I add some dried heather and oregano flowers to add a lovely plum colour to the wreath and I finish with a large christmas ribbon.
Seasonal wreaths make a lovely gift. The joy is in the experimentation. Get outside and start harvesting and see what works for you. I am currently drying hydrangea heads in time for this years christmas wreaths where I am combining them with blooms made out of jute. A contemporary twist on a traditional design.
Happy wreath making. Xx
Please do not forget the birds. Birds love their wreaths too. You can make them out of strung dried sunflowers with the seeds intact ready for feeding or make your own bird seed mix using seeds and nuts bound together with melted fat. All placed in a mold to cool and shape. Perfect.
All photos taken by Fiona Doubleday.
Fiona Doubleday is the mother of four beautiful children and lives on the Isle of Arran in Scotland. They live on a smallholding where they grow herbs, cut flowers and willow. Fiona runs a small craft company With Love From Arran and is a freelance writer. She teaches online courses, blogs regularly as Scottish Island Mum and launched a new web site called One Soul Many Hearts on October 11.
by Fiona Doubleday
I am rethinking my relationship with time and, in particular with the seasons, after a recent visit to the Isle of Eigg off the west coast of Scotland. The island is only 5 miles long and is owned by the 80 residents who call it home. In 1997 the islanders raised the funds necessary to buy their island ending a long period of unsettling change. Since then I think the islanders believe anything is possible and their engagement with life is evidence of that.
Eigg is the most beautiful of islands with heather hugging hillsides that seep away towards sandy shores. To the north west of the island lies the island of Rum. This island watches over Eigg and offers up the most astonishing summer sunsets. I was humbled on Eigg as I walked the shores and climbed the hills letting the land speak its own tales.
It is a land that is carved out by crofters who continue to live off the land with their roots firmly fixed in seasonal changes. I am not sure you could live on Eigg and not live through and with the seasons. In the summer the days are so long with warmth and light to grow the food. In the winter the days are much shorter and the wind and rain take a grip on the tiny island. Islanders spoke of days and nights dictated by seasonality as part of the heartbeat of island living.
This tiny land is often battered by Atlantic storms and in those times the ferry does not sail. The people of Eigg are cut off from the people who supply them with so much, making the community pull together to survive. Self sufficient in energy, the islanders are far more aware of how much energy they are using and have become experts at living with less. Only a very few cars travel the single island road, erasing motor sounds from the soundscape. The result is true peace.
Peace is around every corner and through every flowing burn. Your ears adjust to a different way of hearing. Your body is cleansed by clean air as it learns, once more, to breathe deeply.
When I first stepped onto the island I had an overwhelming feeling that humans shouldn’t be on this land. I tried to walk gently on the land as if to acknowledge the spiritual guardian that is Mother Nature. My breakthrough moment came while standing alone on the shore.
While encircled by a wild soundscape, I entered into a deep and illuminating meditation which reached to the deepest parts of my soul. My conscious mind filled with images from my childhood: growing up in the countryside and feeling completely and utterly free. These were very old memories that had long been forgotten and I welcomed them back. As the meditative state began to depart I felt much closer to the land that is the Isle of Eigg.
My travels later that day took me to an old crofting museum where I met her. She was sitting on her wooden chair by the fire but her bones had grown cold and weary. As I sat with her she began to tell me of a life well lived with a family much adored. She was a crofter on a small Scottish island in a time now forgotten. She told me about a time when crofting was all that there was. Her family lived on the edge of survival for long periods when the weather grew harsh and the land tired.
Her tales inspired every step I took from that point onwards. She stayed with me the rest of my time on Eigg, even while I was visiting the tea rooms buzzing with locals waiting for the supplies to come off the ferry. As they chatted, she watched and I listened. When it was time to leave I looked for her but she had gone. She will be back on her chair with her bones growing cold. But now I can take her tales of a life well lived and know that, through her, I learned to walk with the land. My visit to Eigg took me back to a place located deep in my soul and I will be forever grateful.
All photos by Fiona Doubleday.
Fiona Doubleday is the mother of four beautiful children and lives on the Isle of Arran in Scotland. They live on a smallholding where they grow herbs, cut flowers and willow. Fiona runs a small craft company With Love From Arran and is a freelance writer. She teaches online courses, blogs regularly as Scottish Island Mum and is creating a new web site called One Soul Many Hearts which launches October 11.