Memories of My Grandmother

Leaning into the strength and resilience of my ancestors. 

Mae Augusta Curtis Barker - my Gramma Barker. Today would have been her 106th birthday.

Gram was not an easy woman to understand, but I will always wish that I had spent more time with her and that I had never known things that children need not know.

During my early childhood she lived right around the corner from us on East Walnut Street. She had grand skills with needle and thread, as well as with crochet and knitting needles. I wish she had been inclined to teach me. One of my earliest memories is of my little towheaded self clutching my precious dog, Spot, and running as fast as I could to her house so she could stitch up his ear to keep the bell from falling out. She made slippers and mittens and the many squared afghan that was kept on our couch.

She was the Christmas morning tree guardian, and the story teller when I walked with her to church or the beauty parlor or the grocery store. She was Lipton cup of soup in Tupperware mugs, Bachman's cheese popcorn, jam and butter sandwiches, and TV dinners on trays while we watched old movies. . "For goodness sake, Sheri Ann, stop fidgeting. Every time you move the reflection catches in my glasses." 

She was handmade lace doilies on her furniture and pretty pins on her sweaters. She was hospital corners, chocolate oatmeal, and washing your face before going to bed. 

As a child she roller skated on slate sidewalks in the same neighborhood in which I grew up, and on one Sunday morning walk to church she told me about her skates and the key that helped to fit them and that she wore that key around her neck on a ribbon. It was hard to imagine her so. Gram was the only adult I knew who understood that the old stone gate markers that stood in various places around the block bordered by Walnut, Wilbur, Grove, and Elizabeth streets were magical. 

She was a shared stick of Wrigley's juicy fruit or spearmint gum in the pew at the Methodist church, coffee hour after service, and helping with a church dinner. She was the most magical winter evening walk to the most magical church bazaar, and the giver of the little crochet dolly that I still love. 

She was the stern and disapproving look that could break a heart.

She was the keeper of mysterious things that belonged to the half-sister I adored, and bazillions of salt and pepper shakers and the red cabinet that was a joy to have in my own home. She was butter mints in a crystal dish and a box of saltwater taffy tucked away in a drawer.

I remember just once that she held me, during a time when I was terribly ill. Her hands were kind and strong as she held a cool compress to my forehead.

My grandfather died young, two years before I was born. She surprised me by telling me stories of frequently seeing and hearing his ghost in their house in Durhamville. I once asked her why she never remarried. She answered, "Because there is no one like him." 

I don't think she ever realized that there was no one like her, either. 

That which is honored and remembered, lives. Happy Birthday, Gram. I love you.

Raymond C. and Mae A. Barker

Ray and Mae in the Adirondacks

Mae with her sons, Ray Jr., Donald, and David

The Shine

A couple of weeks ago I was writing an article about witches and pagans and turning inward during the dark part of the year. That gave me pause to think back over this year and in doing so I realized that I actually started that turning inward process round about July, and this year I have gone further inward and traveled farther to Other places than I have ever done before. 

This was not a deliberate attempt to disengage; my actions were instinctive and the journey itself was the only destination. Disengaged just happened to be one of the places I landed. 

The pause to think also led me down a thought road to the conclusion that the depth of my journey and the degree of disengagement both helped me make it through a time of year that is often extremely difficult for me. I hope this awareness does not change the process as I move into January's emotional storms. 

I have talked publicly and honestly about a lot of heavy emotional, mental, and spiritual stuff since 2011 when I first shared my thoughts about my youngest daughter's struggle with mental health and addiction. At first I wrote because I needed to get it all out of my head, and then because I hoped it might help someone else if they could see that there were not alone. The issues are different now, but I still write for both those reasons. 

I think it is important to be honest and real about the way grief, depression, and anxiety sometimes knock me down, and just as real about the fact that I always get back up. Always. I want everyone else who is struggling to know that it is possible to do that. I want people to know that it is normal to have a less than Hallmark holiday perfect life, that it is normal to talk about it, and normal to ask for help carrying the stuff that gets too heavy. That is it normal and real to enjoy a moment or an afternoon or a day and then have some random word or song or thought send you hurtling into the brick wall of an anxiety attack, then find your way back to good space. 

Life is like that sometimes. PTSD is like that sometimes. Grief is like that sometimes. Even love is like that sometimes. 

I watched my father drown himself in depression-fueled grief over his misguided and anxiety driven perceptions of every mistake he ever made in his life. I sometimes take similar nose-dives, especially related to my parenting failures and mistakes. But a huge difference between me and my dad is that I have learned how to do the work to get out of those riptides and he never did or never could. I will always believe that inability to heal is what killed him. 

Shadow work is not a walk in the park, but it is an important part of the process of deep healing. I am grateful for those who showed me that it is possible, and for those who help me along the way. I am doubly grateful for whatever or whoever it was that brought me into this world with a spirit that was never afraid to search for answers, knowledge, and magic.

These days I share a lot about the happy aspects of my life; Rhodes in his many forms of being, my kittens, my gardens, my spiritual path. Even though there are days I don't want to get out of bed, days when anxiety holds court, days when I cannot stop crying, I always look for the better, brighter side. I won't ever deny that the dark side exists, but I don't ever let it beat me, either.  

Part of defeating the darker aspects in any persons life and of this world is keeping them out in the open and shining light on them. When I ask folks to "rise on up and put your shine on" I am asking them to be a part of the light that helps keep darkness at bay or at least shows it for what it really is. 

That doesn't take a falsely manufactured megawatt smile, or a bubbly, gushing personality. It just takes being. 

Even the softest light pushes back the darkness. 

Peace out.

In Liminal Space

In the early morning darkness, I ease out of the world of dreams and into this here and now. Lately, I have slept deeply but without gaining rest. Sometimes I wake uncertain of where I am or whether I am actually awake. I wonder if the places to which I travel in my sleep are the real world. If so, then this assumed reality is not reality at all but is, instead, a dream.

My Gone Befores appear in my dreams more often than ever before. This world is in turmoil, and some of them seem unsettled by that. Some wish to comfort and give guidance. Others remember every version of the warriors they have been down through the long ages. Even now, they are ready for a fight.

I have spent many years walking between the worlds, and for the first time, I am no longer sure of the boundaries. Are they blurring everywhere and for everyone, or is extreme fatigue dulling my perceptions of space and time? Perhaps current events are so emotionally and relentlessly exhausting that I sleep hard like a sun-tired child. Maybe these in-between spaces exist only in my head.

These are my thoughts as I get dressed and then step out the back door. This is heady stuff for so early in the day.

The fog is hanging low and heavy, and the trees at the edge of the yard are nothing but shadow figures. The moment I acknowledge the shadow figures, a chill runs up my spine. I don't even give it time to run back down before I distract myself by thinking random thoughts about fog. There is weather lore that claims that there will be a snowfall in winter for each morning fog in August. In many an August past, I told myself I would keep track of fog days and snowfalls. This year, I have taken up the task. On the first morning in August, I wrote a heading on an index card: August Fog/Winter Snow, and taped it onto my desk. Every morning I made the tick marks; there are 22 in all. I am now prepared to see what winter brings.

I tend to the chickens, then walk to the south yard so I can trim back the gone-too-wild tomato plants. The fog clears for a moment, revealing the mountain ridge to the south. Low-lying clouds shroud its peaks. I am caught in a moment where another world beckons to the adventurer within me, and oh, how she longs to travel. I appease her with promises of a trip to the orchards to the south later in the fall.

The clear spot in the fog and the mountains beyond it vanish, and I am back in the mist enveloped world of the garden. After taking a deep breath, I turn to look at the tomato vines, reminiscent of scenes from the original Jumanji. Now that was very definitely a between-the-worlds space.

Moving to the far side of the raised bed, I settle into work on untangling the vines. Eyes and fingers follow the lengths of green vine until it becomes a meditative process. I pause to remove a bug or pick a ripe tomato, then move back into the meditation. Organizing, clearing out, and supporting are the dominant themes of the work. Breathe in. Breathe out. The garden is still wrapped in a light mist, with bits of morning color and birdsong all around.

The rumble of thunder sounds in the distant west. Should I head into the house to beat the rain? I start to gather the pruners, my knife, and the garden twine to put them back into my mom's dark brown basket. She purchased it years ago from one of those at-home parties and was so proud of it. She filled it with a spray of purple flowers and kept it next to a shelf filled with special treasures. I know it made her smile. Would she smile now to know that I use her basket every day? I close my eyes and call up her image, here among the tomatoes and marigolds.

How little effort it takes to move between those two worlds - hers and mine. The simple basket at my feet becomes a magical object because of the memories associated with it. I smile, remembering her smile and her love of her garden. I decide to stay and keep working, regardless of the rain.

Once again, I trace a green line back to its point of origin. Yes, this one can go. No, this one must stay. Snip. Snip. Drop the worm into the pan for the chickens. Trace another green line. Pause to talk to the sparrow and the wren, pause to seek out the form of Crow high in the tall white pine. He certainly has a great deal to say. Crow is another linking point between the worlds; I have been walking the Crow Road since before my Beth died. It seems I always will be, now that I am aware of its existence.

I had thought the road would end. That I would reach some destination after her death as I worked my way through the grief and trauma. But this is the road I am on now, even while I am living a vibrant life. Not one foot there and one here, but moving back and forth and between, sometimes in dreams, sometimes in memory, sometimes in reality. Crow has added layer upon layer of depth to my understanding of walking between the worlds and being in liminal space.

The rain begins. Coming first as a heavy, moving mist, but then the drops fall on me. I turn my face to the sky. The water washes over me. I close my eyes. I don't want to be aware of anything but the feeling of that water on my skin. I wonder if I will be in a different place when I open my eyes. Beth might be there with me, in the place where she is whole and healthy and always glad to see me. I hold my breath, and that moment of hope for a moment. I open my eyes. She is not. And I am not. I am in the Here and Now.

The rain keeps falling. I go back to the work that is simply work now. Good work. Healing work. The rain is warm and sweet, and its touch on my skin is gentle. I am content.

The Great Re-Grouping

I wrote this in late March or early April. At that time I hoped the collective "we" would do all the right things. That we would manage to collectively be decent, and civil, and compassionate. I allowed myself to use the pandemic to erase 4 years of certain sectors of people in the United States becoming progressively, aggressively, anything but those things. I hoped we could all work together to make things better, especially when we moved from Pandemic to Pandemic + Civil Rights Movement. When I first wrote it, I wrote this line: "Choose who we are when this is over." I realize now, it won't ever be over. There isn''t going to be a continuation of life in the after. Things will have to change in significant ways, and not necessarily bad ones.

Look where we are now. Look, if you can bear to. I can't do it everyday, anymore. I realized it is self-harming behavior, and there's no need to keep traumatizing myself all day long. 

I see enough to still believe there are more good people who want good for all of us than there are horrible people who don't care about anyone. Or ignorant people who fall into any number of mind-numbing psychological pathologies about identifying with the school yard bully. 

However...I remember quite clearly the day my boss and I were in the office talking about the upcoming election and I said these words outloud: "This country will never allow that to happen." But it did. I have never since said something can't or won't happen. 

Realistic optimist? Hopeful pessimist? I don't know if there's a label that fits, or if I'd accept one if it did. I just keep working to prepare myself and my family for whatever might happen. I mourn those who are dying, and grieve for their families. I am outraged that children and teachers are being placed on the frontlines of this pandemic when every bit of evidence says we are putting their lives in danger. I am outraged that my government is not doing its job, and continues to allow a narcissistic, treasonous conman to keep breathing. I will continue to do the work I need to do, but I won't be caught off guard again. We are being swallowed whole. But I'll be damned if we aren't fighting fiercely. 

The Great Re-Grouping.

I have lived alone before
and wrapped the silence and the house sounds
around me for comfort and strength.
But that was different.

My life has often been measured 
in before and afters.
Boxed up, wrapped up, compartmentalized into
Now and Then. 

Some of the durings mattered, 
but they happened in real time, 
in the everyday, in the middle of
life as we knew it and 
they were swallowed whole. 

But this. 
This great Re-Grouping.
This cosmic time-out, go to your room, and
Stay there...

This is a During that will make or break
a person
a family
a community
a country
The World as we know it.
Life, as we knew it.

This is a during we better remember.
It might be our last, big chance to 
Choose who we are now and
Who we will be in the New Times.
If we let this swallow us whole
All will be lost. 
We will be lost. 

Going Green, Gone Solar

About 750 years ago I was a little kid living in a small town in upstate New York. It was actually the only city in a rural county, surrounded by dairy and farm land, and from my youthful perspective not the kind of place where progressive thinking was a common thing. Yet somebody was progressive enough to install a solar energy system on a little house near the high school, and before I knew anything about anything I was enchanted by the thought of the Sun keeping a home warm. Solar energy became part of my eventual dream for a little cottage. 

Fast forward centuries later, and Rhodes and I bought a little house last year that clearly had the potential for becoming our combined dream home, and the house that needed some work became Bear Path Cottage. 

As a couple we are committed to going green as much as we can. We aren't ever going to win any awards for being environmental heroes, but we do our best to reduce our negative impact on the environment, and to reduce our carbon footprint. The green changes we have made to the outside of the property are the most visually evident ones; adding gardens and planting trees and other things to attract and sustain pollinators as well as make our family a little more food independent is a big deal to us. If we don't beat the birds, raccoons, and bears to the berries every year, well, that's just part of the gardening game in the mountains and they are just some of the neighbors we can share our harvest with. 

Some additional changes we made were replacing the electric tank water heater with a gas tankless system, replacing old windows with more energy efficient ones, and when we decided to add a parking space for my father-in-law's entrance to the house we opted for a permeable parking system. That choice was inspired by (though it looks nothing like)  the amazing parking system that we saw when we visited The Wild Center in Tupper Lake, NY. (https://www.wildcenter.org/thrive-together/sustainable-building/our-green-facility/) Those water penetrable paver lots made such an impression on us we carried the thought of them with us for four years. Thanks, Wild Center!

We had long discussed and agreed that we wanted to implement solar options if we bought a house where it was suitable. The long roof side of Bear Path Cottage is directly south facing and is basically a solar dream. After we closed on the house I attempted to research reputable local solar companies, but it is not easy to find information about that. The regional electric company was also no help, and there is actually a great deal of misinformation on the internet. We decided to put that project on the back burner until we could find more information. 

We had just started talking about it again when I saw that a former colleague is working as a sales rep for a solar company. I chatted with her a bit, did some research on the company, and then she came to meet with us to discuss the process. We were excited by the options presented to us, and couldn't wait to get started.

In February of this year a crew installed the solar panels on our roof. I admit it was a little disconcerting to listen to people drill holes in the less than a year old Cottage roof, but the work crew was professional, our rep was on top of everything, and in half a day's time we had the bones of the system in place. 

Duke Energy seemed to drag their feet on their end of things that had to happen to get the system running, and then the arrival of a pandemic and the related shut downs also slowed things down a bit. No worries - we are patient people. After more paperwork, and more emails, and the installation of the net meter, we were finally ready to power up. 

Four days ago Rhodes followed careful instructions from the solar company and flipped the switches that officially turned Bear Path Cottage into a generating facility, complete with a net meter and a solar photovoltaic generating system. But what do these $5 words even mean? 

For starters, it does not mean that we are off the electric grid, and it does not mean we can make money from the electricity generated by our solar panels. Duke Energy doesn't like either of those things, and does not allow them to happen. 

However, it does mean that we are now offsetting our electric bills with renewable energy produced through the solar panels/generating system installed at the Cottage. This is how our solar company explains our system: "After solar panels are installed on your home you begin producing power. Any excess power your home doesn’t use will be sent back to your utility company. Your electric meter will run backwards. You will feed excess energy to the utility company during the day and then receive it back during the nighttime, at no cost."

It also means that some time down the road when solar batteries became an affordable option we will be able to store any excess energy produced by our generating system and then potentially go off grid. Additionally, we will still pay Duke Energy for whatever usage we have over and above what the Cottage produces. 

In less than four whole days the system has produced 58 kilowatt hours of electricity, and yesterday produced nearly 25 kWh. According to Duke Energy, we used 773 kWh in the last billing cycle of 31 days, which averages out to slightly less than 25 kWh per day. Translation: overall we are breaking even with output and usage, so are successfully reducing our use of fossil fuels and our carbon emissions. That's a good feeling, and another part of the dream coming true.

Dear hometown person from the 1970's who installed a solar energy system: someone noticed, and it made a difference. Thank you. 

Note: No photos, because the electric system bits are boring, and the panels blend so well with our roof that they are difficult to distinguish from the angle from which I could take a photo. So, here's a photo of the view from the Eagle's Nest at The Wild Center. 

Time is on my side...

I wonder what I would tell this kid if I could go back to 1983 and actually sit down and talk with her. I wonder if she would listen to me, but even more than that I wonder if I would like who I might have become if she did. I do talk to her, and to many of the versions of my Self as they existed within this lifetime; doing so is part of the healing work with which I am engaged. As for going back - all I have to do is close my eyes.Time is nothing more than a human construct for measuring events that seem like they should matter. The more in tune I become with fully living each moment, experiencing each event, the less relevant the construct of time becomes and the more relevant the event. Eventually time will have no meaning to me, and hold no sway over my existence. When did I last see your face? Last hear your voice or your laughter? When did I last see the roses bloom or drift with the ocean? It was just now, this moment, In the room where memory is always present. There is no need to hurry through or Hurry on or hurry back. Doing so negates the value of being In this moment. Doing so negates the value of being.

For there is nothing lost...

I had a fairly well established daily routine before the COVID-19 pandemic initiated the Great Regrouping throughout the world. I am not a very social person and my anxiety disorder prevents me from straying too far or too often from home, so I didn't think social distancing would change my life very much. Wowser, was I wrong.

For the first time in my 53 years of living, I have had the opportunity to allow my body to find its own rhythm. I have a once a month writing deadline, and I am currently answering only to the demands of nature for working to get my gardens established. I might sleep three hours in a night, or I might sleep ten or twelve. I might be up before dawn or not go to bed until then.

My daily spiritual practice has evolved into happening while I am working in the gardens or outside for a walk about. It happens while I am sitting under the loblolly pine, watching the baby American Robins in their nest, or sitting under the night sky. Bear Path Cottage has become a rather substantial sized altar, and my connection with the Divine is ever deepening.

Inside the house, well, some days it looks like I am losing a game of Jumanji, but the world hasn't ended because of this lapse in housekeeping. This is just another part of life that is slowly settling after being shaken up. When my kids were little I embraced a "messy doesn't mean dirty" housekeeping style, and I am once again keeping home with that liberating philosphy.

I am shaking off a lifetime of constructs created by a world external to me, and that is exhausting work. I am grateful for the time to allow my entire being - body, mind, and spirit -  to rest from this work as it needs must. I am most grateful for the journey work that has led me to a place where I can recognize what is happening and embrace it without paying harsh judgment to myself.

I am also mindful that I am not living within a destination. I haven't arrived anywhere. I am still traveling, no matter how far I go or don't go. I am living wholly in this moment. I am alive.

“For whatsoever from one place doth fall,
Is with the tide unto an other brought:
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.”
― Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene

Finding Grace

Today I wrote to a friend that I have been trying to find some grace in every day.

I am tired. Somedays I am exhausted, even beyond the normal fatigue I deal with because of some health issues, or the physical fatigue that comes from working outside as much as I am able, and I think that this is normal during this difficult time. The pandemic and the political climate in this country, on top of everything else going wrong in this world, can be overwhelming. So I make myself slow down, I make myself see, I make myself hear, I make myself feel, and by doing that, I find grace, which in turn gives me hope and some sense of peace in this Upside Down.

Yesterday morning I was busy moving wagon loads of plant debris from the raised bed in the front yard to the compost pile out back. Its a bit of a walk and on my second trip back I sat down on Blueberry Hill to rest. The sun was warm on my face and there was a light breeze blowing. I closed my eyes for a while and did a quiet meditation, then I opened my arms and let that wind move through me, carrying away all that was negative.

When I opened my eyes again the day seemed a little brighter. I heard the low cooing of a Mourning Dove in the loblolly pine branches above me, and I turned my eyes to see if I could find the bird. A pair of them had been nesting in another tree in our front garden, but had abandoned that nest after a wind storm. I was hoping to find their new home space, but they both moved in and out of the high-up branches and then flew away.

Movement on the ground caught my eye and I saw a female American Robin doing a funny little walk/run across the driveway, moving towards where I was sitting. She would stop and look at me, then run a little more. She eventually went up the hill past me and I watched until she caught a worm then flew up into the tree over my head. And lo, there it was. This year's nest in the loblolly pine. The minute she stepped close to it two little heads on two scrawny necks popped up out of the nest, and those little mouths were wide open, ready for their elevenses.

The Sun was lined up so perfectly behind that nest, behind that branch, that in that moment the babies were completely backlit. The light actually shone through their beaks, illuminating them and making them appear transluscent. It reminded me of last Autumn when the rising Sun shone through the sunflowers blooming in our front garden; the whole scene was so magical that I held my breath, not wanting it to end.

Then their mom moved to feed them, and in the next instant she was fluffing her wings and settling down over her babies in the nest. Take whatever message you want to take from that moment, from that image, but I was just so overwhelmed by love that I cried.

I sat there under the tree for a while longer, musing about that moment of grace and about the way the Wheel turns. Moments pass, days go by, the year moves on, but I am often gifted with reminders of how everything is connected. Sunflowers and baby birds kissed by the same Sun. Friends who share music that makes them dance, or laugh, or cry, or worship. Art that makes people smile or sigh. Garden talk and critter pictures; despair and hope; loss and love.

There is grace in every bit of it, and I am blessed.

Solstice Day

I woke in the darkness this morning, and before my eyes were even all the way open I could feel the shifting energy of the approaching Solstice. This is the shortest day of the year before the return of the Light and there is a thread of expectent delight weaving itself through everything I move through today. 

I sat in the darkness of the living room for a couple of hours; I did some meditation, my morning prayers, an internal inventory, and then I just listened to Rhodes breathing down the hall, and to the Cottage breathing all around me. 

Although it is cloudy here today, I longed to be out of doors, so I lured my adventure partner out of our warm bed and down the road, seeking. We had a brilliant adventure, sharing views, conversation, music, and a thermos mug of hot mint tea. The Sun, Himself, made a few appearances through thinning cloud cover; bright and brilliant and confident as ever in His ability to shine. 

When Rhodes and I finally wound our way back down the road and home we went for a walk around the Cottage grounds, checking the plants and trees and our plans for the future. I was amused to learn that we have the same plan to build a rock seating wall around the Eastern Red Cedar in the North yard sometime down the road. 

This afternoon I am kitchen witching in the sweetest way, filling the house with memories and love of my Mom, my Grandmother, and the Great Gramma Lewis I don't remember at all. It is her sugar cookie recipe that made one of the most magical parts of the Christmas holiday happen in my Mother's kitchen and at the dining room table.

I don't think it is a secret that my mother was not a very good cook. Whether she was locked into simplicity by the demands of feeding seven children, or had no interest in culinary exploration, family legend says (and my mother herself confirmed this) that when she and my father first married she actually burned a pan when trying to boil water. I don't recall things improving much over the course of my childhood.

But Christmas cookies? Oh, man, that was her shining time of year. I have no recollection of how many batches of cookies she made, but during my early years the list was always the same: mincemeat cookies, pumpkin cookies, oatmeal cookies, peanut butter cookies (always pressed so prettily with a fork to make a cross-hatch!), chocolate chip cookies, and sugar cookies (rolled and cut with cookie cutters into stockings, stars, trees, angels, and santas).

She made so many cookies at one time that she mixed the cookie dough in her biggest cooking pot, and I can remember the first time I was allowed to help. I had to sit on our wooden high chair with no tray on it at the kitchen counter because I couldn't reach. She taught me how to use a spoon to cream the sugar into the shortening, and let me find out on my own just exactly how nasty vanilla extract tastes right out of the bottle. My favorite part of the making was using the flour sifter. She helped me to carefully measure the flour into the sifter, and then had to help me turn the little crank handle because I couldn't get it started myself. I was fascinated by that process, and when she said we had to do that two more times I was excited.

I don't know how she had the patience, or even the time, to teach me to set the sifter into another bowl, and carefully scoop the once sifted flour back into it; then repeating the process again with the other dry ingredients added. "Go slow. Go slow, or it will fly all over the place." And she laughed at me the first time that it did.

I don't remember actually doing so, but I know we were allowed to help decorate the sugar cookies. If we all participated, that would have been 7 kids turned loose with colored frosting and sprinkles and cinnamon red hots (I do remember that I loved to press those into warm sugar cookies, they looked so pretty) and some years those really pretty little silver balls.

I'm setting the stage for that magic today, baking Gramma Lewis' sugar cookies to decorate with Katie, Justin, and Emily tomorrow. I'll make the icing in the morning, and the bottles of sprinkles will be all lined up and ready to go. 

If you find yourself in need of a real sugar cookie this holiday season, come on by. I'm happy to share the magic!

Solstice blessings to you, my family and friends! May the returning Sun warm your body as it warms the body of the earth, and may the returning light fill your heart and spirit with joy and hope. Blessed be!

Sweet Journey

I have been writing tonight, revisiting the concept of smooring. Such a lovely Scottish word, and such a lovely action whether it be a hearth fire or a candle to be smoored.
I am grateful for all the wise and powerful Witches and women who have shared knowledge with me over the years. It can be a tricky thing to be a mostly solitary practitioner but still build ties to community. I have been blessed.
Are you growing weary of these dark days? Hold fast, my friends. Solstice draws nigh.
Good night, peeps. May your dreams be soft tonight, and your sleep a sweet journey to morning.

Not Your Mother's Table

THIS IS NOT YOUR MOTHER'S TABLE

I bet you all thought I was going to forget to remind you of this, this year.
Wrong! Some parts of me are with it and balanced.

So, without further ado: Holiday guilt-free pass.

I have a dear friend who suffers from debilitating anxiety. She posted a meme that asks people to understand how difficult the holidays can be for people who have anxiety, and described some of the ways in which they struggle.

I add to that this request: please be kind and understanding about the schedules of your family and friends, especially when it comes to your adult children. More than kind and understanding, please also be generous enough to be the person who gives them the gift of a guilt-free pass.

Balancing the holiday demands of multiple families can be a nightmare, especially if those families all insist on sharing a meal or even time together on the same day. Rushing from one gathering to the next makes for an exhausting day filled with stressful expectations.

Guilt-free pass: "Hey, I know the holidays can be crazy. Don't worry about Thanksgiving Day here (or Yule, or Christmas, or Hanukkah). Let's plan something around your schedule. And by the way - this is a GUILT FREE PASS. I love you."

Saturday afternoon dinner or dessert, or Sunday brunch or Wednesday night sandwiches and chips, when everyone is relaxed and happy, can be every bit the holiday you make it in your head and heart, especially if it is all about the love and being thankful.

The Winter of My Soul

Funny how long it takes to settle things in a home. In the moving-in process it was necessary to dump all of my stuff - writing materials, books, paintings and paint supplies, craft materials and materia magicae (sorry, Mr. Gray! 37 years out of Latin classes with you and I just don't remember as well as I should!) - onto the surface of the repurposed kitchen table which is now my desk, and envision it all perfect in just a week or two. In reality, although it has been functional for a while now, it took five months to get everything in just the right place.

Earlier this week I was doing the final sorting out, prompted by the need to create an easily accessible morning altar space. This process included going through an impressive stack of notebooks and journals and, because I have lost the ability to stay on task, I found myself reading through each one of them. At the bottom of the stack I found the journal I started when I realized I was in the Winter of My Soul.

Nearly two years ago, close to the end of the first year of life without my youngest daughter in this world, I wrote about wishing I could take a sabbatical for six months or a year. Mostly, I said, I wanted to get away and rest and renew my spirit. I wrote these words:

     "I have alternately felt as though I am lost, drowning, overwhelmed, cannot breathe, cannot slow          down, cannot move fast enough..."

I tried for a while to turn inward with the season. I tried to tend to my own needs, my own healing. I was successful for a short time, but then I let life get in the way. I allowed the expectations and distraction of other people and society to turn me away from dealing with the grief that threatened to consume me. In doing so I shut down all awareness that it was wearing away at me from the inside out.

Events in my life in the past year stripped away all those distractions, and those of you who know me best probably know that I severed the ties of expectations and obligation. While those life changes were immensely liberating and have opened doors of opportunity, they have left me standing face-to-face with the grief that is still raw in wounds that are wide open. This has not been an easy journey, and it is nowhere near complete. I have once again alternately felt as though I am lost, drowning, overwhelmed, cannot breathe, cannot slow down, cannot move fast enough.

A couple of weeks ago I made the decision to follow the seasons in the Turning of the Wheel of the Year, and to turn more deeply inward than I have ever done. To the marrow of my bones I know that it is the right thing for me to do.

When I found that journal yesterday I rediscovered a writing that woke a truth within me the first time I read it, and I read it out loud again as a prayer:

     "When winter comes to a woman's soul, she withdraws into her inner self, her deepest spaces. She refuses all connection, refutes all arguments that she should engage in the world. She may say she is resting, but she is more than resting: She is creating a new universe within herself, examining and breaking old patterns, destroying what should not be revived, feeding in secret what needs to thrive." ~ Patricia Monaghan, Season of the Witch

It is time for me to embrace that truth, and to live in each moment of this season. Self-aware, self-exploring, healing, learning, and turned as deeply inward as I can possibly go. I do not fear the darkness anymore than I fear the light.

I am living The Winter of My Soul.

The Autumn Equinox - Balance in All Things

I am an intuitive person, and as a writer and a spiritual practitioner I have long embraced that aspect of myself. Intuition carries me to the deepest, most magical, brightest, darkest places of thought and emotion and connection in my life. It connects me to my muses, to my Divines, to the people and places I most love. It is my strongest protection, the internal compass that guides me along paths both troubled and happy.

Somehow, in the past year, I have been living Harry Dresden moments. Somehow, in the past year, some Thing dropped a rock wall between my Spirit/Mind and my Intuition. Somehow, despite the hours of therapy and hours of consult and hours of conversation with friends, I could not see that rock wall. It has been crumbling for a while, and occasionally the light breaks through, but I just didn’t realize that it was there. (Side note to catch you up if you need it: No Dresden spoilers here, if you haven’t read the books yet, but the rock wall dropping Thing in my life was simply the ultimate realization of Grief.)

Not long after I woke this morning, I went out on the porch to greet the rising Sun on this holy day of Mabon, the Autumn Equinox. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the warm touch of sunlight, relaxing into a soft meditation. When I opened my eyes again the first thing I noticed was the shining little rows of dewdrops lining the porch railing. My eyes moved from there to the row of sunflowers in front of me, and I noticed how brilliant their color is with the morning sun shining through them. I saw the dew glistening on their leaves, and then I noticed the same with the tall standing corn. Those long green leaves were covered with dew, and as my eyes moved up the stalks, I saw dew drops on the tips of the silks, and even on the tassels.

I was simply enjoying this visual nature show at face value, which would have been a marvelous start to my day. Then the bird chorus started their song, singing the Sun into the sky with their rising chorus. My ears woke up then, and I heard the oddest background rhythm; it was the steady plink, plink, plink sound of dripping water. I wondered if the hose was leaking, and as I stood to look over the edge of railing into the South yard, the rain chain caught my attention.

The dew this morning was so heavy that it was pooling in the flower-shaped cups of the rain chain. I sat back down and watched with delight as fat, round droplets of water ran down the copper lines of the chain, catching diamond points of light from the Sun.

It was magical. It was magical and it woke something inside me; it pushed another section of that rock wall over and next thing I knew I was inside getting a bottle to harvest the Equinox dew. I tried catching it out of the copper cups but just couldn’t get it. My eyes wandered back to the broad, smooth surface of the corn stalk leaves, and then the rest of me wandered that way as well, down the steps and around the corner until I was standing in front of the corn. I did manage to get a few drops of dew into the bottle, but I knew in that moment that was not really what I was supposed to be doing and I put the bottle into my pocket.

My feet were on the Earth on this Holy Day. I closed my eyes and grounded myself deeply, until I felt the roots of my being mingling with the roots of the corn, and the roots of the sunflowers, and the roots of the Loblolly Pine standing tall in the yard. I used my hands to gather the dew from the leaves of the corn plant, and as I did that a soft breeze went by. A favorite ritual song played through my mind in that moment, and I smiled. Earth my body…Water my blood…Air my breath and Fire my spirit. The corn tassels are tall above me, so I was looking at the Sun through those waving tresses as I raised my eyes to the light once more. I washed my face in the Mabon dew; not seeking beauty as one does with the May but washing myself with Balance as I move into the introspective time that lies ahead.

Autumn has been my favorite season for as long as I can remember, but in the last years of my daughter’s life every Autumn came with a sense of foreboding. This year the ghost of that dread is finally gone; those shadows laid to rest. This year every leaf that I watch fall will represent a healthy letting go; the normal cycle of life and death, beginnings and endings. I am ready to immerse myself in the work of these darkling days, holding a sense of peace rather than uncertainty.

The harvest continues in earnest; gathering in that which is ripe and full, and storing aspects for the future. The days ahead are a time for introspection and preparation for growth. Take with you what you need and leave behind that which no longer sustains you. It is a fine balance point, methinks, to learn that once we let go of something it still serves a purpose. Food for the fish. Mulch for own personal growth. Leaves on the ground; stalks in the field - it all serves to nourish the body eventually.

Do something you love. Spend time in a favorite place. Try something new. Learn something new. Adventure under the sun. Adventure by the light of the stars. Howl at the moon. Let the Autumn sunlight kiss your face. Create something. Let go of something. Shatter something that no longer adds value to your life. Spend time with people who make you happy. Deepen your relationship with your Divine. Take time to share a meal with others. Share kindness with strangers. Share kindness with yourself.

Be fully present in your life.

I can hear the busy chirping calls of the Golden Finches as they enjoy the harvest of sunflower seeds in the front gardens. Another smile in my day. Time for me to step away from my desk and continue to be present in other areas of my life.

Blessed Mabon, my friends. May you find your blessings equally in the light and darkness on this Autumn Equinox.

Rolling Towards Autumn's Sweet, Sweet Days

I grew up watching the Waltons on television, swept up in the romantacized story of a large extended family sharing a home. Of course there were conflicts, but they were always resolved by the time the "Good night Momma, good night Daddy, good night John Boy" closing lines rolled around.

My great-grandfather LaPorte lived with us for a time when I was small. I don't know how long he stayed with us, but I have lovely memories of him, and I associate his presence in our home with happy things.

Twice as an adult I moved in with my parents. Multiple times my adult children moved in with me. I am not a stranger to the concept of family sharing a home, and it is one that makes sense to me in many ways.

When my husband's mother died four years ago, we began to discuss the possibility of asking his father if he would like to live with us. I think we were mostly concerned that he would be lonely on his own. We talked it through many times, but never brought it up with Larry because we didn't think he'd want to leave the last home he had shared with Jan. He is in good health, and very active in his church and other community groups. When we told him that we were going to leave the Mountain and hoped to buy a home, he surprised us when he suggested that we look for something with an in-law apartment. Because Rhodes and I had discussed it so often, we were ready to make the adjustment to having Larry live with us, but we weren't certain that he had thought it through. We waited a few days, then talked with him to make sure we all had the same expectations, that we would all be open about communicating needs and issues, and that he really wanted to make such a big change.

The biggest concern that this dear man had was that his laundry schedule not be interrupted. Monday, he said, was laundry day. Rhodes and I just laughed. Of course he could have his laundry day! (Which has since been switched to Wednesdays, because why not?)

I miss my parents every day, and I am so aware of what a blessing it is for us to be able to have this time with Larry; for Rhodes to have so much extra time with his Dad. We all have our own space if we need or want it, but we often watch television together, and share evening meals almost every night. On days when our schedules mesh, we sometimes have breakfast or lunch. Rhodes and I enjoy it when Larry wanders into our side of the house just to talk, and I love listening to the two of them laughing and talking together.

There is an extra sweetness to these days, an awareness of Autumn approaching in the normal cycle of the Turning of the Wheel of the Year, but also in the spinning of the wheels of our lives. I can close my eyes and see the pattern as the days weave the deepening colors of Autumn into a cloak that I can pull around me for shelter and warmth when needs must.

Living with an attitude of gratitude, and counting this adorable Elder as a special blessing in my life.

Peace out, peeps, and Blessed Be.

~sheri

These Years Later - Ray Barker

I try to keep an awareness of this date as it draws near, with the intention that mindfulness will keep me from being ambushed. Silly me.
Today is the anniversary date of my father's death; four days from now will mark the day that was his birthday in this lifetime. He has been gone from this world 12 years now, and I am still getting to know him. I am closer to answers, perhaps, in a "Shaka, when the walls fell" kind of way, but I suspect it will take a lifetime of musing to make any real progress. And when I finally know all the truths I need to know, they will no longer matter.
I have spent the morning lazily immersed in memories, photos, and old writings about my dad, both in this world and dream visits in the other. They are real and surreal, quiet and intense, rabbit hole and Summerlands, sometimes all at once.
In one of my old dreams, I could hear my parents talking in their coffee-at-the-dining-room-table voices. I was walking a perfectly shoveled path (a theme in many such dreams, and a Ray Barker art form) through the snowy woods, and I called to them but they didn't answer. I thought I was getting closer because the trees were thinning out and the light was getting brighter. I finally stepped out of the woods and found myself on an Adirondack lake shore, with Autumn all around instead of winter. There was a picnic table with their coffee cups, and a box of plain cake donuts. On the table, next to Dad's cup, there was also a copy of the poem I wrote a few years. It was held down by a piece of beach glass. I sat down at the table, looking out over the water, soaking up the beauty of the place when I heard Dad call my name from a distance. There they were, far out on the water in an old style canoe, sunlight dancing on the water all around them. They both waved to me before turning the canoe and paddling away.
I still miss him every day. 

See you in our beloved North Country, Pops.

Peace out, peeps.

~sheri

These years later

I mimic the mystic they and say

"It doesn't get any easier." But truth be told, as was your wont,

Your death brought a storm of grief and fury

So thorough and unrelenting

That over time it smoothed the edges

Of the pain of your loss until it became

A piece of beach glass, tossed and

tumbled by rough seas.

I can hold it now, sometimes,

Turning it in my fingers,

Feeling the beauty of your life

Without the cutting edges. ~s. barker 2015

Baby Ray - photo taken by his father, Raymond C. Barker, Sr.

Punk looking Ray, which goes with what I know of his life.

Dad on the left, with his mother and brothers. I am grateful for the healing that took place between them.

Dad with the love of his life.

I wish I'd done a better job with this picture. Camera issues, and a cigarette haze filled house. Dad with his sons. I wonder what he thinks of who they have become.

The Gone Befores Wall

Wednesday night I found myself home alone for the first time in a while. I puttered around a bit, still working on clearing out the Guest Room, but I finally gave in to the pull of the night and went and sat on the front steps. 

The night-time light is different here in little suburbia than in the forest, of course. The stars don't seem as bright but I can see the clouds without them having to cross the path of the Moon in order to have shape. There are many more human created noises, but the voices of the land and nature speak to me as they have always done. 

Ahhhht. I know I just wrote that, and I don't want to erase it, but I have to amend it to acknowledge that my connection with the Cottage has changed the way I hear those voices. I feel more deeply grounded, more rooted, more connected, and it seems to me that the voices speak more clearly than ever before in any place other than my beloved Adirondacks. I am having the same experience with my connection to my Gone Befores in a way that is somewhat different from the normal change in that connection at this time of year. 

I listened to the night for a while, letting it sink into my bones and my being. As I often do, I talked to the plants and trees, telling them how beautiful they are and how much I admire and appreciate their effort and determination. The sunflowers nodded their heads at me and the leaves of the corn plants whispered softly. I had a conversation with Bear Spirit, acknowledging the turning of the Wheel of the Year towards Autumn, and asking Him to continue to protect and bless us all. I could feel the weight of His presence in the ether around me, and was comforted.

At one point I took a deep breath of night air, then sighed. Without knowing that I was going to do it, I began to lullaby the Cottage and her land. I was a little surprised by the song, but it felt right, and I sang these words that I first learned at Samhain Ritual with Mother Grove. The song is called Hold Me:

Hold me, hold me, never let me go.

Hold me like the leaves on the ends of the branches.

And when I die let me fly, let me fly

Through the air like the leaves when they're falling.

Hold me, hold me, never let me go.

Hold me like the stars in the sky high above me.

And when I die let me fly, let me fly

Through the sky like the stars when they're falling. 

In our home we have an Ancestor Altar and a Gone Befores wall where we keep photos and mementos of those who have moved on. As I was sitting on the front steps that wall was through the door and directly behind me. While I was singing I could feel the gentle weight of love and power of all those Gone Befores, even those not represented on the wall, as if they were reminding me that they have my back. Reminding me that they are here for me, even now, even if they were not in this lifetime.

Their presence and the night sounds carried me to another song, one that touches my spirit and always brings comfort. It also brings humor and laughter when applied to certain Gone Befores and their insistence on shining through in funny ways. The musicians are Sweet Honey in the Rock, and the song is called Breaths.

Chorus:

Listen more often to things than to beings

Listen more often to things than to beings

'Tis the ancestors' breath when the fire's voice is heard

'Tis the ancestors' breath in the voice of the water.

Those who have died have never, never left

The dead are not under the earth

They are in the rustling trees

They are in the groaning woods

They are in the crying grass,

They are in the moaning rocks

The dead are not under the earth.

CHORUS

Those who have died have never never left.

The dead have a pact with the living.

They are in the woman's breast,

They are in the wailing child

They are with us in our homes.

They are with us in the crowd

The dead have a pact with the living.

CHORUS

You may not know that for many pagan folk this time of year, approaching and even a little after Samhain, is a time for honoring and acknowledging our ancestors. As that day draws closer I will add extra things to the altar; little gifts and treats for the Gone Befores, but for now, it is a place of remembrance, with candles and incense as we feel the need or desire.

When I add someone to the Altar I welcome them into our home. I thank them, and honor them, and then, most importantly, I set boundaries. Did you know you can do that? So many of us struggle with setting boundaries for people when they are alive in this realm, to think that we can do so after they have crossed over to another is rather mind bending. But we can!

My father-in-law gave us a portrait of his grandparents to add to the wall. When I saw it I commented that they looked like nice people. He immediately made a face, and then replied that they were not nice people at all! So, when I put their portrait on the wall I welcomed them, and then I told them that whatever they were like in their lifetime here, I am sure they are better where they are now, and that I expect them to be those better selves if they make themselves known in my home. Otherwise, they will be leaving. 

The work of healing is never easy and has many complex layers. Not so long ago I'd have probably just stared or nodded with that yeah, right look at someone who told me that healing would be somewhat easier if I could work to heal my ancestors too. Now I understand the truth of that concept at many different levels. I won't go into details here, but if you are interested in discussing this please let me know.

I have provided links below to the two songs I referenced so you may listen to them if you would like. Below those links I am going to share with you one more piece of art about the Gone Befores. It is in fact the first poem I read on this subject, and the reason I call my Gone Befores by that name. I found this poem not long after my parents died; Dad first on 9/3/07, then Mom on 3/9/08. I do love the sense of balance in those numbers. 

Tell me - what do you do to honor your Gone Befores, your beloved dead, or those dead who were not so beloved? Are you able and willing to make time and space for them in your here and now? What is honored and remembered, lives.

Peace out, peeps. I'm off to the kitchen to make some gingered honey.

Blessed be.

~Sheri

Listen to Hold Me: http://www.gatheringofcircles.com/songs_we_sing/14%20Hold%20Me.mp3)

Listen to Breaths: https://youtu.be/YwLgxyVjwk4

THE GONE BEFORES by Susa Silvermarie

You think they aren't in the car on either side
holding you upright while you sob and drive and wipe your tears again and sob?
Your grandmother Maria, maybe your mother's first cousin Grace.
Or your two best friends P and C who skedaddled early.

You're revolving like an owl checking the crossroads,
but someone from Before flies singing overhead.
Listen. The Gone Befores have already taken every single step
and made each sweet mistake you think is your exclusive.

You think you could travel anywhere
if they hadn't begotten you here?
You can't even eat breakfast
without someone who loves you hovering,
Over orange juice, listen up, get an inner earful.