Going Within

Isn't it astonishing how rapidly nights draw in after the equinox? Even though this happens every year, of course, each night I seem to glance at the time in disbelief as darkness falls. There's no denying, that just as the stags bellow away and the mice and voles collect nuts for the cold days ahead, it's time for us to prepare for the long nights and kindle hope for next spring.

Whenever I put a bulb in the ground at this time of the year, I’m reminded of the miracle: that in depth of barren winter, life stirs. Our Neolithic ancestors made much of this, building tombs for their dead with an opening aligned towards the dawn, purposefully focusing the first rays of the new day, at key equinox or solstices, upon the bones of their beloved dead. There’s also evidence that seeds for the following year’s crops were brought into such burial chambers, possibly to be blessed by the sunrise.

For many years now, I’ve felt compelled to bless bulbs and seeds when I sew them. I don’t quite remember when it began.

Blessing bulbs, seeds and saplings as I put them into earth, feels like an old way of aligning with nature's renewal. In doing so, I enter into an intentional relationship with all that stirs, buds, grows and decays around me. The result is a greater sense of kinship. The plants are not just plants, they are known to me, and I sense that I am more known to them. It is perhaps an ancient sensibility, but one that adds to a deepening of conversation with the land and all creation.

"Midnight's Majestic Battle”

Beneath the silver crescent's gentle gleam,

Two stags engage in nature's ancient dream.

Amidst the quiet of the midnight hour,

They lock their antlers in a mighty power.

In moonlight's tender, soft and tranquil kiss,

Their silhouettes dance in a wild abyss.

With sinewy grace, they clash and spar,

A testament to the moon and every star.

Their breath hangs in the crisp and frosty air,

As they duel with honor, a majestic pair.

Their echoing roars in the still night's hush,

Resound through the woods in a rhythmic rush.

With every clash, the moonlight shines bright,

Revealing the strength of their endless fight.

In this ethereal scene, under the crescent's boon,

Two stags, under the moon, forever maroon.

As the crescent moon sails on its tranquil flight,

They continue their battle into the night,

In this moonlit dance, they find their art,

Two stags, bound forever, never to part.

Sally Bruce-Richards