Wild Hunts
Hi from the solstice. Not that "the solstice" is a place ... it kind of is, though. It's the heart of winter, an auspicious day back in pagan times, for, you know, cosmic reasons. Me? I think the sparkle of today is just the promise that life will return.
Isn't that why we drag green branches into our home when there's nothing green outside?
It's interesting, actually, to remember why we do all the shit we do this time of year.
"The symbolic use of plants at Christmas effectively transforms the modern-day living room into a place of shamanic ritual," reads Pagan Christmas: The Plants, Spirits, And Rituals At the Origins Of Yuletide.
Saturnalia and the Wild Hunt. Yule logs, the cult of tree worship, and magic mushrooms that let your mind soar the sky like it's on a sleigh. That winter holiday, the one we forgot about, sounds a whole lot rowdier and more darkly magical. And I'm down for that ... I can't speak for you, of course.
The mistletoe I hung—for kissin' season. The Druids would be proud.
Ye olde Christmas ficas tree.
Electric
If you live here in the North then you know that it stormed last week. Copious rains and a big wind storm, which started when apocalyptic gusts blew tin cans past me while I was on my afternoon walk. The fence? The fence simply did not make it. It had been on the last of very many legs, and in the face of such wind, it keeled over and gave up the ghost. Under cover of darkness, I sat on the front porch and watched pale clouds scoot quickly across a larger, blacker backdrop. The air was electric.
As a homeowner, storms like this make gray hairs grow out of my head. As a human on planet earth, I love these storms for the wild energy that they bring.
Luckily, I have very lovely friends who came and helped me fix said fence with their magical tools. Also luckily, the sun came out on Sunday and I did naught but ride my skateboard. Take a peek at that backyard setup pictured below and ponder what it might be like to have a tiny skatepark in YOUR yard instead of those handful of rose bushes and that patch of grass for the dog to pee on.
Cold Crusade
For a mind clogged with the debris of life, a few clear, cold days are all you could hope for. On dog walks, for instance, the wind rakes everything away, mentally speaking. The sky is either azure or, if it's past 5 p.m., especially starry. "Every walk is a sort of crusade," says Thoreau. And it's true.
Also, the Christmas cactus is blooming. Just when one needs it. When one might go out and buy oneself flowers. Thanks, plant. Sorry I never watered you.
The Weekend Report
Attended: Birthday party at the Bracewell residence. A fire pit crackled. Rock bands played. Then everyone hung out in the kitchen.
Saw: Boyhood, by Richard Linklater (the guy behind the great Dazed And Confused). A meandering assemblage of moments in the life of a family—all strung together in a way that's just very, very REAL.
Drank: Americanos with honey—a more delicious, more manageable, more healthful cocaine of sorts.
Read: This sentence by Heidi Swanson: "There's a lot to be said about doing the work you want to be doing. And chipping away at it, regularly, as a practice, has the potential to help show you the way." Thank god for work. Sometimes. You know?
Stormytelling
Normally I do spectacular things on Saturday nights.
But this Saturday night I spent on the top of a ladder in the darkness and storm wrestling with pieces of corrugated roof that were torn away by the raging wind. I employed a power drill in the spectral light of a flashlight with dying batteries. I sliced my finger pulling wet screws out of my back pocket. I teetered dangerously atop the tippy-top rung ("this is not a step") and legit almost fell three and a half times.
All the while the gusting air perpetuated savagery in the huge evergreen above my head, adding to the sense of urgency—the immediate need to fix the patio roof, I.E. prevent the downpour from pooling right there at my backdoor and (as anyone would) inviting itself inside.
Anyway, a huge storm came through this weekend, like a vanguard of winter, and as I met its wrath on a Saturday night while most people I knew had run off eating and drinking and such, I suddenly knew that, for real, I am grown up—like a grown up grown up.
But the next day I slept in, ate peanut butter from a jar, and skated all afternoon in the newborn sun. Okay?
