"Grandmother", clay, wool & feathers
The snows have come like an ancient,
whispering grandmother, silent and powerful.
Walking through the cold crunch of snow,
listening to cracking trees and high,
whistling winds, I hear winter stories
from deep within my bones.
Deep dreaming brings me always to my ancestors. I
wonder about those ancient ones who survived winters
in the Northern lands of Latvia and beyond. There were
ancestors who came from Bohemia and others from the
Celtic lands. Still others from Georgia, so my father heard.
Though I wish their stories had been handed down like
the silver, the story-chains have broken. It is in these times
of deep dreaming, that something of them rises to the
surface and broken threads are mended through my
remembering of them.
As a granddaughter of northern folk,
I wonder if it is woven into me to love the
quiet whispering of winter, and to feel
the ancestral stories pulsing through me
as I sit at the fire.
Winter has blessed the forest with light and fluffy
snow so far, with cold days and bitter nights.
Pasha and I find ourselves warming by the
fire long into the morning. I enjoy daily
walks in the forest or along the road,
but Pasha is finding it just a bit too cold
to sustain a long walk.
Before the snows were too deep,
I could convince him to join me for a romp
around the yard, but as more and more
snow has fallen, and temperatures dip
way below freezing, I find myself
keeping company with the puffed-up
birds and burrowing red squirrels.
(Do click to see the tunneling red squirrel, above)
The last storm dumped over two feet of snow,
making getting out the back door a challenge!
The snow piles and banks along the paths grow
steadily higher. Tonight we are expecting
another four to eight inches.
The snow has found itself a lovely throne in the
winter garden, Pasha's spot for an
afternoon nap in summer.
On my snowshoe through the forest,
I am captivated by the simple lines of a
delicate branch, starkly contrasting with the
white field of snow.
Deep in the woodlands, the snow has
decorated the trunks
with stripes.
There is a magical beauty in the winter light,
and a mysterious comfort I feel when the house
is all tucked in with snow.
Pasha questions my decision to stay out hours at a time,
here he has crawled through the secret passageway
to the porch and pleads with me to let him in,
he has had enough!
On my way home from an afternoon errand, the sky
was full of winter fire in the west,
while behind me in the east, the waxing moon rose
in the cool, blue sky.
I watch the moon glowing through the hemlocks
as I write. Still no sign of the storm they say is coming,
but my larder is stocked in case
I'm house-bound tomorrow.
Classes begin for me on Wednesday,
and another rhythm to my days.
The deepest of winter dreaming
fades as the days grow slowly longer.
With the slight lengthening of daylight,
so, too, some shift in me. I feel a
new inspiration, and look forward to
seeing what stories emerge as
I turn once again to my work.
