Yesterday we reconnected after a short break and met for the first in a series of five meetings for the workshop Medicine Bundles: Connecting to the Natural Living World. Hampton Library hosted us in their colonial-style archive room. It felt a bit formal but the graciousness of the staff and the warmth of our re-union countered the stoic glances from the 18th or 19th c. portraits. We had a wonderful first session. Thank you Bette for sharing and recounting your ambles along the winding persistent river near your home in Arizona and the healing power of elderflower. Alison, love the word crepuscular. Thank you for bringing us closer to the wild and wonderful world of words and etymology. Im looking forward to meeting next week plein air style in the gardens at Madoo. Jane please continue to share your posts here on WinterCount and know that you are welcome to join us when you are feeling re-charged.
ps. im not completely settled on WinterCount as a name for the site if we are to continue to post. I would love to see the blog continue and am open to your thoughts on whether the name is still appropriate. If you have suggestions please let me know.
Thank you all for returning and encouraging the fire of our creative lives
Spring has arrived. For me the return of the red-winged blackbirds was the first signal of our turn into the vernal freshness of spring. We had a final week of cold harsh weather before winter released her stubborn hold. On a foggy morning in early april, I cycled to Sagg Pond. I was accustomed to the zen-like spareness of the landscape which defined the months from december through march though this morning ushered in the quiet glory of spring. In the stillness of dawn a strand of noble white egrets held the kingdom called Sagg Pond in high grace. Welcome Spring!
I hope we can all gather for Medicine Bundles: Our Connection to the Natural World. Beginning Monday May 1st from 1 – 2:30
“our task is to enter the dream of nature and interpret the symbols”~ e. l. watson
Writing and creating give way and entrance into the dream of nature.
Properties: energetic, rigorous, spiritual, earthy, intuitive, exploring our inner and outer edgelands, potential, curious, honest
In our 5 week workshop we will welcome the full spectrum of expression and language that connects us to the magnificent qualities of being…of living on this wild, mysterious and wondrous planet
The intelligence we are awakening to and our intent to connect has its origins in the body. Our work is to slow down, listen, court, merge, let go and let in. Think heart, soles of the feet, the sensory receptors in the hands, the marvelous vision of our eyes.
The inspiration for “Medicine Bundles” is simply the awe of the interconnectedness of ourselves and the surrounding natural world. It is about exploring who we are as creatives, celebrating our unique voices, and coming together as a community.
We will circle around two questions “What Medicine is Calling”, and “How am I Medicine to Earth”
Honoring what is stirring inside of us….Living and Loving the questions
MONDAYS BEGINNING MAY 1st 1PM – 2:30 @ MADOO GARDENS, SAGAPONACK
(image: the wild unknown, borrowed from pinterest)
What happens to a Winter Count when Spring arrives? I’ve been asking myself this question. The changes started a number of weeks ago….the transition feels total now. The signposts arrived in blazing colors of yellow and red, the colors of the east and spring and sunrise in my medicine wheel.
Some would call green the color of spring, but here at the very tip of the Island where our leaves are the last to arrive, long after everywhere else, I proclaim yellow the color of spring. The color of Forsythia…
The color of Daffodils. The color of sunshine, following our week of heavy rains, the perfect combination for amphibious egg-layers and new plant growth. And the brilliant yellow of a female Hooded Warbler…
She has been in my backyard solidly for the last two days, here to fill up on a copious feast of insects. Flitting. Flitting. Busy. Her tail like a pulse of light. She flicks it repeatedly, spreading her tail feathers just enough to reveal the outer edges of white, over and over, like a camera flash. Spring is all business for birds. Time bears down with the all-important task of procreation. That is a pulsing, too.
Color started to slowly enter at the end of February, with Christine’s ‘Honoring Voice’ workshop in North Haven. Already she too was looking toward spring, invoking a medicine wheel similar to mine, with winter in the north and spring in the east. It was warm enough to walk on the bayside pebbly beach, a tradition when we meet here, where we encountered the daily whelk collection of a fellow walker.
I was entranced by the silky, vibrant orange linings of the knobbed whelks. And brought one home to paint.
The images above my desk, too, called out to be re-arranged. The card with the snowy owl put away. The perfect summer haiku, an old piece of my son’s artwork, brought out to replace it. My earth astrology card with my flicker totem joined it. Woodstock, my true-heart totem, in a tizzy of spring yellow at the center.
But the real giveaway that things were drawing to a close was when pink cherry blossoms snuck in to the repertoire.
On which trip, incidentally, I came across a real Native American Winter Count.
Once the cherry blossoms appeared, I knew, my Winter Count had ended. I viewed ours as a project laid like a bridge across the cold, still, winter days between fall and spring. I feel my Winter Count is complete.
It began in shades of snow-covered landscapes – indigo, storm grey, pale pink – and ended in fire: shades of orange and coral. I finally gained a sense of ritual and routine around my work. My indigo owl mug filled with warm tea, Nina Simone playing on Pandora, little pools of pale color building a palette on a white saucer.
I can see our Winter Count work as a small exhibition at the library. Our various approaches – paintings, poems, photographs – pinned to the walls. Narrow, waist-high tables beneath contain objects from our nature altars at home. I am certain we all have them.
I see glimmers of where these pieces might take me. I will continue them, but they will no longer be a Winter Count. I am ready for the next chapter. For the Count of Spring, and all the seasons beyond. These are now prayers at my Nature Altar. Singing praise. Bearing witness. Paying attention.
“Ancient religion and modern science agree: we are here to give praise. Or, to slightly tip the expression, to pay attention. Without us, the physicists who have espoused the anthropic principle tell us, the universe would be unwitnessed, and in a real sense not there at all. It exists, incredibly, for us. This formulation (knowing what we know of the universe’s ghastly extent) is more incredible, to our sense of things, than the Old Testament hypothesis of a God willing to suffer, coddle, instruct, and even (in the Book of Job) to debate with men, in order to realize the meager benefit of worship, of praise for His Creation. What we beyond doubt do have is our instinctive intellectual curiosity about the universe from the quasars down to the quarks, our wonder at existence itself, and an occasional surge of sheer blind gratitude for being here.”
– John Updike on The Meaning of Life.
“We are here to witness the creation and abet it. We are here to notice each thing so each thing gets noticed. Together we notice not only each mountain shadow and each stone on the beach but, especially, we notice the beautiful faces and complex natures of each other. We are here to bring to consciousness the beauty and power that are around us and to praise the people who are here with us. We witness our generation and our times. We watch the weather. Otherwise, creation would be playing to an empty house.”
-Annie Dillard on the Meaning of Life
It might not be the cruelest of months but we can say March is unpredictable. I wasnt looking forward to another snow. A week ago Crocus and Daffodils coaxed by warmth and bright sun following some unseen authority opened and flirted with the promise of Spring. The cheerful call of Red-Winged Black Birds magically lifted the veil of winter revealing the other world, the one of birth, renewal, things green
anticipation and a rekindled sense of adventure.
I gave myself license to wander, passing the old stable our former Zendo, mildew covering the once white plaster wall. I knew the passage alongside Privet and not yet unfurled ferns. The last storm left tree limbs scattered on the neatly aligned wood planks leading to the simple stone garden. Yes Zen would have aptly described the aesthetic.
The larger stones which appeared like islands now gone.
Untidy, edging toward derelict. Untended yet a ghost of form held. It was here in the warmer months the sangha walked in silence, a skein of black resembling migratory birds keeping measured pace. A practice called Kinhin. Up until now I had never felt permission to trespass in a space once held sacred; this day felt different as if a spell broken, a membrane dissolved.
The Ocean when still can be heard.
Sparrows flitting among bramble. This emptiness, the trail of a wave crest breaking and meeting shore – a heritage of silence embodied.
I bend to pick up the weathered and sun-bleached fragment of a bone. It speaks deer. The bone held up, my head tilted back my eye peers through the hollow.
Birds keep moving in the neutral sky.