As the solstice comes upon us here in the Northern Hemisphere our thoughts turn to surviving the cold. While it's considerably milder here in Scotland than it was while I was teaching in New York, cold it is and cups of tea provide welcome warmth. It's hardly surprising that people in the Middle Ages measured their lives in winters survived. In many ways the mid-winter celebrations offer a chance to celebrate that hope and restore it for the lean months ahead.
It's the perfect time to consider the Anglo-Saxon poem The Seafarer, which I think of as a companion to The Wanderer. Both elegiac poems that mourn a lost past, they celebrate the power of the comitatus, the loyal troop of warriors and find poetic resonance in the harsh world of winter.
There's a wonderful passage in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, where the poet leads us through the changing seasons. I've always been struck by the poet's evocation of the harshness of winter's chill -- no surprise at time when people still reckoned age by how many winters they'd survived.
After þe sesoun of somer wyth þe soft wyndez Quen Zeferus syflez hymself on sedez and erbez, Wela wynne is þe wort þat waxes þeroute, When þe donkande dewe dropez of þe leuez, To bide a blysful blusch of þe bryȝt sunne. Bot þen hyȝes heruest, and hardenes hym sone, Warnez hym for þe wynter to wax ful rype; He dryues wyth droȝt þe dust for to ryse, Fro þe face of þe folde to flyȝe ful hyȝe; Wroþe wynde of þe welkyn wrastelez with þe sunne, Þe leuez lancen fro þe lynde and lyȝten on þe grounde, And al grayes þe gres þat grene watz ere; Þenne al rypez and rotez þat ros vpon fyrst, And þus ȝirnez þe ȝere in ȝisterdayez mony, And wynter wyndez aȝayn, as þe worlde askez, no fage, Til Meȝelmas mone Watz cumen wyth wynter wage.
Mine is the sweet honey That is the elixir of new life.
Mine are the arms that cradle the Shell of who you have chosen to be.
Mine is the heart that calls Out to you when you have Forgotten me.
Mine is the hand that reaches Out to you when no solace can be found.
Mine is the light that guides you On the path back to me.
Mine is the truth that you desire When life ebb’s from you.
Mine is the womb of light To which you return To be reborn.
I began this blog 3 years ago which much different intentions than those where the writing has taken me. Life has interjected itself and time has passed leaving at times gaps in what I wanted to say and what I was able to write. This, all part of the “human experience” where what is accomplished and what there is “time to accomplish” are often out of sync.
While I identify as Pagan, and more specifically as Hellenistai, I also fall into the category generally defined as "devotional polytheist." For me, the Gods are at the center of my spiritual practice. I write poetry and short stories and essays in their honor, meditate and go on trance journeys, and endlessly discuss their natures and myths and influence upon the world. As such, theophanies -- manifestations of the Gods, personal encounters with them -- are of particular interest to me. I love to read of others' encounters with Gods and Goddesses and spirits of all sorts, from every tradition, new and old.
Additionally, not all theophanies are ... well ... I have found some passages in works of fiction to be as profoundly moving and insightful as any (nonfiction) work. It leads me to wonder if the authors have either coded their true encounters, changing bits here and there to include them in novels and short stories; or if the authors have some intuitive understanding of the Gods and spirits and the world beyond the mundane.