Sing Yule

Parking lot hearts, Charley Freiberg photo

Sing we the Yuletide-O

Sing the Yule heigh-ho;

Blows, he, the North Wind cold

Blows the Yule nigh-O.

Yule: an old word, co-opted by Christians to mean Christmas, but originally indicating the season of the solstice. In our time, Yule could be said to indicate the western world’s holiday season that begins at the Celtic New Year - Samhain or Hallowe’en, with the Mexican Day of the Dead two days later and then, in the US and Mexico, Thanksgiving Day (Canada’s Thanksgiving is earlier in October) – and usually encompasses Hannukah and a Muslim holiday or two, and continues through Festivus, Christmas, then Kwanzaa and New Year’s Day, or possibly Epiphany, which is the end of the old 12 days of Christmas. During this time of Yule, the holidays, which come from many traditions, share much: they gather together family and friends, touch us with thankfulness for blessings received, celebrate the coming of the light and the miracle of lights and the lengthening days of light, and the blessing of some special births.

It’s the dark time of year and our spirits need a celebration to look forward to, especially one that involves beauty or majesty or a promise or comfort in the cold and dark of the year – or even the simple thrill of an unknown something wrapped with sparkle and cheer, waiting to be opened. The sun retreats early, dusk falls near 4 pm, and only slowly builds back after the solstice. It’s a time when we long for light and warmth and home, and crave a reason to hope; when the giving and receiving of gifts mirrors the ebb and flow of the gifts the earth bestows. It’s the time of year when ritual and mystery lie around every corner, even in the profane world. 

It’s a time when the lighting of candles, the knock of a stranger at the door, the preparation and sharing of special foods that we make only during the Yuletide season all embody special meanings that reach beyond our daily life and reaffirm our connection with the shadows of those who came before us, those who follow in our footsteps, and all who walk the path of life.

Shines, he, the sun high-O

Shines the Yuletide o’er

Silver light, the moon hangs low

She lights Yule to our door.

Yule is the time for telling stories, for tasting the frisson of the dark world our ancestors lived in and which dances just beyond our daily consciousness. It’s the time for ritually recreating the warmth and comfort that keeps us safe and strong. Can you hear the Wild Hunt streaming by in the darkness? Shut the door, shut the door, poke the Yule log to burn brighter! Does the stranger at the door come bearing a gift? Good luck for the new year, let him in! Will we survive the darkest nights? Light the candles with reverence and hope. Welcome the spirits of the season, with their tales of what has been, what is now, what may be yet to come. Ring out the solstice bells of welcome, pile the bonfires high.

Once a year, we’re given an excuse to make time for friends and family who we otherwise may rarely see, to give bountifully to those in need, to engender cheer and kindness with all we meet, be they friend or foe or stranger. Once a year, we can bring our ancestors back into the living world for a few moments, by telling their stories, sharing our thoughts with them. Once a year, we can leave enmity and strife outdoors, and light our hearts and use our voices to fill the cold air with wishes of peace and joy to all men. Once a year, we can say “Happy holidays” to one and all, and know that men of goodwill will embrace the wish and feel a warm return of the sentiment. 

Once a year, we need not be embarrassed by sentimentality and kindnesses given and received. Once a year, we’re given permission to seek comfort and share joy, without excuses. Once a year – if we’re lucky – the world will turn, the oil will last, the spirits will warn us in time, our ancestors will look upon us benignly, the holy birth will bring us a chance of redemption, the Wild Hunt will pass us by, the Yule log will last long enough and leave a faggot remaining to light next year’s hearth, the first to cross our doorstep in the new year will be a dark-haired man bearing a gift, our families and friends will all be gathered and in peaceful communion with each other, the birth of Messiah and Prophet will bring rejoicing, and the sun will grow strong and steady again.

Once a year, for a night, or a few days, we’ll feel peace. And if we’re lucky, Twitter will be down, and we’ll actually have peace. And please, save me a latke, some corton, and a slice of French-Canadian tourtiere. 

Enter, Yule, upon our floor

And we be poor no more

Sing we the Yuletide –O

Sing the Yule heigh-ho.

Printed in the Concord Monitor, 24 December 2017, as “Light of the Yule.”

Oops! Wrong Member!

Conundrum: Charley Freiberg photo

I want to tell you about the time I grabbed a total stranger’s penis, and held it tight.

I’m a woman of a certain age, and I’ve worked in many professions. One of the first jobs I had, about a thousand years ago back in the Dark Ages, was in a bustling law office in the city. I was the test paralegal – it was a relatively new profession, they’d never had one before, I’d just graduated from college with a legal studies degree, and the partner who did the criminal work thought he could use a paralegal. Perfect! Exactly the job I’d longed for.

It was an interesting and busy office. There were a big handful of young women legal secretaries, all city girls who were tough as nails and awed me with their fashion sense, elaborate hairdos, and brash approach to the office and the lawyers, who I still held a little in awe. There were a couple of young lawyers who concentrated mostly on real estate law, and the two partners who were conservative-looking older men, and another lawyer, the office’s prosecutor, whose office was in the basement. He was also an older man, and to get to the copy machine one had to walk through his office to the supply closet on the far side. 

“He used to be a monk,” one of the city gals told me first day. “He likes to meditate before he has a court appearance. When you walk through his office, don’t look at him. He likes to meditate naked.”

It wasn’t an office secret – everyone in earshot heard these instructions, and it seemed to be an accepted part of weird office culture. One of the young lawyers rolled his eyes, and when I asked, another of the city gals said, “No, he never shuts his door. Just go through whenever you need to make copies.”

Okay! I never got an eyeful, but it certainly made trips to the supply closet an adventure, and whenever the light in his office was more candle than incandescent, I kept my eyes straight ahead and hustled along.

The other partner, I was told, had a box of “candy panties” in his desk. “Don’t worry about it,” my informer told me. “He’ll probably never ask, because he’s interested in one of the secretaries. But if he does, just say ‘No.’ He won’t give you any trouble.” 

I was an innocent. She had to explain to me what candy panties were. I was surprised no one else was disgusted – it was just the way things were, back then. When I reported back to my Dad about my new job, I watched a deep red color rise slowly up his neck to his ears, and I expected an explosion. He sputtered a bit, then said, “Don’t go into that partner’s office if there’s no one else in the office. You should just quit.” 

I didn’t stay long at that office, not because of the sexual tenor, but because they couldn’t figure out the best way to put me to work, and I was too inexperienced to train them. But let it be noted that whenever I had a discussion with that particular partner, half my mind was on his desk drawer and its’ contents, wondering what, exactly, I’d say and do if he opened it. And I stayed because, at the time, it was a sign of a woman’s character to be tough enough to figure out how to handle it; it being the presumption of men in positions of power who assumed it was fair, and not foul, to see what personal perqs they could get from the women around them. I was lucky – none of them ever tested me; but I saw it more than once. 

That wasn’t the time I grabbed a stranger’s penis.

Back in the dark ages, the pendulum was weighted heavily on the side of men in the dance of sex. If a woman was assaulted or raped, or even if she was just whistled at or subjected to leers, inappropriate stories or suggestions, “accidental” touching, and all the other things clever boys believe to be attractive to us or their right to take, it was always the woman’s fault. Somehow she’d encouraged it, or she just wasn’t tough enough to keep the man in hand or ignore the strangers in her face, and that was her problem, not the man’s. If she complained, she wasn’t going to be taken seriously, or if she was, she was going to end up reviled – not a hero.

Flash forward a couple thousand years. The pendulum, as it always does, is swinging in the other direction.  Some men who acted very badly are finally receiving the consequences of their bad acts. Some men, who didn’t actually act very badly, are going to be swept up in a too big consequence. It always happens when the pendulum swings, because Qi, or Karma, or Justice, or whatever you want to call it, will take too much at the far extremes until it finally settles into a balanced place in the middle. So while we can and should worry about and feel sorry for the men who maybe shouldn’t be getting picked off, but should maybe only have their hands slapped hard, we should also be remembering the many, many women who were also picked off even if they weren’t actually assaulted – they had to live with the nastiness of the environment, the uncertainty and the fear, that the bad boys engendered and the good boys didn’t step up and stop. It would help if all men realized that almost all women lock their doors when they’re home alone – and they never, ever can get that out of the back of their minds.

We all need to do some crying together, and then we need to agree that everyone – everyone! – keep their paws off other people and their dirty minds locked inside their own heads and not spewing aloud in public. We need to decide and believe that when we’re in business or politics or otherwise engaged with each other not in a romantic relationship, that we’re all just neuter – not male, not female, and those projecting things some of the neuters happen to have aren’t there for staring at or touching, nor are they an invitation to act badly. 

Nowadays I’m an acupuncturist – basically, a cranky, aging woman with a lot of sharp needles who enjoys stabbing strangers with them. Most the strangers I stab are grateful, because they feel so much better afterwards. I hear a lot about their lives, their fears, their joys, their struggles. There develops a special connection after a few appointments.

All the women patients who want one will ask if they can have a hug, at the end of the appointment. I’ll ask them if I can give a hug when I sense they need that affirming touch. Some of my male patients also ask if they can hug, and I’m always glad to comply, and they are always completely respectful when we do. A hug is a hug, and it can be comforting and close, or close and creepy, and the difference is in the asking and receiving permission, the appropriateness of the circumstances, and the desire of both to hug and not stray into something else. This is the model for closeness outside the realm of the very personal. 

Touch like you’re touching your mother, boys, even if your little mind wants to believe she’s waving a “free gifts here” flag. No one ever got burned having a calm, informational conversation and thinking through the consequences first. Ladies – same to you, if you’re one of the aggressors.

We can choose to forgive. There are some indiscretions that shouldn’t be forgotten or forgiven or in any way rewarded, but we shouldn’t refuse to consider and decide each individually. Not all need to lose their jobs; not all need to be publicly shamed. Quantity and degree of vileness really do matter. Men, we need you to stand up and say, this won’t be tolerated again. We need you to mean it.

When I was still a young pup back in the dark ages, my boyfriend was from Southie. I’d go with him back to the city, but the subway system flummoxed me and the crowds – yow, for a country girl used to empty spaces, it made me very nervous to be on a crowded subway during rush hour, and I’d stay as close to the boyfriend as possible so I wouldn’t get lost. 

One day we were mashed into a train that was literally wall-to-wall bodies. The boyfriend had me stand on the edge facing the door, told me what sign to look for to get off, then stood behind me to try to protect me from bumps and pushes from other passengers. 

Nervous and slightly off-balance as the train bounced along, I reached back to grab my boyfriend’s hand. Imagine my surprise – and that of the stranger who was standing directly behind me – when I grabbed a handful of pants-with-penis, and then held on tight as the train swayed around a sharp corner. 

Oops! Wrong Handful!  Deb Marshall artwork

I realized my mistake when I heard my boyfriend just to the side of me break into a guffaw, and the handful of flesh I’d grabbed seemed to shoot about 3 feet into the air. I let go quick, then froze, and fortunately our stop was reached in a minute. We fell off the train, gasping with laughter, and I can only imagine what the guy I’d assaulted thought.

Sometimes, it really is a mistake.

Originally published 10 December 2017 in the Concord Monitor as "A confession, and a bunch of observations."
 

Grateful, Thankful

Grateful, Thankful

Sweet myrtle, rosemary, wooley thyme, sweet fern, love-lies-bleeding, lady’s mantle, sea lavender, bay laurel, holy basil. Mourning dove, blue heron, silent red-tail hawk, gryphon, storm crow, raven’s blood. Fox glove, weeping willow, sweet birch, holy oak, bittersweet, evening primrose, mountain laurel. 

Time lies suspended under the mountain, and the shadows of clouds sweep silently across the earth. In fall and in snow, under a full moon, trees stand out in sharp relief, and what is in the shadows fades rapidly into deep darkness. Bears hoot deep in the marsh in spring. Coyotes yap in a circle on the hilltops. Moose sometimes dance with us, in our cars, near the ponds where they come at night. A bobcat races across the road; a fox carries food to its den.

At 3 am I glance out the window and see fire. Fire leaping, fire lunging; fire reflected from the woodstove, which I have just filled with paper birch. The birch fills the air with spicy incense. The smoke from a candle just blown out rises into the darkness gathering below the roof. Light shines from neighbor’s windows as we pass by in a late-night walk. Light is reflected in the eyes of loved ones gathered at table. 

Ice Heart; Charley Freiberg photo

 

Strangers who amaze and fascinate; the voices of those who are beloved coming from another room, from a telephone, captured on tape or disc. Baked apples, hot cocoa, fragrant ginger, deep red sauces full of herbs. The fresh leaves of kaffir lime; the secret joy of ripe persimmons. The kitchen mouse which steals a cherry tomato but leaves the fresh-baked loaf untouched. Cheeses made from milk of cows who eat long grasses, and clover, and wild flowers and dream of warm spring pastures in their winter stalls. 

The scent of cloves in the ointment I rub on a sore muscle. The glory of a sunset, a full moon hanging ripe above the lake, a rainbow arcing aetherically across the lightening sky.  Hot rice bags between the flannel sheets near the toes at night. Freezers filled to fullness; root cellar full to bursting. Balsam needles scenting the air; purple heather, dried and resting in a blue vase. An aquamarine kettle; a copper cup. Warm fingerless gloves; soft scarves, wooley hats. Waking in the dark stillness of night, listening, listening, hearing a soft purr near the ear.

The majestic crash and blow of storms; the comfort of sun-warmed grasses, a gentle breeze, a cricket’s creak.  A song that makes the spirit soar; laughing until tears flow and we slowly fall onto the floor, overcome with mirth. A secret shared; a kindness received, a kindness given. Cheerful chickadees, the red flash of a cardinal, the knock-knock-knock of a woodpecker on a stark dead tree. Mushrooms in their secret places; mushrooms in the soup. A blooming cyclamen, a flowering hibiscus, with snow falling beyond the window in which they sit.

A pot of soup, heady with spices, simmering on the stove. Chocolate and oranges. The excited anticipation of a dog watching the human pull on coats, lift down the leash. The excited anticipation of waiting for the sacred turn of the year, the lengthening of days, the rise of light. The brush of fingers passing in a hall; the soft sweet ears of a child. The cat who lifts a paw to catch attention. The twinkle of lights on snow, on the tree in the corner of the room, in the dark vasty sky above our heads. 

A story told with passion and skill; a quilt made long ago by the hands of great aunties. The pile of books waiting by the bed. A fresh pad of paper, a pen that fits the hand just so. Owls hooting in the darkness. Dark heads of an unknown critter, glimpsed in the moonlight, crossing and crossing and recrossing the pond. A pear galette, scented with vanilla and cardamom. A crust of bread, shared with a friend. The stream of joy that runs just below the surface, even in the bad times. The ability to hope. Comedians who can make us laugh about the things we dread. The ability to laugh at ourselves.

At 3 am I glance out the window and see myself, reflected darkly in the glass. The house murmurs quietly about me; a log snaps in the woodstove, the Barkie Boy sighs in his sleep, a skittering comes from the kitchen, a Furry Person rouses and pads quietly by; a beam creaks, my chair scrapes on the floor, a draft wraps around my ankles. Shadows push me towards bed.

Comfort settles over me; my spirit is at rest. Grateful, thankful; grateful, thankful. The world is full.

Printed in the Concord Monitor on November 22, 2017, as “ Grateful, Thankful.”

Hornet's Nest

Hornet's Nest; Deb Marshall photo

I’d been lustfully eying that lovely hornet’s nest in the maple tree depending over our driveway, and it finally was harvested, just a day before that horrific and surprising storm we had just before Hallowe’en, which probably would have destroyed it had it remained in the tree. It cost the Husband a swollen lip – the nest turned out to be not quite as empty as we’d thought – but the Tall Dude managed to keep hold of the limb it’s attached to and avoid getting stung while the Husband cut the tree limb, so now the nest is resting in the garage until we’re sure it’s empty. Eventually it’ll hang in the house in some protected corner; the cold temperatures that arrived this week will probably render it safe, and maybe drive the bears into hibernation, as well, so I can begin to leave seed for the birds on the wart rail, soon. 

The birds have efficiently emptied all the many many sunflower heads of all their seed, and the tall, dry, blackened skeletons have been pulled out of the garden and tossed, with the raspberry canes that bore fruit this summer and fall, onto the burn pile. I finally gave in and pulled the remaining beets and celeriac from the garden, in the process finding a handful of onions that somehow I’d missed earlier. These I used along with the penultimate handful of small and shriveled, but ripened, tomatoes from the basket on the dining table and the unbelievable handful of cherry tomatoes I gathered last week – in November!! -  from the rogue plant next to the house – they made a small batch of marinara sauce to add to the gathering containers of sauce in the freezer. 

Even though the fava beans were still flowering, I yanked those out, too – there are no bees around to pollinate them. The garden shed is packed full of tomato cages, wart deck rail planter boxes, large planters, bird bath, hoses, wart furniture – except one remaining chair that Catman and Beastreau and the Husband fight over on sunny days – and I fished out the snow shovels before the shed was too full to reach them. In reach just inside the door are the stakes we use to mark the edge of our driveway to keep the snow plow on dirt and off the field. The garden looks forlorn with most of its growing things gone, and only stakes firmly planted to mark the location of perennials. The parsnips, which I leave over winter, are green and lush still; and the garden chores are not yet done. If it stays warm enough long enough, I have yet to move the iris, cut back the dead marjoram and Jerusalem artichokes and asparagus fronds and catnip and so on; the blueberries must be mulched, and some noxious weeds pulled before they get too settled.

Those first paragraphs were written a week ago, and in so short a time the world has turned and our long, late autumn has turned bitterly cold and windy. There was even snow – not much, but enough to count – caught in the corners of the wart one morning this week, and it suddenly dawned on me that, 1. I’d better get on the list at the garage to get my snow tires put on because all of us who didn’t really believe winter would come this year are going to get caught out; and 2. the iris that didn’t get moved and the spring bulbs that didn’t get planted and the mulching that hasn’t gotten done and the cutting back of dead perennials that still remains may none of them get finished this fall, unless it warms up a little on a weekend when I can do it. I noticed a skim of ice on the pond the other day, and the topsoil feels a little crusty – if we don’t hustle, the driveway markers may not get into place while the ground is soft enough to pierce, either.

I’ll hope for an Indian Summer, which comes after a real freeze. I remember walking in shirtsleeves the 6 miles around the lake with my Dad one warm Thanksgiving Day back in the dark ages, and skiing on 3 feet of natural snow the following Thanksgiving. The year could go either way.

One new thing literally washed in with the storm - a flooded cellar! We’ve only twice before had a cellar flood, and only in spring when deeply frozen ground couldn’t absorb a fast snow melt. This flood came up through the drainage pipe, seeped in from cement floor cracks, burbled in through the corners. It couldn’t be pumped out until the pond levels went down and the flooded field retreated; since then the dehumidifier and fans have been working 24-hour days trying to dry the cellar out. It’s harder to do this time of year – two weeks later, it’s barely finished. For the duration, the Furry People’s indoor facilities moved upstairs to crowd the humans’ indoor facilities, a thing of joy for the Cat People. I hope the flood sent the cellar mice back into the relatively dryer great outdoors.

Abu and I have been taking before-bed strolls now that Roo is no longer with us, with Bu in his red winter coat as protection against the wind during  the past two days. He doesn’t seem to mind the cold, but I’m mindful of his arthritis – he’s a 16-year-old Barkie Boy who thinks he’s still a youngster but is a lot stiffer than a pup. During this past full moon, as we neared the far pond, there was a loud plop! plop! into the water. Too cold for frogs, and Abu was mightily involved with the pond-side smells, so what, I wondered, was escaping us – some late ducks? Peering closely in the moonlight, I saw two dark heads moving swiftly across the water, back and forth. I couldn’t get close enough to see what they were – my guess would be beaver who washed down with the big rain the week before – but they weren’t there two days later, so maybe they were minks. It was very exciting, and I had to use some strong persuasion to keep Abu from charging into the water after them.

We’ve had the woodstove burning the past two days, and Catman’s wart chair moves inside at night and on rainy days. He’s content to curl up on it and bake in the stove heat, with occasional excursions outdoors to nibble the remains of his catnip patch. We’re in the hunkering down part of the year; I light a candle for the window in the dark dining room, and it cheers me to see it as I pass by doing chores, and when Abu and I are returning from our late walk. I keep a scarf and fingerless mittens near my desk, and I, usually the night-owl, find myself drifting to sleep sitting up most nights. The body is still an animal, responding to the early dark and cold – we crave soup and baked apples, and hot drinks, and early and long sleep, and even the critters are happy to have a blanket draped over them for the night. Flannel sheets, an extra blanket, and hot bags of rice to warm the feet have been cosy bedtime companions, and I’m thinking it’s time to reread Truman Capote’s holiday stories, and the Yule-tide section of Wind in the Willows.

 

The best thing about the return of deep cold: much less likely to find ticks!

For the blog, 11 November 2017.

Harvested Nest; Deb Marshall art