Stayed in the big cabin.

Swam naked in the lake in October.

Played with clay.

Celebrated Autumn and the harvest and gave thanks.

Built a nice fire.

Played games.

Ate lots of food.

Said bon voyage to a friend. Crash was there too.

Now I have to … Zzzzzzzzz …

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As I do so I murmur quietly. I have learned the power of words. I give it voice. Using my breath. Vibration.

I wash myself in the river. The cool water runs down my legs and arms and neck. Though the hem of my skirt is tucked up into my waistband it still gets wet. My hair is the color of clotted blood when it is damp and under a night sky, it drips river water down my back. It is not dirt that I remove with the water … but it is swept away by the current nonetheless.

Crash paddles to me, returning from her attempts to follow the offering tossed in the river as they floated away. She gives me a look that says “Why the hell are you throwing sticks  and bits of plants into the river if I’m not to chase them?”

I laugh and beckon her to follow me unto the shore. My sandals make squelching sounds as I work my way up the river bank.

I come to a tunnel of vegetation that runs parallel to the river. One side is the weeded and wooded river bank, the other a hodgepodge hedgerow. Through the tunnel, a little beyond it, stand three sister hawthorns. I have no need of visualization techniques tonight. I have a living model to work with.

I slip out of my wet sandals. My feet come upon the earth plainly, nothing between us and unadorned. The prickle of grass under my soles. Night cooled soil. The rough of a rock. I dig in, dig down. Dig deep. I do not move. I breathe.

Crash quiets beside me and sits. She waits. My experienced dance partner.

I close my eyes. I suck air in and then out again. Slowly in through my nose and then forcing it out fast. Completely. Again. Full and empty, full and empty. Again. A few more times.

I open my eyes and step forward. Slowly and with great care given to my step. Fully and firmly setting my foot down upon the earth. Slow. Careful and conscious. Precision. I breath slowly and deeply. As slowly and deeply as I can.

I walk. My arms reach out. Finger tips and palms brush against the vegetation. I tip my head back. I view my goal, the end of the tunnel, looking downwards and over my nose.

I slip one foot across the earth, lifting it lightly but maintaining contact. Planting the foot fully, firmly. Shifting weight. It might look like a yoga pose to the uninitiated.

I shift my weight forward. I lift the other foot, maintaining contact. Planting the foot fully, firmly beside its twin. Then it slips forward, across the earth.

Slowly. Painfully. Gradually.

I push forward. I breathe. Something builds. I push against it. I push through it. Like walking in a sea of mildly electrified jelly. It starts so softly, it builds from below me and trembles through me. I push against it. I push through it. I walk, Crash at my heels. By the time I near my goal it is as if I might drown.

I know how to tread water.

I breathe. I walk. It is only about a dozen steps. It is a far greater distance than that.

I slip through. The last step leaving me feeling like a greased pig slipping through a farmer’s grasp. Momentum, though I moved so slowly.

I reach the end of the little tree tunnel in my local park. I step through. It is like taking a long air plane ride, walking through an airport and stepping out into a climate the opposite of your own. It smacks you in the face and drives the breath from your lungs.

I come to standstill. I close my eyes. I suck in air. I relax my body. I open my eyes and tilt my head back down.

The land thrums with power. My body throbs in response. Energy ripples through me. There is pressure. Heightened senses. Contrast and sharpness.

I gaze at the trio of hawthorns sanding under moonlight and urban light pollution as the city sleeps. Some tiny light flickers amongst the branches. Seen and then unseen. A dark shadow moves behind one tree.

More than trance.

Things unseen are now seen, or at least sensed.

I stride towards the trees. Under hawthorns that sing of the strength of the land … and of roots and of the anticipation of autumn. Branches reach out and meet over my head, roots twine together under my bare feet. The dog lays down just outside and sighs.

I greet the trio of hawthorns and they greet me. They sing though I do not hear with my ears.

With my heart, my body, my soul.

I pick up my tambourine.

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The city is quiet, the neighbourhood is sleeping. Gone are the city sounds of traffic and blaring TVs. I can hear the crickets chirp and the wind in the trees. I can hear the river as it passes over scoured stone.

The street is lit by street lights, garden lights and the waning moonlight. I can see the stars tonight.

Our street is cooled by the night breeze and a rain storm that passed by hours before.

Surrounded by people, we are alone.

Crash takes off for her favourite corner, where the big rose bush blooms and the weedy mustard whispers of wilder places. I gently stroke the pink roses and a few petals are given up to me. I murmur my thanks. Crash gives her water to the shrubbery and weeds.

We turn and head for the river. As we get closer, the old dog’s ears prick. She wiggles with excitement. She loves the river. She races ahead, through the green park, under maple trees and to the promenade. The poor old thing is too short to see over the concrete banister that blocks her view of the river. Put up by man to keep us fools from falling in. She hops impatiently, trying to get a glimpse of the water below.  As I approach she looks at me with frustration. She wants to visit her friend. I speak soothing words and turn, following the course of the river until the promenade gives way to earth and grass.

At last we come to a break on the bank, a small trail that leads down to waters. Crash stands at the top and waits for permission before scrambling down the little hill. It is just light enough to see, but I am slow and careful of my footing. At the bottom, at the edge of the river, Crash dances impatiently. She consoles herself by finding good smells in the grass and sedges that grow along the bank.

I pause and drink in the site of river reflecting city light and moonlight. The park on the other side of the river is dark and green. I breathe deep of the cool breeze and the smell of water. Crash stands at the edge and looks at me. I smile and greet the river as a friend. Then step in.

The water is cool but not cold. It is a shallow river; you can wade from one side to the other. Crash follows me in. She wades in to belly deep and then stops for a long drink. I wade in a little but stay close to the shore, it is night after all. The slow moving current takes some of the weight off from an old dog’s arthritic hips. Crash circles around me, a doggy grin on her face. I am orbited by a wet and furry old friend.

A dim light on the horizon. Pale and pink. The sky begins to lighten. The birds awaken and sing the dawn chorus. They sing the praises of Sun as it begins to return to us, bringing the day with it.

We stand in the river and watch the Sun rise. Our feet upon the stone of the Canadian shield, our legs in the waters of the river, our faces turned up to the sky and Sun. Our skin and fur are caressed by wind and fading moonlight.

With great care and reverence I raise my arms and begin my prayers. One more voice adding to the dawn chorus.  Crash slips and splashes in the water beside me, offering a different kind of prayer, one full of joy and living totally in the moment. My hand reaches into my pocket and produces the pink rose petals. One by one they are kissed and tossed into the water. Crash snatches at one and attempts to eat it. We watch the petals float away and disappear.

I am no fool. This river may seem gentle in the lazy summer but come wintertime it is as deadly as any other. It claimed the life of a small boy who fell through the ice last year. A shrine of bouquets and sadness rests against a tree not far from me.

Carefully and with great respect I bow to the river. I say my farewells.

We climb back up the hill and walk through the park. On our street we are passed by a drunken frat boy stumbling home. The cat is waiting for us when we arrive, he complains through the window as we approach. I shush the silly creature and dry off a happy, wet dog.

We climb into bed as the good people of city wake and rise to face another day.

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We wandered aimlessly around the park, reading the plaques that told us which tree was what, and trying our best to guess correctly what we were looking at.

The English oaks are always impressive, its easy to stand under one such and imagine why the Druids like to practice in groves of them.

I adore the kind of trees who droop and thus, once they are big enough, create a kind of shelter out of their own limbs. Especially the evergreens.

A wind storm had come through Ottawa a couple of days before and so there were branches laying about the park. We gathered flowers from a dwarf red maple and bits and pieces from other trees.

Then we ambled into the wildlife area of the park, a more woodsy area that has sings discussing what lives in such places. We choose trails at random until Lis announced that she had found the right tree to tie our clouties onto (more on that in a minute). We spotted a wild flower whom we did not recognize and photographed it.

Eventually we found our way to a part of the park that forms a small island, which is popular amongst Pagan groups out here. There we found evidence of a recent ritual, such as flowers laid around a large tree and offerings. We also spotted some clouties.

Now, it is my understanding that this particular spot is often used for ritual purposes, so I hope this means that the clouties will not be left long on the trees. I also hope the folks knew what they were doing. There are right and wrong ways to tie a cloutie.

Lis and I choose a tree that was willing, not the most impressive tree in the park in the slightest, but simply a tree happy to have our wishes and prayers placed upon it. We used natural fibres, easily biodegradable. Here is an image of my cloutie. It is hand spun, by me. It is made of bamboo fibre. It is tied loosely to the tree, where it gave permission for it to be tied. At the top of the loop, I weakened the yarn, making it single ply there and making it loose. This is so that the tree could easily break the strand of yarn, or so that it will have fallen off long before the tree needs to worry about such a thing. It is unobtrusive, natural, handmade, and designed to not hinder the tree in any way. Birds or squirrels can always use it for nesting purposes or it will simply disintegrate with the leaf litter one day.

Most clouties tied by Pagan today are horrid and we ought to be ashamed of ourselves. Covered in glue and glitter. Wired ribbon of unknown or non-natural fibres that may not degrade in the right amount of time. Tied tightly to tree limbs and branches, cutting off circulation of sap and energy. Placed without asking proper permission. Glittery pieces of trash left to flap in the wind that will frighten away birds and deer. If eaten by a scavenger it will surely kill. Never checked on at a later date to remove them if need be. Always tied to the most impressive tree and not the most willing. Blocking energy, changing the dynamics of a natural place, unwanted, unwelcome … garbage. Tying garbage full of your neediness to trees.

Many people such as myself often have to remove clouties and offerings from trees, left behind by well meaning but uninformed Pagans, Heathens and Witches. Tearing up or buying some daisies and tossing them at the base of a tree is not a proper offering. Tying synthetic but pretty fabric to trees is not acceptable.

*sigh*

Then we headed back towards home under a nice blue sky. Bren met me part of the way home with the dog, who was happy to be walking in good weather.

Happy Beltaine folks!

Oh, do you know what this is?

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on a sunny day

Who needs church?

Nature is divine.

~ Carrie Latet

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