Posts Tagged ‘Easter’

Happy Easter and the Awesomeness of Spring!

April 14, 2017



Neighbor called …found 4 baby kittens and a momma in a outside vent.  Mother ran when we got her babies…about 4 weeks old, but perhaps we can entice her to our house. Beautiful babies, the essence of Spring rebirth, Easter.  but that is now 13 cats here.  Yikes!  But perhaps I can get them adopted in a few months.  Who can ignore such babies?  Three black babies and one grey stripped. Already slurping formula.  Always room for one more.  For four.

Image result for dogwood blossoms


A Haiku….

Dogwoods are blooming
The crucifixion appears
White moths in the night.

(Dogwoods are a Southern tree here in the South.  White blooms
having the form of the Christian Cross, with nail heads.  They bloom in the spring  right before Easter. They are a symbol of Christianity in Nature.)

A Spring Tanka….


Thin, silken breezes

Float upon a green-ribbon

Of spring—pale season.

Scent of lilies, myrtle, plum

Arouse bees from slumber.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017


Happy Easter!!! and a poem, “Bhava Yoga”

April 2, 2015

spring garden 4

Spring Garden

It is spring in the south, and the storms are brewing to the west of Atlanta.  This is the usual course of events, and over the past years the thunderstorms have brought violent weather, tornadoes, hail and flooding rains.  It is Easter in a matter of days, and the weather promises to behave, bringing a gorgeous Easter Sunday morning.  I hope so, but the skies right now look menacing enough, and we will have to take the good with the bad.

The picture above is of my front garden last night before dark.  Last fall I planted 300 bulbs, of daffodils, tulips and crocus.  About 50 tulips have come up, but because they are more a cold weather bulb, they will have to be replanted next fall.  Or….I can get in there and dig them up and put them in cold storage.  Either way, they make a lovely show in a small part of the front garden.

Happy Easter!

Lady Nyo

Bhava Yoga


Morning’s roseate sky

Has been blasted away,

Branches now whirligigs

Swirl with a fierce southern wind

As windows rattle in frames.

A tattered umbrella

Shades from a relentless sun.

I listen to Bhava Yoga

The vibration of Love,

Where imagination meets

Memory in the dark.

Yet surrounding these soothing tones

The world outside this music

Conspires to disrupt, sweep away

Any centered down thought, reflection.

The fierce wind demands my attention.

Still, the pulse of Bhava Yoga

Draws me within,

Feeds imagination with memory,

Calls forth something as enduring as the fury outside,

And I feel the pulse of the infinite.

Our lives are lived in the spheres of


And we are like birds,

Clinging with dulled claws to

The swaying branches of life.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2012

from:  “Pitcher of Moon”, 2014,  available at Createspace,

Daffodils 2015 spring

Tulips in Front Garden Spring 2015

“Easter Morning”, a new poem…..

April 20, 2014


Watercolor, Early Spring, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2011

Watercolor, Early Spring, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2011




The wind chimes are fierce

This Easter morning.

We thought of church where we would be aliens

Unknown and suspect, sitting on hard wooden pews; trespassers.


The music of the spheres

Is not out in the black of night

Does not pass from shooting star to star

As tones of energy or an ocean of harmony

But is carried by the wind from the east

That tallies majesty

With the music of wind chimes

More glorious than any carillon this morning.


I am soothed by a spirit

Random and precise,

Almost tangible blustering by

piercing my heart

As it jangles the simple vehicle of

Hollow metal pipes

And awakes me to life.


Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted 2014

Easter and “Spring Orgy”

April 4, 2010

Tulips and Daffs and Spring!

It is so beautiful in Atlanta this morning.  No Easter Bunny sighted, but there’s fond memories of him.  My father would hide the baskets and then let out the beagles.  It was a race whose nose was better, kids or dogs.

This is the first year we haven’t our son home for Easter. He’s in the Navy now, or about to be deployed on a boat somewhere, but he certainly calls a lot.  I think he misses the Easter bunny, too.

I am taking a short detour from the Metamorphosis Series, Bart and Laura, to post this picture of our new tulips and daffs.  Tulips are one of my favorite flowers, but they don’t do well in the South.  Where I come from (up North) we had tulips for decades….I remember one that must have been very old.  It had that ‘tulip virus’ that was all the rage in the 17th century amongst the Dutch, and since we lived in the countryside where the Dutch settled in the 16oo’s…well, we think it came from a long Dutch line.  It was a solitary tulip, but bloomed each year for many.  Here, in the South, it’s too warm.  Apparently you have to put your tulips in the bottom of the fridge for 40 days.  I plant late.

Happy Easter!

Lady Nyo

Below a short story:  SPRING ORGY

The roses are having an orgy.  They haven’t the decency to wait for the dark, but ply their lust in the soft, morning light.  Randy Graham Thomas is leering.  Madame Carriere is blushing.  Her pink silk-petaled gown flutters as she twists coyly to avoid his embrace.

By 10:30 the sun warms their scents and foreplay is over.  The wind at 11:00 entwines them and pistils and stamens are seriously at it, brushing languorously over parts an hour ago were covered discreetly. At high noon in the heat of the morning, pollen is floating all over the air and even the wide-eyed cats sitting under the tender foilage are blushing.

The garden gnome is licking his lips, while a concrete hand creeps to his crotch.

This fall there will be rosehips aplenty, red nipples packed with tiny seeds, evidence of a springtime lust.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010

“It’s Strange To Be Here. The Mystery Never Leaves You.”

March 14, 2010

Many are familiar with John O’Donohue, the Irish Poet/Priest/Philosopher.  I wasn’t and didn’t hear of him until well after his death in January, 2008 at the age of 52.  Coming upon him so late I realize what a marvelous voice has been stilled, but he did write a lot and spoke around the world.  These writings and interviews are what we have left of this remarkable man, but they speak of deep and important issues of the heart.  What I have cobbled together is partly from an NPR interview of a year ago and other readings of his works.  In these days of Lent, the Christian period before the all important Easter, his words speak deeply to my own lack of faith and a yearning for answers about the visible life around us and the possible connections to the invisible world we contemplate.

The more I’ve been thinking about this, the more it seems to me actually is that the visible world is the first shoreline of the invisible world. And the same way I believe with the body and the soul. That actually the soul — the body is in the soul, not the soul just in the body. And that in some way the poignancy of being a human being is that you are the place where the invisible becomes visible and expressive in some way.

This is a radical concept to my thinking…that the visible world is the first shoreline of the invisible world.  But reading Celtic novels, especially something extended like “Mists of Avalon” certainly has this factor in the mix.  Further, this statement:  That the soul- the body is in the soul, not just in the body, makes sense if you follow Celtic Christianity.

Ireland was an important crucible of Celtic Christianity, merging a strong sense of mystery and transcendence with a passionate embrace of nature, the body, and the senses. The divine is understood as manifest as everywhere in everything. Perhaps this is best described as ‘animism’, or the belief of  the soul or spirit in natural things, like rocks, trees, mountains, thunder, etc…not just residing in the human.  For me, beyond this Celtic Christianity concept, I find it also resides in the Japanese Shinto religion and general mythology in the form of “kami’ or spirits residing in the same natural elements.

“Landscape” is a pivotal word, a defining feature of inner life as well as the outer physical world.  For a while now, I have used this word, “landscape” in my own definition of thoughts of characters:  however, his usage is much broader and more encompassing.

I think it makes a huge difference when you wake in the morning and come out of your house. Whether you believe you are walking into dead geographical location, which is used to get to a destination, or whether you are emerging out into a landscape that is just as much, if not more, alive as you but in a totally different form. And if you go towards it with an open heart and a real watchful reverence, that you will be absolutely amazed at what it will reveal to you. And I think that was one of the recognitions of the Celtic imagination: that landscape wasn’t just matter, but that it was actually alive. What amazes me about landscape, landscape recalls you into a mindful mode of stillness, solitude, and silence where you can truly receive time.

But I do think though that it’s not just a matter of the outer presence of the landscape. I mean, the dawn goes up and the twilight comes even in the most roughest inner-city place. And I think that connecting to the elemental can be a way of coming into rhythm with the universe that’s there. And I do think that there is a way in which the outer presence — even through memory or imagination — can be brought inward as a sustaining thing. I mean, I think that — and it’s the question of beauty you’re asking essentially. I mean, I think that as we are speaking, that there are individuals holding out on frontlines, holding the humane tissue alive in areas of ultimate barbarity, where things are visible that the human eye should never see. And they are able to sustain it, because there is in them some kind of sense of beauty that knows the horizon that we are really called to in some way. I love Pascal’s phrase, you know, that you should always “keep something beautiful in your mind.” And I have often — like in times when it’s been really difficult for me, if you can keep some kind of little contour that you can glimpse sideways at now and again, you can endure great bleakness.

Enduring great bleakness.  I think he is talking about an existence we all face in different and daily ways.  I see this as the physical environment surrounding us, those places where we fear the most, see with great trepidation, but also those deep emotional places where we have been wounded. These “keep something beautiful in your mind” allows us to survive those onslaughts.  I believe this is part and parcel of being a writer: we have a world of words to fashion for a particular ‘comfort’ and defense.

O’Donohue said these words that seem to be the meat of the argument…at least to me.

“It’s strange to be here: the mystery never leaves you”.  M. Scott Peck also said something that resonates this concept:  “Life is strange”.

When you think about language and you think about consciousness, it’s just incredible to think that we can make any sounds that can reach over across to each other at all. Because I mean, I think we’re — I think the beauty of being human is that we’re incredibly, intimately near each other. We know about each other, but yet we do not know or never can know what it’s like inside another person. And it’s amazing, you know, here am I sitting in front of you now, looking at your face, you’re looking at mine and yet neither of us have ever seen our own faces. And that in some way, thought is the face that we put on the meaning that we feel and that we struggle with and that the world is always larger and more intense and stranger than our best thought will ever reach. And that’s the mystery of poetry, you know, is poetry tries to draw alongside the mystery as it’s emerging and somehow bring it into presence and into birth.

“Thought is the face that we put on the meaning that we feel”.  Rather complex but astoundingly simple, too.  I especially like these words about poetry, because I struggle to be a poet…or actually, the poet in me…that invisible thing makes struggle to manifest into the visible, i.e.: words, poetry. But more, poetry IS the mystery, or a part of the mystery, and makes it manifest.

And the mystery is also the Divine.  Perhaps this is why the Divine is and remains a mystery because of so many aspects, faces.  It remains a mystery because we can never know it all.

An ancient archetypal poem, the “Song of Amergin” illustrates the Celtic sense of a symbiotic and seamless relationship between the natural and the divine.

“I am the wind on the sea. / I am the ocean wave. / I am the sound of the billows. / I am the seven-horned stag. / I am the hawk on the cliff. / I am the dewdrop in sunlight. / I am the fairest of flowers. / I am the raging boar. / I am the salmon in the deep pool. / I am the lake on the plain. / I am the meaning of the poem. / I am the point of the spear. / I am the god that makes fire in the head. / Who levels the mountain? / Who speaks the age of the moon? / Who has been where the sun sleeps? / Who, if not I?”

O’Donohue also writes that ‘everyone is an artist’.

I mean that everyone is involved whether they like it or not in the construction of their world. So, it’s never as given as it actually looks; you are always shaping it and building it. And I feel that from that perspective, that each of us is an artist. Secondly, I believe that everyone has imagination. That no matter how mature and adult and sophisticated a person might seem, that person is still essentially an ex-baby. And as children we all lived in an imaginal world. You know, when you’ve been told don’t cross that wall, ’cause there’s monsters over there, my god, the world you’d create on the other side of the wall.

When you’d ask questions like why is the sky blue or where does God live or you know all this kind of stuff. Like, one of the first times I was coming to America, I said to my little niece, who was seven, I said, ‘What will I bring you from America?’ She said, ‘Uhhhhh.’ And her father said, ‘No, ask him or you won’t get anything.’ And Katy turned to me and said, ‘What’s in it?’ Which I thought was a great question about America. So that childlike thing. And secondly, like that, every night when we sleep we dream, and a dream is a sophisticated, imaginative text full of figures and drama that we send to ourselves. So I believe that deep in the heart of each of us, there is this imagining, imaginal capacity that we have. So that we are all doing it.

I have to stop this entry because it could go on too long, and it’s a lot to take in, John O’Donohue’s words. Another time I will continue this, extend this, his fascinating words because there is much in them,  and for me, it makes some very definite links: it explains some mystery that pulls on the heart and mind, regardless our religious or spiritual or philosophical beliefs.

There is a poem, the famous Cad Coddeu, (The Battle of the Trees) I believe Welsh, that I came across years ago when I first started to write a novel called “Devil’s Revenge”  It is about the calling into battle of the trees, and it remains one of my favorites. The Battle of the Trees is a poem from the Book of Taliesin in which the legendary enchanter Gwydion animates the trees of the forest to fight as his army. In a loose fashion, it illustrates some of this concept that O’Donohue is talking about:  the soul residing in all natural phenomena , the animating force of life.  What is especially delightful about this poem is the calling out of the individual qualities of each of the species.  Anyone a bit familiar with trees will recognize these qualities of the different ‘woods’.

Lady Nyo

Cad Coddeu

The tops of the beech tree have sprouted of late,

Are changed and renewed from their withered state.

When the beech prospers, though spells and litanies

The oak tops entangle, there is hope for trees.

I have plundered the fern, through all secrets I spy,

Old Math ap Mathonwy knew no more than I.

For with nine sorts of faculty God has gifted me,

I am fruit of fruits gathered from nine sorts of tree–

Plum, quince, whortle, mulberry, raspberry, pear,

Black cherry and white, with the sorb in me share.

From my seat at Fefynedd, a city that is strong,

I watched the trees and green things hastening along.

Retreating from happiness they would fein be set

In forms of the chief letters of the alphabet.

Wayfarers wandered, warriors were dismayed

At renewal of conflicts such as Gwydion made;

Under the tongue root a fight most dread,

And another raging, behind, in the head.

The alders in the front line began the affray.

Willow and rowan-tree were tardy in array.

The holly, dark green, made a resolute stand;

He is armed with many spear-points wounding the hand.

With foot-beat of the swift oak heaven and earth rung;

“Stout Guardian of the Door”, his name in every tongue.

Great was the gorse in battle, and the ivy at his prime;

The hazel was arbiter at this charmed time.

Uncouth and savage was the fir, cruel the ash tree–

Turns not aside a foot-breadth, straight at the heart runs he.

The birch, though very noble, armed himself but late:

A sign not of cowardice but of high estate.

The heath gave consolation to the toil-spent folk,

The long-enduring poplars in battle much broke.

Some of them were cast away on the field of fight

Because of holes torn in them by the enemy’s might.

Very wrathful was the vine whose henchmen are the elms;

I exalt him mightily to rulers of realms.

Strong chieftains were the blackthorn with his ill fruit,

The unbeloved whitethorn who wears the same suit.

The swift-pursuing reed, the broom with his brood,

And the furse but ill-behaved until he is subdued.

The dower-scattering yew stood glum at the fight’s fringe,

With the elder slow to burn amid fires that singe.

And the blessed wild apple laughing in pride

From the Gorchan of Maeldrew, by the rock side.

In shelter linger privet and woodbine,

Inexperienced in warfare, and the courtly pine.

But I, although slighted because I was not big,

Fought, trees, in your array on the field of Goddeu Brig.

Easter, Passover and Spring

April 10, 2009

Easter is a time of breakthrough when, in the face of all that threatens to overwhelm, hope and courage are reborn.

Perhaps it is better to say that Spring is this above, for Spring is also the hopefulness of Passover and Easter. Two different religions and perhaps cultures, but something that makes at least a passing connection.

The holiday known as Easter seems to have had religious significance for thousands of years across many cultures, from the Babylonians to early modern England. But that significance changes depending on what religion you are following.

It seems though, what is the linking thread here is the return of Spring. The Persian New Year is celebrated on the date of the spring equinox, and the Romans did the same.

Some have pointed out the similarities of “Ishtar” as the fertility goddess of the Babylonians because Spring is nothing but fertility across the land. Though Easter and Ishtar sound familiar, there is no real link here.

There is a possibility that Easter is associated with the ancient Anglo-Saxon month of Eostremonat, which falls somewhere around late March and early April. There is also the Germanic goddess Eostre.

But she mostly refers to the east and sunrise and was the center of celebration of spring and the beginning of the agricultural year.

Where do the Easter Bunnies and tied eggs come from? Rabbits are fast breeders and have been long symbols of fertility. Eggs are plenty when the sun warms the earth and the hens start laying again. I can attest to that personally. My girls are on strike late fall through the winter, but when the sun presents itself in the proper place in the spring sky, they are producing lovely multi colored eggs daily. (different breeds produce different colored eggs…) This probably were the original ‘dyed’ eggs of all cultures.

The Christian holiday of Easter that celebrates the resurrection of Christ shares the same season of the Jewish holiday of Passover, or Pesach. Different religions but sharing the hope and tenderness of spring.

Whether you are Persian, Christian or Jew, I wish you all the joy, compassion and tenderness of this most marvelous of seasons. The fertility of the land reveals the hope of humanity.

Lady Nyo

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