Winter Solstice Celebration and a poem: “Samhain, a Celtic Winter Song.

 

 

 

Dark mysterious season,

when the light doesn’t

quite reach the ground,

the trees shadow puppets

moving against the gray of day.

 

I think over the past year

praying there has been a

kindling in my soul,

the heart opened, warmed

and the juiciness of life is

more than in the loins–

a stream of forgiveness

slow flowing through the tough fibers

not stopper’d with an underlying

bitterness

but softened with compassion.

 

This season of constrictions,

unusual emptiness,

brittle like dried twigs

desiccated by hoar frost

just to be endured.

 

I wrap myself in wool and

watch the migrations–

first tender song birds which harken

back to summer,

then Sandhill cranes,

legs thin banners

streaming behind white bodies,

lost against a snowy sky.

 

They lift off to a middling cosmos,

while I, earth-bound,

can only flap the wings of my shawl,

poor plumage for such a flight,

and wonder about my own destination.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017  (“Samhain” published in “Pitcher of Moon”, 2014, Amazon.com)

“The Divine is preceived and experienced in many different ways by individual and religious groups.  Orthodox religions have codified their own approaches to the Divine in diverse ways.  Many have been helped and encouraged by such approaches, but others have not,  feeling their personal mystical experiences can not be so defined.”

     —-from “Celtic Devotional”, by Caitlin Matthews,  Fair Winds Press, 2004.

I am one of those who have found, over the years that religion has not been helpful or encouraging.  For forty years, I have ‘gone against the tide’ of my brother’s Christianity.  I found it abusive, misogynistic, deadening.  But perhaps that is the fault of my siblings, not Christianity.  This to me is not worthy of emulating.   If this is Christianity, I want no part of it.  And I don’t think their God wants it either.

The Winter Solstice falls upon December 21th, at 11:28 EST, Thursday to be exact.  This is the year’s longest night.  We celebrate it with lights, candles and a roaring fire in the wood stove.  We include prayers and an expression of gratitude above all else.  It has a particular signifance to us that prepares us for the new year.  It opens our hearts and eyes to the beauty and peacefulness of the Winter season.  It allows, demands a stillness that only such a fallow season can bring.  It calls for a mindfulness that centers us, a looking back at the past year and an anticipation for the new one coming.

Instead of the tinsel (which I like…) and artificial trimmings we gather magnolia leaves, nandina berries, holly and fir boughs.  We decorate the four mantels with these gifts from Nature and when they dry out and lose their ‘life’ they give the gift of heat as we stuff the woodstove with their bounty.

There is so much more mystery in the Cosmos than we can imagine.  A time to dedicate ourselves in gratitude,  to show a random gratitude to those ‘wise’ ones, relatives who are gone but not forgotten, to settle down in thought and silence. To await another season of rebirth.  To wrap ourselves in the wool of love for each other.

The Light can not be truly appreciated without the Darkness that surrounds us in this season.  Each season of the year provides us with many doorways  for fresh spiritual revelations and a personal response.  I am glad that after so many years of conflict, my hsuband and I have found this pathway.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

 

For Frank Hubeny:

Merry Christmas!

Clach Mhullinn….home

 

Merry Christmass to All who follow this holiday.

Jane

 

‘Samhain, a Celtic Winter Song….

(“Geese at Dawn”, watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2003)

 

Dark mysterious season,

when the light doesn’t

quite reach the ground,

the trees shadow puppets

moving against the gray of day.

 

I think over the past year

praying there has been a

kindling in my soul,

the heart opened, warmed

and the juiciness of life is

more than the loins–

a stream of forgiveness

slow flowing through the tough fibers

not stopper’d with an underlying

bitterness

but softened with compassion.

 

This season of constrictions,

unusual emptiness,

brittle like dried twigs

desiccated by hoar frost

just to be endured.

 

I wrap myself in wool and

watch the migrations–

first tender song birds which harken

back to summer,

then Sandhill cranes,

legs thin black banners

streaming behind white bodies,

lost against a gunmetal sky.

 

They lift off to a middling cosmos,

while I, earth-bound,

can only flap the wings of my shawl,

poor plumage for such a flight,

and wonder about my own destination.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

‘Samhain- A Celtic Winter Song’, from “White Cranes of Heaven”

 

Autumn colors from my bathroom window today

 

–

It’s the first day of October and it couldn’t be more beautiful.  The air is cool, and the sun out, but not the blazing sun of summer.  Autumn hasn’t really hit yet, but there are some small changes in the landscape.  the kudzu patch behind us looks withered, but not from frost. It’s that seasonal dying off, after the flowering and the jam making. I missed that, again, this year and love that jelly. Maybe next year.

Autumn is my favorite season, something clean,  with great expectations for the peace, calm and silence of winter.  Yesterday I talked to my 100 year old plus Aunt Jean, who has fallen silent, at least to the pen.  She also feels an energy in the earth with this season.  That is good to know.  Something to look forward to with old age.

I wrote this poem a few years ago, during a time of great introspection and internal change.  I try to post it every Autumn.  It still has meaning a pull on me.

Lady Nyo

–

Dark mysterious season,

when the light doesn’t

quite reach the ground,

the trees shadow puppets

moving against the gray of day.

 

I think over the past year

praying there has been a

kindling in my soul,

the heart opened, warmed

and the juiciness of life is

more than in the loins–

a stream of forgiveness

slow flowing through the tough fibers

not stopper’d with an underlying

bitterness

but softened with compassion.

 

This season of constrictions,

unusual emptiness,

brittle like dried twigs

desiccated by hoar frost

just to be endured.

 

I wrap myself in wool and

watch the migrations–

first tender song birds which harken

back to summer,

then Sandhill cranes,

legs thin banners

streaming behind white bodies,

lost against a snowy sky.

 

They lift off to a middling cosmos,

while I, earth-bound,

can only flap the wings of my shawl,

poor plumage for such a flight,

and wonder about my  own destination.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2012, 2013

Forgiveness and Healing…..

Sandhill Cranes

I’m probably going to regret this in the morning, but I have friends who are pushing me out of a particular shell.

In the past year I withdrew from a lot of people because I was pissed off about a lot of things.  Some of my own making, by either my ignorance or awkward handling.  I withdrew from certain parts of interesting life experiences because they were smeared, in my mind, with a lot of pain and just too much trouble to figure out.

I told myself I was through with a particular ‘scene’ …that these people were not friends, only acquaintances, and we had little in common.  Well,  things took some sharp detours in spite of what I was determined to leave behind.

Though I attempted to desert friends, they didn’t do the same to me.  They remained constant and I remained arrogant to their inquiries.  This went on all summer as I tried to disappear behind self righteousness .  The thaw came later when I went back to dancing in a serious way.  Perhaps the warmth of muscles waking up and the pain of sinews stretching and twisting supplanted an emotional pain that started to fade.  I had others to attend to in a real way, and their growth became part of my own.

My friends were there:  the real friends, friends that were determined I was not going to disappear from their lives….nor them from my own.

I see now that all has happened as it should:  Once I could get out of anger I could forgive others and myself; I could begin to heal.

I have reconnected with friends of the past few years, and they know me as I am and always have been:  goofy, attempting to be serious about life, but easily derailed by any enticement that floats my way.

I am blessed.  I have friends that can look beyond the ice or icing and see me better than I can. And they can gather me in again.

And that is the greatest of comfort to me.

Jane

SAMHAIN

Dark mysterious season,

when the light doesn’t

quite reach the ground,

the trees shadow puppets

moving against the gray of day.

I think over the past year

praying  there has been a

kindling in my soul,

the heart opened

and the juiciness of life is

more than the loins,

a stream of forgiveness

slow flowing through the tough fibers

not stopper’d with an underlying

bitterness

but softened with compassion.

This season of constrictions,

unusual emptiness,

brittle like the dried twigs

desiccated by hoar frost

just to be endured.

I wrap myself in wool and

watch the migrations,

first tender song birds which harken back

to summer,

then Sandhill cranes,

their legs thin banners

streaming behind white bodies,

lost against a snowy sky.

They lift off into a middling cosmos,

while I, earth-bound,

can only flap the wings of my shawl,

poor plumage for such a flight,

and wonder about my destination.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009

SAMHAIN – A Celtic Winter Song

Dark mysterious season,
when the light doesn’t
quite reach the ground,
the trees shadow puppets
moving against the gray of day.

I think over the past year
praying  for a
kindling in my soul,
the heart opened
and the juiciness of life is
more than the loins,
a stream of forgiveness
slow flowing through the tough fibers
not stopper’d with an underlying
bitterness
but softened with compassion.

This season of constrictions,
unusual emptiness,
brittle like the dried twigs
desiccated by hoar frost
just to be endured.

I wrap myself in wool and
watch the migrations,
first tender song birds which harken back
to summer,
then Sandhill cranes,
their legs thin banners
streaming behind white bodies,
lost against a snowy sky.

They lift off into a middling cosmos,
while I, earth-bound,
can only flap the wings of my shawl,
poor plumage for such  flight,
and wonder about my destination.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2009