Saint Martin

     It has come to my attention that I should say something about Saint Martins Day.

Martinmas falls on November 11. Long ago, when the year was divided in to two halves—summer and winter—Martinmas marked the first day of Winter.

     Martin was the son of an officer in the Roman army. Sons of veterans were compelled to serve in the military, so Martin became a cavalry soldier—in other words he rode a horse. He was a mystic who tried to maintain a monastic inner life in the secular world of the Roman army. In fairness, this wasn't as hard as it might have been since he was assigned to ceremonial duty "protecting" the emperor with a non-combat unit.

     One bitter cold winter's day, dressed in full military regalia, he rode through the city gates at Amiens in Gaul with the rest of his unit. Their uniform was topped off by an elegant and very ample white lambs wool cloak. Just outside the gates, they encountered a beggar, barely clothed and shivering with cold. The other soldiers rode past the poor man, but Martin slashed his cloak in two and gave half to the beggar. That night Martin had a vision of Christ, wearing the white cloak Martin had given to the beggar.

     The first day of Winter, November 11, is still celebrated in some parts of Europe with a procession of lanterns, led by a man dressed as Saint Martin, mounted on a white horse.

Winterfylleth

On Saint Martins
The Oak leaves fall
And Winter falleth upon us all
Into the darkness
Into the night
We carry our lanterns
We bear the light
Light, light, light, light
We carry our lanterns
We bear the light


© 2010 all rights reserved

Interesting times

We are all being hit hard by the cosmos right now, each in our own way. It's easier when we don't take it personally and see that it's the whole world. 
The world is trying to evolve and we're a part of it. The discomfort, the craziness, the cramped, constricted feeling is all part of it. Like a bird inside the egg—the constraint we feel forces us to break through the shell.
Basically we can break through the egg and fly, or wait for the egg to be broken by someone else and end up in a western omelette.
I wonder what the bird dreams of inside the egg? Does she dream of flying and think—impossible—it's only a dream? I fly in my dreams all the time.

Lammas

Lammas

Bright blessings fall,

like rain on dark fertile earth,

like stars on an August night,

like apples, ripe and ready, from the orchard.

Good luck,

good fortune,

good karma,

bright and particular,

gather it in

as it comes to you.

Seed to wheat,

wheat to mill,

mill to bread,

bread to hearth,

hearth to belly,

belly to heart,

heart to god.

 

I wish for us all, 

that we are in the right place,

at the right time,

on the right path,

and that our bread lands ever butter side up.

Lugnasadh

In Ireland July is Hungry Month

Lughgnasadh

With last years harvest near run out, 

and this years harvest not yet in,

we stand,

betwixt and between.

The field is full, 

yet the cauldron is empty.

And on the final day,

of summer's wait,

stomachs empty,

but hearts full,

we climb the highest mountain

to look out at the fields.

The earth is full and beautiful,

her newborn resting on her belly

still connected for one final day

before the scythe severs the cord

to this year's bounty.

Golden wheat,

beneath a golden sun,

the child in the field

mirrors the radiance

of the father's crown.

© Claudia Chapman all rights reserved

Earth Day

There was an article in the NY Times today on DNA samples taken from the Havasupai tribe who live in the Grand Canyon. A rudimentary consent form was given to the tribe to sign, but their DNA was later used for other purposes, which included a study on migrations over the Bering Strait. (Does anybody think that this is news?) As always, some of the "intellectuals" who read the Times wrote in disparaging the people and their stories. I couldn't resist responding. I suppose this is my Earth Day tribute to "traditional" stories—those of the Havasupai and my own ancestral stories. I can deal with it that my own trail of ancestral grandmothers eventually leads back to an amoeba in the primordial ooze. Having a one celled granny in the soup doesn't mean I'm not Anglo-Celtic.

I would ask those people who wrote comments which compare the tribe's spiritual beliefs to "creationists":
Do you know these people?
Do you know their stories?
Do you know their history?
Do you speak their language?
Have you ever danced with your own people, moving together as in prayer? Do you know the stories your ancestors told—hearing them every year so that with each retelling a new layer of meaning is revealed?
Do you know the name of your great-great-great grandfather and his grandfather before him?
Have you visited the place where your great-great-great-grandmother's parents were born?
Can you speak their language?
Our DNA reveal the bare bones of our history, but our stories bring it life.
All the science in the world has still not answered the great mysteries:
Who are we?
Why are we here?
Why did life begin?
That's why we need stories.
Poetry describes what science cannot yet imagine.

Sample Article

Exerts from a sample article I produced for the local newspaper to show that I could write and report on a meeting.

WOODBURY  -

Land Use Officer Joe Chapman did not actually witness Mr. Taylor drive a tractor in to the water, although the tread marks on the bank, and the muddy John Deere parked nearby suggested that a violation had taken place. “If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, it’s probably safe to assume that it’s a duck” the officer concluded. 

 * 

An additional concern was raised about wooden barriers which are periodically placed in the river to create a ponding effect on his property, providing a source of water for the snow-making operation to draw on. Mr. Taylor stated that the boards were placed low enough so that fish could “jump over” them. The commission determined that, in the future, Mr. Taylor should speak with Mr. Chapman before undertaking any work in or near the river...

 *

Ms. DeRollo and Ms. Lucera, homeowners on Minortown Road, appeared before the Commission to voice concerns about trees being cleared on the Starchack property adjacent to their own acreage, an area they believe is classified as wetlands. 

According to the Enforcement Report the plant life being removed consisted of overgrown shrubs and small caliper trees which Mr. Starchack maintains that he was thinning out in order to increase his pasture area, a permitted, non-regulated activity. When Ms. DeRollo characterized the clearing as a “massacre” and asked the Commission to provide a precise definition of the word “shrub,” Mrs. Tyrell reminded everyone that the only question pertinent to the Wetlands Commission was whether or not the land in question was indeed designated wetlands, an issue quickly resolved by looking at the map. 

*

The minutes from the last meeting were considered and a motion was made to approve them after several minor typos—including a misspelling in commission member Don Richardson’s name—were corrected. 

*

Charlie Lewis reported that he had observed a restaurant dumpster set too close to the brook. Proving wrong the old adage that there is no free lunch, at least if you’re a crow, scavenging birds had gathered at the dumpster and were "yanking out garbage bags." Savoring the gourmet meal, a few overly-enthusiastic birds spilled quite a bit of litter in to the brook as they ate. The Land Use Officer reported that he had already investigated this situation and the problem had been corrected. Mr. Richardson expressed his opinion that crows are a zoning issue anyway.

•

Correspondence was read, updates made and the meeting was adjourned at 10 PM.