Lumen Solis

There is a particular form of carol which uses a phrase in Latin with the majority of the lyrics in English. In my group we've been improvising chants.

Lumen Solis
Cat in the sun
In perfect peace
To which I aspire

Of course, inevitably, it turns in to purrfect peace.

Wynter Falleth Indeed!

Winter falleth indeed. We woke today to the sound of ice and hail and the ground covered in ice. 
There's an old weather prognostication that I am fond of:

If there's ice in November

That will bear a duck

Nothing will follow

But slush and muck

The Germans say that "Saint Martin comes riding the white horse" meaning that snow is coming.

It is the day of Martinmasse 
Cuppes of ale should freelie pass; 
What though Wynter  has begunne 
To push downe the Summer sonne, 
To our fire we can betake, 
And enjoye the crackling brake, 
Never heeding Wynter’s face 
On the day of Martilmasse.

—from an old English ballad 

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