Gibbous Moon on Friday~

With the waning Moon the cold comes creeping round. Snow was the theme yesterday and the crisp winter air, cerulean sky and bright white clouds of today lend an edge to winter's arrival. As the solstice approaches the light of Father Sun grows whiter.

Snowflakes and starlight, magical season of winter... the arrival of that time of year when your breath becomes manifest in front of your eyes, testimony to the beating of the heart, the rush of warm blood and the palpations of expanding-contracting lungs. I'm always amazed at how cold weather makes the body come fully alive, the mind fully alert and the spirit ready to be set free. Walking yesterday in deep woods in the swirling wonder of an early winter storm draws me to a greater expansion of the soul ... somehow I become the elemental forces that surround me ... crunch of snow underfoot, cracking of tree limbs under the gathering white burden, whistle of wind that swirls the “snow dust” across the land.

Winter has descended into the Fox River Valley, causing birch, elm, maple, and willow to go into the deep meditation of short, cold days, and frost-crusted nights. "What do they dream of in this time of slumber?" I ask myself as I walk through trails that meander along the edge of the now sluggish river. "Perhaps they dream of a long summer’s day where life has become more casual, warm sun glistening on their new crop of leaves while squirrels, porcupine, and raccoon slumber in the mid-day heat. Or... maybe they take leave of earthly form entirely! Roots set free of soil, will they perform a ballet near Orion’s edge, then dance all the way across the galaxy to prepare for coming immobile spring. Is winter the season when the souls of bush and tree are emancipated, like retired people in shiny Buicks and Oldsmobiles heading across the universe that exists between here and Miami or Phoenix?"

~ If they told me stories of their winter journey, would I be filled with envy? ~

I sense the presence of ancestors here with me in these woods today. Images of wikiups made from birch and branch, reed, skins, and earth. Dwellings that quake in winter’s cold caress. The people are strong and joyful … able to adapt to the season’s changes. Men tip arrows and assemble war clubs for the coming spring. Women stir the stew and carry wood to keep the fires going ... yet no one ventures far from camp, and at night they sit close around the fire pit to tell stories of creation, stories of war and conquest, stories of gods and heroes from the past.

The river moves more lazily than I have seen all year. Ice tries to form on the surface. Frustrated at its failure to coalesce, it bogs down the flow until, tonight, it will become a solid surface, moon reflected on it's immobile sheen. The snow out here is pristine, unlike the grungy, blackened muck that bogs down Chicago or Milwaukee and their suburbs. Bright sunlight makes the shadows of bare tree limbs twice as dark on snow ... deep purple, indigo, and sepia edge their crisp form ... a mandala without geometric order, yet just as powerful a tool for meditation.

Black crow, glistening ebony against a sparkling snow bank, makes fun of my trudging through these woods and then ascends, heading west, laughing at my earthbound body. West, where the ancestors live, where my soul will travel after this life’s journey has come to an end. Does crow know something I don’t know or is he teasing, like coyote?

Life is filled with parallels, like winter bringing snow to this land and 63 years bringing snow to my hair and beard. But, I know that my personal winter has not yet arrived, my personal story is not yet fully told. Crow files west and I turn south, heading back along the path I blazed into these woods, back toward home... or at least my temporary home here on this good earth. Hot coffee with a little chocolate and cream, a warm fire, and some tobacco.

I’ll remember stories that my grandmother told me about how life was 100 years ago and stories that my grandfather told me of how our people lived in union with the land ... creation stories, migration stories, winter stories. Then, perhaps, tonight I’ll dream a dancer’s dream amid the icy stars ... a winter’s dream.

The Sun gains ground in chasing Mars, a trine of intention? Saturn separates in square from Pluto and old dogs lay still... hoping for a bone to indulge the day. The Moon, at peace in Cancer, begins to feel new energy... about to enter the home of the Sun: Leo; svelte feline curiosity aroused... will there be mischief as the orb of reflected Sun passes? Mercury will soon conjunct Pluto and more trumpets will be sounded... the spotlight is no place to be for the next few days.

For most, the weekend portents good, fellow Gardeners. Like the voyagers of old, Dear Pilgrim, light lanterns on the stern of your vessels to better see your Progress. Enjoy the ripples of your wake and point the bow toward that brightly shining light... the Northern Star on night's horizon

Blessings to all!
Your MetaPhysical Marlin
Pisces~