Blackberrying

Between the trunks of the holly and hawthorn in the lane is a tangle of brambles, full of ripening blackberries. This sign from nature reminds me that the season is changing. There is something in the way the light falls, something in the temperature of the air, that speaks of the end of summer, and of the dawning of autumn.

I always feel a sense of excitement at that first realisation that one season is giving way to another. I become aware of a sense of awe at the rhythm of the earth which is beating whilst we are occupied with the concerns of day-to-day living. There is something at work which is greater, older and more patient than ourselves. The blackberries are a small miracle which tells of the deep energy of our Mother earth, of her generosity and of her continuity.

The month of September is a gateway from one way of living to another. With the arrival of September, it feels like the carefree months of the summer are over, and that any plans we had for that season must now be put aside until next year. Although the trees still have their leaves, the days are shortening, the sun's power is waning and our thoughts turn from adventure and travel to the securities of hearth and home. Our spirits are warmed less by the sun and more by the ripening and gathering of fruits and seeds.

In this season of letting go and turning inwards there is an opportunity for us to embrace new elements in our lives. What must we let go of in order to further ripen our relationship with the Divine or with the Earth? What seeds do we need to plant into our spirits during these quieter months, so that new life may spring up with the new shoots of spring time?

The Old Straight Track

Over the last few months, I have been obsessed with roads. And not just roads, but also tracks, lanes, byways, and paths - in fact the smaller the road, the more interesting it seems to become.

It really all began with two things: a holiday in Devon and Robert Macfarlane's wonderful book, The Old Ways.

In his book, Macfarlane tells the stories of journeys he has made along some of this land's oldest paths, such as the Icknield Way and the Ridgeway. As he walks he discovers the events, people and tales which have shaped (and been shaped by) the landscape through which the paths run.

It's a beautiful book: a mixture of poetry, documentary, history, cartography, nature-writing and autobiography. I read it with a sense of yearning for the road, and for the mystery into which the ancient paths lead us. And now that I've finished the book, I find myself poring over maps to discern where these old roads run, like pencil lines half-erased from tracing paper.

Mid-way through Macfarlane's book, I spent a week in Devon, where single-track lanes are the everyday highways for local residents and tourists alike. On turning right out of our cottage door, we quickly became the lone walkers on a track through an Oak wood. In response to the silence and the coolness of the mossy path, I took off my shoes and walked the track barefoot, as one would a medieval labyrinth.

At the sound of the Wren, I stopped, and immediately became aware of my role as the visitor, and her place as the resident. I made an offering to the wood and its creatures from my flask of water, the only gift I had with me, and felt at once both at home and a stranger there. The path led on, but I had come far enough for now, and turned back for home. As the Summer fades and the seasons turn, I feel that must go back again, to walk that path into the past and into the future.

In The House of Tom Bombadil (or, at least, Next Door)

One of the stories that most inspires me, and informs the way that I look at the world, is The Lord of The Rings. I have read it many times over, and often dip back into it to re-read (re-re-re-re-read?) a favourite passage. Sometimes, I just find that I am in the mood to spend an afternoon in the Shire, or to lose myself in the trees of Fangorn Forest, or to stand on the ramparts of Helm's Deep. It's a short trip, and one which I always find rewarding.

Today, however, I find myself longing for the company of the character which I find to be the most intriguing in the tale: Tom Bombadil. And why not? Today's weather provides the perfect motivation for such an encounter: wet, chilly and rather stay-at-home. A very simliar forecast to that which the hobbits found during their stay at Tom's house:

The upper wind settled in the West and deeper and wetter clouds rolled up to spill their laden rain on the bare heads of the Downs. Nothing could be seen all round the house but falling water. Frodo stood near the open door and watched the white chalky path turn into a little river of milk and go bubbling away down into the valley.

In The House of Tom Bombadil, The Fellowship of the Ring.

It is never made clear in the story (perhaps intentionally) who Tom Bombadil actually is. There are many theories which suggest, among other things, that Tom is either an elf,  a spirit or even the creator of Middle Earth. There are one or two clues in the text, but even these make it apparent that Tom is not to be pinned down. Not long after their arrival at the house, Frodo asks Goldberry (Tom's wife? Even this is not clear!) who Tom is:

'Fair Lady!' said Frodo again after a while. 'Tell me, if my asking does not seem foolish, who is Tom Bombadil?'
'He is,' said Goldberry, staying her swift movements and smiling.
Frodo looked at her questioningly. 'He is, as you have seen him,' she said in answer to his look. 'He is the Master of wood, water and hill.'

In The House of Tom Bombadil, The Fellowship of the Ring.

There is here a suggestion that Tolkien may be connecting Tom to other myths - perhaps Tom is Middle Earth's Jack-in-the-Green, or Green Man? However, the continuing conversation between Frodo and Goldberry suggests that even this is not the whole truth about Tom:

'Then all this strange land belongs to him?'
'No indeed!' she answered, and her smile faded. 'That would indeed be a burden,' she added in a low voice, as if to herself. 'The trees and the grasses and all things growing or living in the land belong each to themselves. Tom Bombadil is the Master. No one has ever caught old Tom walking in the forest, wading in the water, leaping on the hill-tops under light and shadow. He has no fear. Tom Bombadil is the master.' 

Even a direct question from Frodo to Tom himself leaves more questions than answers:

'Who are you, Master?' he asked.
'Eh, what?' said Tom sitting up, and his eyes glinting in the gloom. 'Don't you know my name yet? That's the only answer. Tell me, who are you, alone, yourself and nameless? But you are young and I am old. Eldest, that's what I am. Mark my words, my friends: Tom was here before the river and the trees; Tom remembers the first raindrop and the first acorn...'

In The House of Tom Bombadil, The Fellowship of the Ring.

It is not surprising that Tom does not appear in Peter Jackson's wonderful films. In many ways, the hobbits' visit to Tom's house is something of a diversion, even in the book, though a mysterious and wonderful one. In a film, there is little room for anything which does not directly serve the plot, especially when one is adapting a book of over a thousand pages for the screen.

There is no obvious place for Tom in the films, despite their relative faithfulness to Tolkien's text. He is too ambiguous for us, too hard to get hold of, too full of wonder. That, surely, is why he is so intriguing and why, on a rainy October Tuesday, with the Holly branches full of berries and the Beech leaves tumbling to the ground, Tom's house is the place to be. 

The Seed: Symbol & Mystery - Thoughts for Lammas

A seed is a mystery. It is both beginning and end, life and death, nothing and everything. A seed sits easily in the palm of the hand, and yet grows into a living structure which can be twice the size of house. It is a single grain, yet it is the source of a thousand grains. It can be stored for many years, and then be stirred into life in days. A seed is the whole universe in a grain of sand.

And so a seed is a rich symbol of the process of living and dying. It is no surprise that the seed is often used in faith traditions to illustrate the spiritual journey, and the moving from one season to another. In the Christian tradition, Jesus often used the imagery of agriculture, the language of the land. He spoke about crops and weeds, good and bad soil, sowing and harvesting. Jesus wisely rooted his teaching in the things people could understand, and he used the symbol of the seed to illustrate a profound message about what it means to be human, and to live a life of the Spirit.

At the harvest, which is celebrated in the Christian festival of Lammas, the crop is gathered in and enjoyed, but the seed from which it came is nowhere to be seen. The seed does its work secretly, and through its death others are given a life-giving gift.

The Pagan season of Lughnasadh also centres around the mysterious and wonderful work of the seed. It is a time for the celebration of the grain harvest when thanks are given to the Harvest Mother - she who is the Seed, the Womb and the Soil. The harvested grain represents both food to sustain us through the coming winter months, and also the promise of hope contained in the seed to be sown in Spring.

To read the whole of this article, visit: Mystic Christ

Celtic Blessings

I received my Celtic Wheel greetings cards today - they're really beautiful. They're designed by artist and illustrator Samantha Symonds, whose site you can check out here. To see Samantha's cards, go here.

Along with the cards, I also received a lovely note from Samantha thanking me for my order. The card bears one of her own designs called Oak Moon. I've added the card to my prayer table to help me to celebrate this mystical season.

Blessings.

October - Summer's end & the gateway to winter

The world changes as October unfolds its mysteries. Seven o' clock in the morning and seven o'clock in the evening are both equally dark. We rise from sleep and wonder if it is still the night before. And under the shelter of woodland trees it seems never to grow light at any point in the day. We take a step back in time at the end of the month as we put back the clocks by one hour - lighter in the mornings for a while, but darker in the afternoons.

But at the same time the trees are bursting into flames of copper-red and apple-yellow, showing us a miracle which, even though we have seen it before, still turns our head as we wonder where these hues have come from. There is a sense in October of a world which we don't quite recognise.

Before the coming of electricity, this was a time to close down for the winter. For the ancient Celtic peoples, the end of October was the end of the old year, the new year beginning with the festival of Samhain on the 1st of November. As the new year dawned there was a sense of two worlds drawing together: that which had been and that which was yet to come meeting for a short time in the present. It was this time of year that the Christian Church made 1st November All Saints' Day and the following day All Souls' Day, when it was believed that our world and the next were brought together.

But we are always leaving behind the old and entering the new. The writer of Ecclesiastes reminds us that there is a right time for each event in life - the season for one thing passes and a new moment comes along. The change of the seasons beckons us to a new stage of life.

The deepening of autumn into winter is an invitation to contemplation and silence. In this season, there is the opportunity for God, the Other, to call to us and to break into our awareness. It may be the a spider's web syrupy with dew that does this, or the russet blaze of the beech tree, or the chill blanket of the fog muffling all sound into silence.

October's autumn offers a doorway into a world which is far greater than the one which is visible, and the chance to hear a voice saying to us: All is sacred.

September endings and beginnings

As I went into the garden a couple of mornings ago, I noticed that the brambles reaching in over the fence were full of ripening blackberries. It was about ten to seven, and all was still and quiet. This sign from nature prompted me to realise that the season is changing. There was something in the way the light fell, something in the temperature of the air, that spoke of the end of summer, and of the first dawning of autumn.

I always feel a sense of excitement at that first realisation that the one season is giving way to another; a sense of awe at the rhythm of the earth which is beating whilst you and I are occupied with the concerns of day-to-day living. There is something at work which is greater, older, more patient than ourselves. The blackberries were a small miracle which spoke of the energy of the earth, of its generosity and of its continuity.

The month of September is a gateway from one way of living to another. With the arrival of September, we realise that the carefree months of the summer are over, and that any plans we had for that season must now be put aside until next year, God willing. Although the leaves are still on the trees, the days are shortening, the sun's power is waning and our thoughts turn from adventure and travel to the securities of hearth and home. Our spirits are warmed less by the sun and more by the ripening and gathering of fruits and seeds.

But with every ending, there is also a beginning. September is the time for new voyages and horizons as the school year begins, young women and men set sail for university, college or employment. Young children leave the nest of home to learn to use their wings at nursery and playgroup.

In this season of letting go and turning inwards there is an opportunity for us to embrace new elements in our spiritual lives. What must we let go of in order to further ripen our relationship with God? What seeds do we need to plant into our spirits during these quieter months, so that new life may spring up with the new shoots of spring time?