The Passing of Midwinter

The theme of Midwinter has been the bitter cold. On a good note, a sense of community and camaraderie has returned, with strangers cheerily greeting others in the street with 'it's a bit warmer today' when the daytime temperatures soared from a baltic -11  degrees celsius to a positively balmy -6. They say it was even above freezing today - not that I have been outside my door to confirm or deny it. What a Christmas blessing indeed! But there is a heavy snow warning for tomorrow . . .


Midwinter and the full moon brought bustling industry - shopping with various degrees of success, concerts - Arcade Fire and Belle and Sebastian, various lunches with family, friends and colleagues and mad house tidying.


It has been a generous spirited season, which I hope will continue well into the New Year and beyond.


My beautiful Christmas wreath, a gift from my beloved mother, hangs proudly on my front door, adorned with  glistening red apples amidst the green foliage, telling me it is time to join Morgaine in her journey to the Isle of Avalon and the path of the Goddess.


The isle of apples awaits . . .

The Glastonbury Holy Thorn

It is not midwinter yet the landscape has been covered in snow for almost two weeks now - with no end in sight.

I had no intention of writing until midwinter - out of respect to Igraine - so I could then turn my attention more fully to Morgaine.

However, in response to reports of a wilful act of destruction, I felt compelled to do.

The Holy Thorn Tree of Glastonbury on Wearyall Hill has been cut down in the middle of the night, branches strewn beside the remaining stump.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2010/dec/09/glastonbury-mourns-felling-thorn-tree

According to legend and echoed in the Mists of Avalon, Jesus' uncle, Joseph of Arimathea, was welcomed to Glastonbury by the Druids and Christian priests alike. He then took Jesus' staff and planted it on Wearyall Hill, where it took root and sprouted, blossoming at Christmas and Easter.

Last Night the Snow Fell

The snow was  'somewhere else' when I left the house last night. It fell lightly on my way home but by 1am the garden looked ethereal, lit by the white shroud covering the sky. Snow lay heaped on every branch of the denuded tree and on every square of the trellis fence. I wondered what the effect would have been had I weaved the solar lights through the trellis squares or draping the curtain of lights across it before the snow fell. I hadn't yet convinced myself to buy the coloured acrylic squares to attach to parts of the trellis, to give it a Mondrian styling with the lights. I would have liked to see the colours being cast across the snow on the ground last night.


As always, my mind races with ideas but my physical being cannot commit to the resources for such flights of fancy. As it is so with the book. I had read more but reached a stumbling point, which I have now accepted is the natural break point of Midwinter for Igraine.


Previously I disregarded Igraine as a minor character but I find this is not the case. Mid-winter is her time. Her time to be released from her shackles of marriage, albeit by death speeded by her own hand. Yes, she plays her part in shaping her fate - even if it does coincide with what is planned by the powers that be. She is no helpless pawn in their great game. And having made her choice, she ultimately sacrifices herself to her love for Uther, casting aside both her children to the loneliness of their own fates. 


And unknowingly, each child then enters the great game.


Igraine departs, her task completed. No, I do not think she would live out her life as a devout Christian, forsaking her knowledge of her previous lives as a priestess from beyond the seas. In this life, she has done what was required - to the extent of having blood on her hands, knowing there would be retribution. With that knowledge unearthed, she would always be a priestess at her very being.


Midwinter - the darkest night but there follows the time to prepare for new beginnings as it is the turning of the seasons and the long road back to spring is ahead.

Falling Leaves

Reminiscent of the cherry blossoms but golden and auburn, glistening in the rain soaked pavements, like delicate butterflies in the dry bright autumn sunshine or sparkling in the first morning frosts.

Gently floating down. In front of my eyes. All around me. I would stretch out my arms and spin around to catch them as they fall. But I do not. Instead I walk, scrunching through the parchment down as I go, and stop at the waterside. Calm and clear. Reflecting the trees with their blaze of colours and the bright blue sky.

If I close my eyes, I can tune out the light traffic sound. Closer to the castle, the sound of workmen hammering is more difficult to ignore. But their efforts will mean that someone will have a home with a wonderful view of the castle so, in true liberal fashion, I cannot complain.

It is a magical place. Every time I visit, I feel uplifted. I do not visit often enough. But resolutions are easily broken so I make none here. And what makes it magical can also make it lonely on rainy days and dark shadowy nights.

Perhaps it is my home which is being built, so the castle is the first thing I will see when I awake and the last when I retire.

In my dreams . . .

Bothwell Castle

Dark Moon, New Moon

Tonight is the night of the new moon. It is unseasonally warm, by my standards, at this late hour with no cooling breeze to bring respite. But I should be careful what I wish for - as I live in a very green country but often the skies are leaden grey with rain clouds. And I do love to see the sun. Even tonight when coming home the sky was a beautiful azure palette overlaid with heavenly white clouds. John Martyn's Solid Air was playing when I arrived home.


The dark moon found me in Edinburgh, which has given me both happy memories and regrets. Age and the lure of social networking led me to meet former guy friends who I had not seen for fifteen years. I had attended a university re-union in the same city two years earlier and found it disconcerting. The only exception was my two girl friends, with whom I hadn't kept in touch with but they tried hard to not lose me, and with whom the years melted away when we were together. The girls' time is filled with wonderful adventures so I hope they can keep some free time in December to meet. 


And this brings me back to next adventure into my past. Trying to act and look nonchalant, unfortunately my coffee cup, sensibly placed in seat tray cup-holder, jumped into my lap as the train lurched forward leaving from the station. Ah, I had tried again, foolishly, to pretend to be the suave, sophisticated lady but started my day with coffee stains on my jeans and blouse. This reduced my apprehension a little, as I felt foolish again, but I should not have been worried. To chat for hours about how our lives have changed seemed the most natural thing. I doubt it will be regular occurrence nor does it need to be - a 'hi' at a bar or concert is more likely - but it has complimented the lines of communication of social networking.


And what of the book? Coffee aside, the train journey was a perfect opportunity to read. I always feel it is my train journey, as I have travelled it so often - with my mother from a small child, with school friends, to uni and later with my husband. It has just dawned on me that a pattern is emerging, as I started reading on the train from Inverness and now it is Edinburgh. The new High King Uther makes his plea for Igraine to be set free to marry him. Her husband Gorlois responds by withdrawing both Igraine and his support. Igraine, mistress of Tintagel , is then all but imprisoned there, to keep her from Uther's grasp whereas I am free to go wherever I wish  and return willingly home . . .

The years fly by

And now I am older, no longer a teenager or maiden, heading towards wise-woman? No, a crone most probably. After all, I have been wearing the garb of a crone for most of my life. I have just aged into my role gracefully, gradually or not, as the case may be.

I have always felt more comfortable with the written word to express my emotions. I have been a fervent diarist and letter writer. But the concept of the internet as a mass depositary of people's thoughts and words, forever out there for all to see, concerned me. The moral conundrum - just because I can, doesn't mean I should. But when did that ever stop me? So for those in my life whom I have hurt, I am sincerely sorry.


Now over a decade since I first registered but did not use my first domain name, I find myself compelled to commit my thoughts again.


This summer, oddly enough in Spain during the World Cup, I read Unseen Academicals by a favourite author Terry Pratchett. It was the first book I had been able to read in a few years. I don't know if I broke my concentration by reading Fermat's Last Theorem or Human Genome Project a few years ago or it just coincided with my symptoms.

Now I have my health back, the house is being de-cluttered - including of books, which feels sacrilegious and unnatural. Oh the irony of it! Travel books galore donated to friends. Trips to the local Oxfam book collection bin, too close for comfort to work.


But I have to focus on quality - filling the gaps in my collection and this I have started to do quickly - it is still shopping after all. I couldn't find my latest copy of The Mists of Avalon so I bought a new one, swiftly followed by a new copy for my sister also as her copy is still loaned out to friend. I also renewed my Sandman collection by Neil Gamian, under the guise of 'I can't remember which are still on loan to friends I rarely see' which ended up as 'please get me for Christmas' and the resulting hardback collection looks beautiful now on the bookshelf.

And still The Mists of Avalon sat untouched for weeks, waiting for the right moment to be started again. Would it take over my life as I read it? Would I ever remember to eat again? I can remember that I can make a pot of tea whilst still reading a book so it might not be all that bad.


The time finally came, Sunday 29 August 2010, returning from Inverness by train. The beautiful scenery, which should fill my heart with joy, whizzed past unheeded as I was transported into a land of myths. I recalled visiting Cornwall but I did not have the opportunity to visit Tintagel. Having said that, I have no complaints about the Steve Hackett concert in the Carnglaze Caverns and The Rum Store at Bodmin Moor - my host was very thoughtful and provided seat cushions however I also wished I had wrapped up more warmly for the evening in the cave.

And here I leave it. Igraine accepts her fate, discarding her current life, to be with her soul mate, endlessly throughout the wheel of time.


(Yes, it does sound like a mid-life crisis but she is only 19.)

Not quite a full moon, not quite midnight

For some, timing is everything.

I approximate and procrastinate.

Others say I am always late and can never make up my mind.

It is all perception. 

Never judge a book by its cover is a well worn phrase. An enlightened primary teacher brought the latest bestsellers to life in class, edited of course - Flowers in the Attic, Not a Penny More . . .

As a teen, I read extensively, thanks to a well stocked local library. Every sci-fi and fantasy book I could get my hands on. However I avoided the book which would ultimately become my mainstay. Because of a review on the book cover, this was along the lines of ‘an enthralling epic of passion and timeless romance’. I apologise as I have lost to others my two copies which bear that review so it may not be word perfect. Choose a romantic novel over Tolkien - even with an image of a girl like me on the cover? No, there would be no romance for me, no big white gown, no happily ever after.

It was only a year or so later that, worn down by the book staring down at me from the revolving rack, I left the library with it in my hands and it barely left them, as I lost myself completely in
The Mists of Avalon . . .