The Celtic harvest festival Sawhain that begins at sunset tonight halved their year, and revelries around bonfires with apples and spirits played in a liminal space on this occasion of ushering out the year’s dead. My people cross-dressed, poured out for the departed, and carried salt for protection.
I carve turnips as they did into samhnag (although their turnip we know better as the rutabaga), leaving the beard-like root ends, balancing them on their wide purple tops, and slicing smile lines like mine around the tiny eyes. The raw inside of this vegetable is spicy, and kept whole, the roots can cellar through the winter.
As small bands of Scots roved on this night the year turns over, they offered songs or verses for treats. I wrote this poem with Gaelic words last night.
When I was small she read the book
about the change of seasons
Here is when leaves fall she said
and went into the reasons
She could not know and nor could I
that what she thought to winter
would never bloom beag air bheag
the hoped-for spring a splinter
I have her name, the book, the strain
a warrior spirit thriving
But no small one to stir the coire
just shivering words writhing
O fallow bowls with ancient grain
please feed our people alway
O strath between death and one’s own
cleanse myths that clot the pathway
A few more days
A final Hi meeting
The local neighborhood bar has a quiet time between six and nine. It is a place that specializes in coffee, beer and seasonal menus. There is just enough of each for a satisfying snack and effective buzz. After the time when the laptop lids close and before the social gatherings start -- there is a sort of twilight*. Often this time is a fugitive ground rife with creative inspiration and meditative work -- of the kind that results in personal reward.*twilight may refer to civil, nautical or astronomical variety depending on your social or terrestrial condition
A man positions his mouse on the edge of his browser window. He clicks, holds and drags the viewport first left then right. The content of a video game promo micro site responds and adapts to the available space. To the man, this is more delightful than the game itself.
A man laboriously moves his piano down three levels onto the subway platform. Classic vocals and strided chords -- he played so well I swore he was blind. Oblivious to the heat on that August stage, he was most in touch with his audience -- whom he elevated with his music.
A woman should do exactly as she pleases no matter what a man may think.
As the Dalai Lama once said, "It is a time when there is much in the window, but nothing in the room."
"No one understands me," she said. Her grandmother was silent for a minute. It seemed she was searching for an answer in the star speckled sky. "But no one understands anyone in this world, darling. We are all unique. It is what gives us a sense of wonder."