"And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing, to drive the dark away."

This is the most magical time of year, when the days darken and the nights grow cold. Through the centuries, man has sought to keep a light burning in the great darkness, a flame of hope for the coming spring. Christmastide is swift upon us, and with it all the merrymaking that lights this month afire. One of the most beautiful traditions of this season, unfortunately becoming more obscure these days, is morris dancing, and in particular, the sword dance.
Morris dancing is one of the most ancient forms of English folk dancing, thought to have originated in the old Anglo-Saxon culture. It is danced by a group of men, wearing bells on their legs (the sound was said to awaken the spirit) and often carrying hankerchiefs or staves of wood. An interesting aside: William Kepte, famous for being one of the origional Shakespearian actors, was also known in his time for being the first to morris dance for nine days straight, from London to Norwich.
Thus, throughout England's history, when the darkness decended and the wind tore at the chimney, the morris men would gather to dance. The sword dance was usually performed within a St. George mummer's play, when the dancers would weave their swords into a star and behead St. George so that he might rise again, significant of the coming death and resurrection of the Christ child, and also of the death of the old year and birth of the new.
The morris traditions are still preserved in small groups, or "sides" throughout England and North America. Click, here for the Longsword dance as performed by the Bridgetown Morris Men, our local morris side. And for variety, here is the rapper sword dance, performed by the Black Swan Rappers of Warick.

In the bleak midwinter...

December always finds me before the fire, preferably with a book or two in hand.It is
the season for Dickens, Frost, and the Bronte sisters. Maybe a little Homer or
Beowulf to make it complete. Forget the strain of the quick approaching holidays and
find peace in the dark evenings with the rain beating on the roof and a cup of hot
tea in hand.

I, too, saw God through mud...

Wilfred Owen's poetry has always haunted me. As the light coming in my window begins to change from the golden glow of autumn to the white, cold gleam of winter, I find myself once again paging through his writing. As always, he takes my breath.

I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.

Nevertheless, except you share
With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
Whose world is but the trembling of a flare,
And heaven but as the highway for a shell,

You shall not hear their mirth:
You shall not come to think them well content
By any jest of mine. These men are worth
Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.

- from Apologia pro Poemate Meo

Enjoy your Martlemass week! In Germany, because St. Martin is the patron of children, if you walked into a city towards dusk you would find yourself surrounding by crowds of singing children bearing lanters. Although St. Martin's day goes by mostly unnoticed in the US, it was at one time the central feast of autumn:

From the late 4th century to the late Middle Ages, much of Western Europe, including Great Britain, engaged in a period of fasting beginning on the day after St. Martin's Day, November 11. This fast period lasted 40 days, and was, therefore, called "Quadragesima Sancti Martini", which means in Latin "the forty days of St. Martin." At St. Martin's eve, people ate and drank very heartily for a last time before they started to fast. This fasting time was later called "Advent" by the Church.

can't you just feel the wet and the cold? Tod Hido has a touch with the camera. Most of the time, I find his photos a little disturbing, but every once in a awhile, wonderful.

I heard a voice, that cried,
"Balder the Beautiful
Is dead, is dead!"
And through the misty air
Passed like the mournful cry
Of sunward sailing cranes.

I saw the pallid corpse
Of the dead sun
Borne through the Northern sky.
Blasts from Niffelheim
Lifted the sheeted mists
Around him as he passed.

And the voice forever cried,
"Balder the Beautiful
Is dead, is dead!"
And died away
Through the dreary night,
In accents of despair.

- Tegner's Drapa, Longfellow

There's something about this time of year, when the leaves and the rain are falling, that is full of grief. It is a beautiful, soft grief, that usually results in me digging through my piles of books and cds for my "Complete Longfellow" and a very scratched recording of Beethoven's 14th Sonata. Go find a quiet place out of the wind and listen to Beethoven and watch the leaves. This is autumn at its best.

Gossamer

Now that leaves are crunching under my feet and rain beating against my window, I am finding the idea of a great pile of wool on my lap very delightful. My fingers are working away, and all sorts of things are in the makings. There are wool arm and leg warmers to knit, a never-ending tobacco pouch project to continue, and felt to sew into little creatures to compliment the many leaves and nuts I have been gathering.
Driven by the need for more supplies, I went to visit an old friend the other day. Rose Sabel-Dodge used to run the local Waldorf School's store, but she has now branched out to found her own store, Gossamer, on Burnside. Gossamer is a fiber arts, crafts, and Waldorf supply store. The store carries 100% wool felt, plant dyed felt, brown sheep yarn, needle felting supplies, embroidery thread, beeswax candles, books and much more. Even if you're just interested in looking around, you should definitely give it a visit.

Above are some of the delights you might find there.

What I'm Loving...

Drizzle

What some people would call really nasty weather, and what I concider a delightfully wet and cold autumn has arrived. In fact, it's not only arrived, its moved in with all its baggage: searing winds, wet leaves and very dark mornings. I'm loving the change, and the picture above. (from Toast, look in my cubbard for more info)
I'm also loving my wool blazer which has suddenly become indispensible.
And I'm loving Wordsworth:

"Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;"

I caught this morning morning's minion

Our first day of real wind and rain. And I came home so invigorated, so soaked to the skin with glorious, wet drizzle, I thought I'd write about it. But once again, as I sit in front of this blank screen and wait for the words to come pouring out, I realize: they aren't coming.
The first time that realization hit me, I was dumb with furry. The emptiness of the months that have followed has served to make me fight with desperation for a change, however slight, in the ghastly phenomenon. So, in a round about way, I'm explaining this blog. It forces me to write, and when I cannot write, to think about at least one interesting thing a week.
You'll notice I mostly stick to photography, artwork, music, fashion....anything that doesn't need words. But all the while I'm straining to open that part of my brain that has gone into lockdown.

Now, for the point of this post: it is really autumn at last, and so breathtakingly watery outside I feel like dancing a jig in a puddle. Observe above: the fruits of my capers this morning with a very bad quality camera phone and beauty all around me.