Once again the full Moon has passed into its waning process towards darkness.
The October Full Moon time is very special for those who begin the new year with November 1st.
Throughout history, the month of October has been a time of acknowledging death. The harvest is over, the plants die back and the leaves fall from the trees. The cold starts to settle across the land forcing the birds to flee and we start layering on warm clothing after months of skin-baring summer wear.
It is also a time when the veil between the living and the dead is thinnest and we can acknowledge their presence around us, pay respect and communicate with them.
I find myself visiting cemeteries. It’s not morbid or scary…though I go during the day. It is a way to remember those who have come before who have nothing but a tombstone to mark their existence.
Last year I wrote about Margaret Hills and her Halloween death, and again, I think of her as the month begins its waning to the end and closes in on Samhain.
…I have been busy enjoying the season and working with the details of running my website. Continue Reading…
The overwhelming urge to hibernate through the winter is lessening with the daily increase of sunlight.
I’ve been by the woodstove dyeing, spinning and pin weaving as well as knitting Alpaca hats through the last few months.
I can smell spring in the air and the perennials are poking their heads through the ground. This year I will garden…beginning with cleaning up the debris from last fall once the snow and mud have cleared away and the warming winds of spring kiss my face.
These animal prints in the snow were found in the same place I photographed prints last winter.
This is the first snow of this season to stay on the ground and it is a pleasant addition to the holidays.
My photographs of animal prints have been the most popular item on my web pages. I hope you enjoy these prints.
Trying to explain to a close friend what it is like to be chronically ill, predominantly with Fibromyalgia and related conditions, brought me to a road block. How do you explain to people who get out of bed in the morning with a full day planned that I can’t even plan when I’ll be able to get my feet on the floor and get up out of bed each day.
I haven’t had the words, and as I try to wrap my brain around the question, another question comes at me. Then the questions are repeated with more intensity closer to my face and all I can do is stammer and cover my face; protect my brain; try to stop the overwhelming feeling flashing through my brain cells. The longer it takes to respond the more it looks like any response is dubious, at best. I’ve had to turn away from these situations before it flairs through my spine resulting in cramping of muscles, pulling on my skull, burning pain through my brain that fights relief. As long as I can keep meds and a bit of food down, I’m okay. Being an hour from home..not okay.
This most recent encounter with my friend took place in 32 degree F weather with a brisk wind off the Maine water. Between the questions and the weather I was stopped cold in my tracks, so to speak, and I refused to walk further. I’m not used to standing up for myself. I tend to be a people pleaser, at my detriment, but this lesson has been hard learned – listen to my body and respond to it’s needs.
I’ve been accused of running away from people. I haven’t been running away from you. I am running towards relief. Running towards a chance of catching the pain before it settles in and takes over. I am running towards relief. I am in plain site – in my bed – awaiting visitors. Where have you been?
This episode brought about my chance to learn about Spoons as they relate to chronic illness. The Spoon Theory was a great way to visualize my day and I left the theory out for others to read. Asked them to read it. I put out a jar with the used Spoons for the day with the remainder beside the jar. Near the door. You’ll know as soon as you walk in how I’m doing for spoons today.
As great as The Spoon Theory was for me and thinking about my activities in a different way, it didn’t cover the mental toll that pain and other symptoms takes from us. When confronted on the windy street all I could do was wave my arms around in front of my face, trying to clear my brain, trying to communicate when systems were failing, trying to keep the birds from pecking my eyes out.
That was it. My metaphor. My visual tool for my chronic illness control.
Alfred Hitchcock’s movie The Birds with Tippy Hedren.
I googled for a picture of the birds in the face scene, and I also found a beautiful photo of Tippy Hedren in a classic little black dress with a Raven sitting quietly on her arm.
She looks so elegant in this shot. So in control of the moment. Unafraid. Poised. Calm.
She may be gorgeous in this photo, but you can’t forget she has this huge bird on her arm.
That’s how Fibromyalgia feels. I clean up well and I know how to wear 3 inch heels and put on Mascara, but no matter how good I look ( but you don’t look sick?!) Fibromyalgia and other chronic demands are holding onto my arm with claws. Always.
Now add other stressors. Other symptoms. Take your pick. About anything will do it. Before long you are fighting off the crazed birds. They want you taken down and all you can do is hope to reach the safety of your meds, your TENS unit, and anything else you count on to get through a spell.
I’ve printed out 8 x 10′s of each picture and I’ve hung them beside the bed. Anything that helps you is worth putting near the bed.
Now I have a way to convey my struggle. How many birds are after you today?
Poor Margaret and her husband, or consort, Oliver were on a sloop off the coast of Maine traveling to Boston. Oliver drowned and Margaret died of exposure before reaching shore on October 31, 1803 when the sloop ‘Hero’ was capsized by a gale off the coast of Kittery.
I lost my life in the raging seas,
A sov’reign God does as he please.
The Kittery friends they did appear,
And my remains, they buried here.
Yeah, the fine people of Kittery may have buried poor Margaret, but not in the main cemetery grounds, and not without feeling the need to pat themselves on the back for burying her. Though now her grave site is kept neat and mowed, I was there over 20 years ago when Margaret’s stone was overgrown.
You have to walk to the back edge of the cemetery and down a hill to reach Margaret’s stone in the last patch of flat land before the earth dives down to the sea.
There is a special enjoyment that is derived from camping. I’m not talking camping with hot showers and MSNBC on your flat screen in your RV, I’m talking about sit-around-the-campfire, Coleman lanterns, Marshmallows burning on whittled sticks, and the laughter of family punctuating the night air.
The glow of firelight on a child’s cheek, the settling into your seat as fire-cooked food settles in contented stomachs and the lightheadedness from fresh air and simple joy brings a smile to your face.
The stars are brighter in the black velvet sky and the calls of Owls and Coydogs pierce the silence of the night reminding us of our fear of the unknown in the dark.
By dawn, the cold has settled around the sleeping, making them aware of the thin stretch of cloth between their bedding and the crisp greying of day.
The sounds of morning activity signals the start of another meal being prepared around a campfire. The snapping of the kindling in harmony with the sounds of tent zippers and yawning, disheveled campers emerging from their lairs.
We circle around the fire again.
