The Rhythm of the Year

2008-01-28T20:02:00.000Z

JANUARY
All is well,
Outwardly,
Nothing to see,
All is still,
Winter-tired and bare-branched;
But the kernel of growth
Has started
In the dim womb
Of the earth,
Shaped out of the pause
Between each breath,
Each season.
The rings in the tree
Do not show
As they grow,
But the silver birch
Knows in her heart
The passing of the year,
The hurricanes and harvests,
When to be quiet,
And when to dazzle the sun
With her head
Full of silver and green
And light between.

When all the ties are loosened,
When all bonds have broken,
Then there is a place within
Of deepness and darkness,
Soft as the furrows
Of the purple-brown plough
Where the winter shoot of wisdom
Takes form,
An unborn virtue
Which lies behind
All action
Containing every hue
Knowing every sound.
This, the mother of all wisdoms
No thing unto itself
Everything to be
Is vast
And timeless
And as delicate
And tender to the early frost
As a bud newborn.
So, heart
Sing forth
The song of creation
And melt
Your winter casing
Into Spring ,
For indeed,
All is well.

2008-01-28T19:58:00.000Z

PRELUDE
Shall this be
My favourite hour
When the mackerel fins
Hang
Heavenly blue
In the last minutes
Of daylight,
When the day-breath
Pauses
Incomplete,
Yet satisfied,
As all activity
Settles slowly,
Drifting down
Through the air –
Sounds falling
Into silence?

Or this,
Shall this
Be always
In my mind,
This brief moment
At day-break
Caught
In accidental waking
When the mist
Rises
Layer upon layer
Above islands
Of blue hedges,
White blackthorn
Spearing
The pale veil,
Vanishing
With the tawny owl’s
Homeward flight
Into brighter
Eastern day?

Shall this be
The most beloved
Moment
When the evening light
Shines back
From western edges
Through the hedges
Across the lawn
Blessing
The Silver Birch,
Bathing her crimson
As the sun grows
Overlarge,
Unable to contain
Itself,
Spilling
Scarlet streaks
Wantonly
Into the washed-out sky?

Or this,
Shall I choose,
This towering ocean of wind
Billowing
Through the Ilex
In blustering waves
Of roaring might,
Breathing out sea-salt
On its damp
And monstrous breath,
Rioting
Through the trees
Untethering thoughts,
Throwing out
The year’s unwanted store
Of dead twigs,
Leaves,
Branches
And possessions
From outworn hiding places,
Showing me
My insignificance
In the midst
Of this immense
Natural messenger
Of change,
Inviting
My free fall
Into surrender?

2008-01-28T19:50:00.000Z

POSTLUDE – THE INVISIBLE YEAR
Not every month
Announces its intentions
Aloud,
With seasonal colours
Or special flavours
Ripe for recognition.
Some slide in
Punctuating
The seasonal sentence
Like commas,

Hesitant,
Ambivalent,
Causing
A pause for reflection
On their intended direction,
Not speaking
The same language
We have become accustomed to –
Or think
We have a right
To expect.
These are the moments
In the year
When the rhythm slows,
When the colours
Leach out
And disappear
Into subtle shades
And the days
Are quietly
Concerned with brown
And earthy thoughts,
Whilst nights
Open up new vistas,
Landscapes of silver light
Drawing us
Inwards
Into tree-speak
And mole-dug mounds
Of freshly scented soil.
And the season
Just gone

Transforms itself
Unseen
Into a land
Of new being,
The sap pausing
To rise and fall
With the turning tide
According
To nature’s quiet
Deliberations
And the elements dance
According to their whim,
Jostling for supremacy.
Now is the time
Beloved,
To keep vigil
To listen to the heart beat
Invisible to the outer eye
Or we miss the moment,
The precious moment
Of renewal,
Impatient as we always are
For patterns
Made to measure
By our memories,
Denying
The very magic
For which we crave.

POSTLUDE – THE INVISIBLE YEAR
Not every month
Announces its intentions
Aloud,
With seasonal colours
Or special flavours
Ripe for recognition.
Some slide in
Punctuating
The seasonal sentence
Like commas,
Hesitant,
Ambivalent,
Causing
A pause for reflection
On their intended direction,
Not speaking
The same language
We have become accustomed to –
Or think
We have a right
To expect.
These are the moments
In the year
When the rhythm slows,
When the colours
Leach out
And disappear
Into subtle shades
And the days
Are quietly
Concerned with brown
And earthy thoughts,
Whilst nights
Open up new vistas,
Landscapes of silver light
Drawing us
Inwards
Into tree-speak
And mole-dug mounds
Of freshly scented soil.
And the season
Just gone

Transforms itself
Unseen
Into a land
Of new being,
The sap pausing
To rise and fall
With the turning tide
According
To nature’s quiet
Deliberations
And the elements dance
According to their whim,
Jostling for supremacy.
Now is the time
Beloved,
To keep vigil
To listen to the heart beat
Invisible to the outer eye
Or we miss the moment,
The precious moment
Of renewal,
Impatient as we always are
For patterns
Made to measure
By our memories,
Denying
The very magic
For which we crave.

v

2008-01-28T19:13:00.000Z

TO CLIP OR NOT TO CLIP ….. so when and how?
This morning in early January 2008 with winter sun shining on frost -etched fields, I look at Grey Owl my precious 21 month old Silver Grey ram( Upper Mill Bloodline) showing off his 3rd fleece, newly washed by recent rain. It is a perfect length at approx. 7” with no damage or weathering. The moment to begin his winter clip has arrived. Why now and how has this pattern of twice-yearly clipping come about? (Insert first pic of ram).

The Beech Hill Black Wensleydale flock was founded with Upper Mill stock in late 2000 with much to learn. The following summer I rang everyone with Wensleydales I could find, asking how they sheared their flocks:
“What do you mean, how do we shear them – like any other sheep, of course!” (silly woman).
“We clip ours by hand…(oops, I am left handed)
“We shear ours standing up”. (they are nearly as big as I am).
“We turn ours upside down on a mattress, because they kick otherwise as they are bony (not a hope).
“We shear ours horizontally……”
“Vertically….” (I am now dizzy). “Why don’t you send it all to the Wool Board (not likely, after all that effort, time and money spent on nutrition and care – my first longwool fleeces after Texel Tat).

Read the rest of the article and others in Wensleydale World - contact us for details.

2008-01-08T19:54:00.000Z

Midwinter

So comes December
And the burning
Of the solstice bonfire,
This descending month
Of dying embers
And in the grey
Ashes of its days
It is time
Gently,
To lay down the year
Like a new-born child,
Wrapping our thoughts
In swaddling
And our arms
Round our own hearts,
Rocking
Ourselves to sleep,
Slipping,
Quiet
In our accomplishments -
Scarcely breathing -
Into the dormant rhythm
Of the hibernating creatures,
Who,
In their winterfastness
Rest out
The remainder of the year,
Pillowed
On the brown litter
Of the autumn leaves,
Dreaming
Of earthy adventures
As the days shorten
Into insignificance;
The husks
Of summer growth
Scattered unheeded,
Fruits of our earthly year
Held deep in our bellies
While the wind
Whispers sweet nothings
To the earth
And all the colours
Of the land
Are drawn
Unresisting
Into the sky,
Which blazes uncontested
Bathing
The sepia branches
In a crimson wash
Over the plough
And purple shadows
While we sink
With the setting sun
Into nature’s ample lap
Warmed
By the midwinter flame;
The drudgery
Of all our grudges
Forgotten,
All our resentments
Consumed,
All our appetites
Appeased.

2008-01-08T19:39:00.000Z

December

You can enter
The dark cave of December
At any moment –
Without fear or dread –
Turn your back
On summer–heated
Activity
And feel the cool air of aeons
Still upon your cheeks
Undisturbed
Unperturbed
By daily distractions
Look to your feet
Upon the bare, bone-strewn floor,
Listen to the silence,
The sound of unfilled space
Breathe in the dampness,
Rock-laden
Taste it all
In slow time
Nourishing
Your over–stimulated senses.

Do not fear
The cold,black days of winter,
Or the nights
Of the dying moon
When the wolf pack howls
Its ghostly lament.
Nor turn the she-wolf
From her den.
Rather,
Feed her the remains
Of your unwanted memories,
Let her gnaw
On your discarded carcases
For her life-blood
Will warm you
When the midwinter icicles
Splinter your heart.

No Hades,
This underworld,
Neither banishment,
Nor punishment
But a haven,
A deep-littered lair
Where breathing slows
Into sleep
And the pregnant pause
Of the year.
Let go the hanging shreds
Of your old war-torn pelt –
Come deeper into the darkness
Where topaz eyes
And rasping tongue
Greet you.
Come into the wonder
Of your underworld,
This inner fortress of your being.
Bring down the panting breath,
Close the tired eyes
And ears,
Run your fur
Over the rough and smooth
places
And spaces
Between
As you would caress
The inner skin
Of your creative mind.
Learn this unseen
Grey body around you
Intimately,
Surround yourself in touch,
Sink your belly
Into the soft bed
Of leaves,
Drinking from the earth
As you need.

Now,
In this abiding calm
Invite imagination
To come and play
Shape-shifting games
Wrap yourself in mystery
In the dim sound-stream
Of half-formed words,
Unspoken ideas
And wait patiently
For the inner door to open
On the magical journey
As the she-wolf waits
Her time for birth.
Whoever told you
DecemberWas a dead month?

2008-01-08T18:25:00.001Z

Clover (strictly speaking she is Red Clover of Barrow Green) is a red Tibetan Spaniel aged 2 and a half years. They are known as "Tibbies" by their owners and are 1/4 dog, 1/4 cat, 1/4 monkey and 1/4 human. Clover is the fifth in succession here and shows all the gaiety, mischief and dancing ability of her ancestors. She is especially fortunate in having been blessed by a Tibetan Master who held a Retreat here in 2005. The Venerable Kunzang Dechen Lingpa named her "Pema Ludrun" meaning Daughter of Light. Traditionally such a blessing means she is an enlightened being. She is certainly a light in my life. Just to ensure she doesnt get too airborn she has plenty of other names too: Clovie Clogs (large paws); Clover the Rover; Little Missus; Clogger Dogger........ she will re-appear from time to time as will stories of previous much loved Tibbies......