Yule and the Moon of Deep Friendship
Friday gratefuls: Rabbi Jamie. Rabbi Rami Shapiro. Kabbalah Experience. Mah Tovu. Rollover IRA. Kate, always Kate. Shadow healing. Diane. Dr. Josy. “I was born to heal and be of service.” Melting ICE in a Minnesota January. Minnesota Anthem. Streets of Minneapolis. Resistance. Showing the way.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Tom, Roxann, Jessie
Life Kavannah: Wu Wei Shadow, my Wu Wei mistress
Year Kavannah: Creativity. Yetziratiut. “Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.” ― Pablo Picasso
Week Kavannah: Rachamim. Compassion.
While chesed (lovingkindness) often refers to a choice of action, rachamim is deeply tied to visceral emotion and empathy—feeling the pain of another.
Tarot: Page of Arrows, the Wren
The colors of the Goldcrest – red, white, green, and black – were once held to be sacred and the common Wren was considered a guardian of the winter mysteries. Parting the Mists
One brief shining: Nazis drove toward Moscow in the winter while ICE and the Border Patrol came to the streets of Minnesota in January, both tactical and strategic errors born from the arrogance of ignorance and a lust for power unbridled that blinded leaders and empowered those they aimed to oppress. Winter mysteries.
For Roxann: Boot Lake Scientific and Natural Area, not far from Kate and mine’s Andover home, held a mother White Pine with two trunks splitting off from the main trunk about ten feet up. No straight timber there, no whaling ship’s mast. It got left behind when the lumberjacks came.
A century or so later this unwanted Tree had birthed a ring of younger Pines grown up almost in her shadow. I found this Tree, which I thought of as my Tree, not in the sense of ownership, but as a friend and spirit guide, while hiking in the SNA as I often did, especially in the Spring when the Bloodroot blooms.
In summer I would bring a snack from home, hike through the used to be home plot, now a field of grass, then through an outer ring of Birches that opened onto a Meadow enclosed by Birch and Oak and White Pine. Across the Meadow, inside the Woods there, I would find my tree, sit beneath her, my back against her rough bark. Sometimes I would meditate, imagining her roots sunk deep beneath me, feeding and being fed by mycelial networks invisible to man. Seeing her lower branches reaching out toward her children, acknowledging them as her family. Feeling her crowns still pushing toward the Sky, toward the warmth and energy of Great Sol. Sometimes.
Sometimes I would eat my heirloom Tomato with White Onion slices and feel the companionship of my Tree and her children.
In Winter I would strap on my Snowshoes and hike through deep Snow, through the Birches, and across the white blanket covering the Meadow and find her again. I often made this hike on the day of the Winter Solstice. She would speak to me then of winter’s mysteries. Of vast silence. Of cold so sharp it made her Needles twitch. Of the Deer that might bed down near her.
I love that all I have to do is reach out in memory and I am with her again, as I could be today if I strapped on my snowshoes and climbed over the fence.