Winter Musings: Of Land & Of Lore
Winter’s breath kisses the air
And leaves in it’s trail crystalised grass
Like glass.
It crunches underfoot and
Catches the cold light of the winter sun
As it rises,
Setting the world ablaze with fire that burns cold.
An icy wonderland,
The world transformed and oh so still.
Trees bedecked in frosted dew like strings
Of glittering pearls.
Frozen spiderwebs make for good lace
And frost glazed holly berries for rubies, a blast of colour.
Still.
Everything quiet and still, save the
Plume of my breath, my beating heart
And the
Blackbird as it’s melodic song
Pierces the morning and sings in
Winter’s arrival.
~ Emma Kathryn, Season Songs
I awoke with the moon just past full. It’s cold as I step from the comfort of the bed and the warmth of my love as he sleeps on. The chill makes me dress in a hurry. I’m not built for this cold, I like to joke, but the truth is I love all the seasons. Still, it’s freezing and there will be time later on to contemplate the beauty of the land and the cycles of the seasons. Now, though, the dog awaits, watching me patiently as I stumble for socks and shoes. And then we are out.
Winter’s breath has kissed the land, transforming it. The sky is clear and thousands of stars burn brightly in its dark depths, the moon a silent sentinel. Its light catches on the frost, and it’s as though the stars have fallen to earth, covering all with their cold, glittering light. Old Man Winter has been busy this night, and still Jack Frost lingers, pinching my nose and ears.
Jack Frost. How many of us can remember hearing about him from parents or grandparents? To my young mind, it was a marvellous idea, that this person would spread the frost while we all slept, his arrival signalling that snow would soon fall and all kinds of adventures might be had. And yet, Jack Frost is relatively modern. For sure, it might have its coattails in older stories from Anglo-Saxon and Norse lore, but the character as we know him today didn’t make an appearance, at least on the printed page, until the 1700s.
In some stories, Jack Frost is the villain, but in older lore, he is mischievous but harmless, and in others still, he fights against Old Man Winter. These stories often fascinate me because they tell us not only of the land, but of our relationship with the land. Yes, the winter is a time of beauty and wonder, but it is also harsh and the reality of it harsher still, particularly for those who do not have the privilege of a warm, safe home to return to.
With the winter, my mind turns to the festive act of wassailing the Apple Tree Man. My grandparents' back garden was huge, and I can remember being a kid and thinking I’d wandered off somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. The land there used to be an orchard, and there were so many apple and pear trees. To my young mind, it was an absolute treasure, a place straight from one of the many books I read. I loved that garden, and perhaps that is part of my fascination with the Apple Tree Man. I think of him as that protective spirit of place, but that is tied in with my own stories and experiences, weaved into the stories of that particular place. The story I love most about him, though, tells of a young man who inherited his parent’s farm upon their deaths.
He was poor, but did his best to care for the land and the animals until his money and supplies ran out. Standing in the orchard with the last of the year's cider, a single glass, he poured it over the roots of the tree, and unloaded his woes. He wouldn’t be able to return, he told the tree, and thanked it for all it had provided. As he turned away, a man stepped from the shadow of the tree. He told the lad that he was the spirit of the tree and thanked him for understanding the link between the land and the animals and man. He told him where to find his treasure, beneath the roots of the tree, of course, and with that, the young man’s woes were over.
As we continue our morning walk, woman and dog, I marvel at the transformation of the dark, empty streets. The world feels like a different place. Or perhaps that isn’t quite right. It isn’t the world that has changed but my perception of it, my experience of it. The world and rituals of the everyday are for later on and won’t stir until the world begins to wake, and this moment is nothing more than a secret memory. Now though, moving through these unpeopled streets, the spirit of place, while not loud and abrasive, is felt more deeply, its song a soothing melody that can be felt rather than heard. No longer are these just the streets of a council estate, but are instead a living place, one no less worthy of wonder than anywhere else, no less alive than anywhere else.
This is the essence of animism. This is the stuff that fleshes out dry and dusty dictionary definitions. This is the real. It encompasses the well lit street lined with gardens where cats slip in and out of the darkness, and the lonelier places, where the darkness seems to gather and pool, a solidity that seems to swirl and sway the more you look at it. It stretches out beyond the street, over field and river and woods. It is the trees, the plants, the creatures, both waking and sleeping. It is the land and everything that shapes it. It is within us too, and the stories we carry, our own and those we collect and inherit from our interactions with the world and our own history.
Animism brings us back to ourselves. It reminds us we are connected to the land and to one another. It can give strength to people who might feel they have no power in this world. Animism brings us back to our humanity. How can it not? We cannot be connected to the land and everything within it without being connected to one another and ourselves. When we see the land as alive with spirit, how can we fail to see the same within ourselves, within our fellow humans?
As we return home, the street still sleeps. The sky is clear with thousands of stars burning brightly in its dark depths. The moon, just past full, stands sentinel over the land, its light catching on the frost covered land. It’s as though the stars have fallen to earth and cover all with their cold, glittering light.
“People think that stories are shaped by people. In fact it is the other way around.”
~Terry Pratchett
EMMA KATHRYN
Emma Kathryn, practises traditional British witchcraft, Vodou and Obeah, a mixture representing her heritage. She lives in the sticks with her family where she reads tarot, practises witchcraft and drink copious amounts of coffee.
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