tis the season #11

vintage steiff

looking back and looking ahead,

 may your treasured memories

always involve being together.

Joyful New Year!

tis the season #10

my cousin's replica of our oma's christmas cookies

remember those who are no longer here this season.

in so many ways, they are surely still with us.

tis the season #9

wilson and tina                           solomon and judy

equine therapy continues.

christmas photo shoot at the boarding barn.

giddy up jingle horse!

{mr. wilson, shire/thoroughbred cross, recently joined tina

in mending her heart over the loss of mr. chance. they're a good, good match.}

tis the season #8

today is my personal christmas. today is a triumph and blessing. today i took the day off to make my mother's stollen recipe. and it worked. it worked!! this is a yeast bread i have made alongside my mother and last year, alone, i failed in my attempt. but not this year.

this year, i altered the recipe (how daring, considering my very green culinary skills). i eliminated the candied cherries (that dye must be toxic) and substituted dried ones instead. i only made 1/2 the recipe (who has room for 6 loaves in the freezer??) i added more spices. generously. and i will forgo the white frosting on top. melted butter and sprinkles of cinnamon and sugar are what this rustic triumph calls for.

my home smells amazing while they cool. even if the insides aren't as well done as i imagine, they are perfectly perfect for me. finally my mother is here again.

tis the season #7

here in mayberry, usa, we think nothing of sitting on hay bales

 in sub zero weather at night to witness the reenactment of the christmas story.

me, i went to see the sheep.

tis the season #6~ of red aprons and spirit

It was an apron that helped me define it. Red, with snowmen clustered on the front, hung from a hook in the hall closet. It was my mother's. She wore it 2 Decembers ago as we baked for the holiday in her kitchen. It was our last time baking together.

This December I rescued the limp apron from its hook and took it home. It was a recent grey day when I put it on. It was then I realized it was my grandmother's apron because it carried the faint scent of her house. My mother had worn her mother's apron for the 2 Christmases she spent without her. (They died less than 2 years apart.) Now, I wear it, infused with the energy and glad enthusiasm of the 2 women who made my holidays magical.

On a recent grey day in a red apron, standing at my own kitchen sink I could define another undertow in the slow process of grief. I am missing and mourning the loss of the deep feminine spirit in my life. That spirit was held and richly shared by 2 German immigrants who insisted on linen tablecloths, full-course exceptional meals and candles on Christmas trees. They held standards and shared them freely through their feminine wiles not only at Christmas, but all through the year. Without them there is so much less heart and warmth. So much less magic.

It is mine now to bring forth that heart, apron-clad and candles burning. Not just for December, but for every moment of every year I feel capable of bringing my essence and ideas to the fore. The red apron made clear to me the troubles of the earth itself, of this life we all live. We, as a collective, are missing the benefits and safety of the deep feminine spirit. Where ever the feminine strengths are lost or shut out, grief, and even insanity, ensues.

Women of all ages, but particularly women of the age of knowing, mid-life and beyond, bring forth your spirit. Bring forth your warmth and compassion and enveloping ways. Share openly your wiles and ideas that usher us back to safety and love and all that we crave at our core. Be the deep feminine spirit. In aprons, in overalls, in business suits, in glitter. However you evoke magic and meaning in this life, bring it.

Bring it strong and without apology.

We are the sustaining spirit of this earth. 

tis the season #5

buy less.

give more heart.

tis the season #4

there is no one more beautiful than a december bride.

~red roses, hypericum berrries, white freesia, douglas fir tips, frosted cones~

\

tis the season #3

freshen up the traditions.

tis the season #2

for the sake of this planet and especially your soul,

make it more natural this year.

tis the season #1

milkweed and snow

it is in the so-called fallow season that we open most profoundly to ourselves.

dearth without bears fruit within.

listen.

steadfast moonlight

I drove into the full moon on my way home and I remembered when the orb held me in such awe, when I would sit in the backyard as a child, staring and knowing for certain it and my soul were connected; knowing there was magic in moonlight.

I felt none of that driving home.

She asked me the other day if there was a time I had ever felt very happy. My lips were silent while my brain raced around decades, attempting to pull out the period of time I was happy for more than mere moments or days. I said I would have to think about it.

The question, a revelation due to my lack of instant response, was a puzzle I gnawed at. Not wishing for a life revue to come up with something, anything, I remembered 19. Being 19 and being loved and being part of a team with dreams and plans until there was no longer a team and then it was back to me.

It has continued to be me even when it wasn't and the sudden knowing of not knowing how to reclaim the freshness and exuberance of being 19, and the vision of magic in moonlight.

Now, the Crone is tapping my door. So many things have ended. She tells me not everyone has lived their greatest happiness before she comes to call. She speaks of magic, but now it is practical. What was exuberance outside is now waiting to be seen and known as residing within. Residing within, she repeats.

Let happiness be felt in new ways. It will suddenly be sustainable. All I have learned and striven to understand of magic and things unseen live within my cells. If it all feels less shiny now, less wondrous, it is because it is too close to home. Rather, it is home. In mindfulness, in silence, in wearing my mother's ring.

Content is the new happy, she says. Self possession is the new happy. The world is within and now known to be such.

I am the steadfast moonlight.

this is the life #10

at the Royal Winter Fair, Ontario, Canada

~Ames Percherons, at rest~

at the Royal

~Wilson Farms Percheron, at rest~

at the Royal

at the Royal

~Wilderness Ridge Belgians, show time preparations~

at the Royal

~Lor Rob Farm Belgians, here we go~

at the Royal

~Ames and Wilson Farm Percherons, heading to the show ring~

to be so close = dream.come.true.

at the Royal

~Percheron 4 horse hitch~

so few people came

at the Royal

~horse wash after the show~

this is the life #9

mr. solomon~ my continuing therapy and gateway to all things equine

~freshly groomed and back out to the mud lot~

#lovemeanarab

members of the mud lot herd

my first ever grooming set

~a gift today from mr solomon's mama~

#iamofficial

this is the life #8

autumn lace

bounty

the view from the second sitting tree

this is the life #7

deep appreciation for the glory of autumn

orange orb obsession

happy halloween!!

~pumpkin/floral designs by, my friend, tina rainville

this is the life #6

6 pies for thankschristmas

the yellow lady of honor

~yellow callas, yellow roses, green mini hydrangea, hypericum, billy balls~

jack o'tractor

this is the life #5

holding heaven

treat yourself to the best

the bride and her favorite ladies

this is the life #4

"bear", with lisa

~wheel horse for the donnell belgian 6 hitch~

the bride's collection
~ broach bouquet~

"bear" and company in the 6 hitch ring

this is the life #3

here she comes!

~david austen "juliet" roses, hypericum, pink freesia, pale pink roses~

skyline farm percherons

3rd story garden~ brooklyn, ny