The Language of January

The quiet language of January

ancient signs and ancient scripts

on wood and soil and ice

furs and feathers

fungus and feathered friends

rejoicing in singing flight

retreating in crystal covered caves

patiently waiting

slowly

inhaling

 

 

 

The Magic of Winter

So far this winter has been quite unusual. We've had snow, and lots of snow, I think the last time we had a winter like this was when I was a little school girl. The rhythm of the year - spring, summer, autumn, winter - feels more complete and satisfying when there's actually a 'real' winter. Now that we live where we can see the horizon, we have been able to fully immerse ourselves in the 'nature' of winter.

Cold, bright and glittering days, blue sky above and white stars below.

The light of a full moon reflected from every surface of the earth in a night so quiet that you can almost hear the distant voices of the stars singing.

Or magical days where the whole world seems to be full of snow and mist, the silence is intense and you can feel the cold as a thousand tiny kisses on your cheeks.

I went for a walk a magical day like this, there were no sounds except for the crunching from underneath my boots and my own inhalations and exhalations. Earth and sky was covered with a single sheet of sparkling veil, and the trees seemed of an unearthly kind, floating above the earth. Walking, breathing, in this vastness of silence, I had an experience of becoming deeply relaxed and centered in myself. And yet I felt a connection with every sparkling snowflake around me, feeling in tune with the slow breathing of a sleeping Mother Nature.

All the glittering, beautifully intricate ice crystals are water; transformed. If you open your mind, transformation is a gift you can receive.  You know, we're all sparkling, glittering perfect beings, but mostly we need a bit of help to realise it. Let Winter whisper the magic words into your inner ear.

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There is nothing in the world as quiet as snow,
when it gently descends through the air,
   muffles your steps
   hushes, gently hushes
the voices that speak too loud.

There is nothing in the world of a purity like snow's,
swan's down from the white wings of Heaven,
   On your hand a flake
   is like dew of tears,
White thoughts quietly tread in dance.

There is nothing in the world that can gentle like snow,
quietly you listen to the silent ringing.
   Oh, so fine a sound,
   peals of silver bells,
rings within your innermost heart.

Helge Rode (1896)
 Translation from Danish to English copyright © 2006 by Camilla Bugge

Wash Wednesday

Nicole from the poetic and beautiful blog GardenMama is planning a book featuring clothslines from all over the world. Her fascination of clotheslines is something I happen to share, so i thought I'd share mine ...

laundry painted golden by the sunset

I treasure my clothesline, the mere sight of clean clothes waving in a breeze, the smell of cleanness (and perhaps a drop of essential oil for the joy of it) and the feel of damp and cool hands while hanging up the clothes makes me feel at peace.

Queen Anne's Lace through towel

My clotheslines stretches between a couple of old apple trees, to a giant willow tree and to the back of a shed that houses our chickens. I have to walk through the entire garden and through a hedge to get there. It's like walking into some shadowy, private place, and even though I sometimes postpone my »visits« there, I always have this feeling of settling down and enjoying the task.

vintage, apples & sunset

I'm perfectly happy being the owner of an full automatic washing machine. I often think of my grand mother not having one, being a mother of four when disposable diapers wasn't an option. Even my own mother didn't have a washing machine when my brother an I was in the diapering age. She had a big pot for diapers and had to wash every other day, stirring and boiling.

Being a task of free will, I am happy to wash clothes by hand. Especially wool and silks. Washing by hand is something children of all ages enjoy, and it is quite a popular occupation in my home. I've placed some washbowls and some washboards and a small drying rack on my terrace, and a lot of washing is taking place outside in the sun.

Outdoors: trailing

When the snow is just a layer of fine powder, it's an excellent opportunity for finding out who's been visiting - the kind of visitors that doesn't knock on the door ...
So we went outdoors in search of trails. And: joy & glee - there were trails everywhere!

What could this be? - ah, our own cat Alva: she loves to sit on woodpiles ... let's see what else she's been up to!

... hm - elementary, my dear Watson!

Very determent little fellow with a brisk pace ...

... suddenly vanished from the surface of the earth. Hm! Oh, he went up in a tree - a pheasant!

This little guy had been tottering about - apparently with no clue where to go...

This guy was even smaller. Either he found the layer of snow to be very deep - or he was so tired he had to haul himself forward through it.

Hooray - BIG footprints!

Oh! Somebody took a nap here, we might even interrupt in the middle of it.

The trail went as the crow flies to and from the little spot with melted snow.

We simply had to follow the trail - over the fields we went in our search ...

... only stopping to examin some leftovers - rotten apples for a snack!

Finally! There she was, but not on her own. A doe with her fawns! She wasn't happy about us approaching, so they moved farther away.

My little strong-minded boy in resolute pursuit of three tiny dots in the horizon.

:: :: :: ::

Please take your time to let trails lead you to new places. Let your child tell you what he sees and what he thinks. Tell him stories from your own childhood; perhaps you were trailing with your dad too, or you once stumbled upon a sleeping fox in the woods. Try not to explain everything and bring reference books along. Let your child experience the magic of Mother Nature telling her own stories. And marvel at his natural ability for listening.

1000 grunde til ikke at blogge

Det tog mere end et år at overbevise mig selv om at det var i orden at blogge. Jeg måtte igennem alle tænkelige udgaver af hvorfor, hvordan og hvorledes. Men jeg kan så let som ingenting finde 1000 grunde til ikke at blogge. Her er et lille udvalg:

Sejle med avispapirsbåde

Lave blomsterranker

Opleve fødsler på nært hold

Holde øje med bitte små blå æg og overraskes og glædes over de dunede små

Lege udklædningslege med de skønne grønne klæder

Lave små kunstværker - eller Land art …

- og dele den med andre

- men jeg bliver nok ved med at blogge alligevel. For det er også sjovt - når jeg har tid!!

(Billederne af fuglereden, blomsterspiralen og William der æder den er taget af A, 8 år)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1000 reasons not to blog.

It took more than a year to convince myself it was all right to blog. I had to go through all the why's, what's and how's. But I can as easy as pie think of a 1000 reasons not to blog. Here is a few:
· sailing with newspaper boats
· making flower garlands
· being present at the birth of a lamb
· watching nests with tiny blue eggs, and marvel at the little downy one's
· dressing up in fair green clothes
· making art - Land Art
· - and sharing it with others
- but I will probably keep on blogging anyway. Because that's fun as well - when I've got the time!!

(The photos of the birds nest, the flower spiral and William eating it by A, 8 years old)

Jorden grønnes ...

- og det første der kommer op er sprængfyldt af alt dét vi blege vintervæsner har brug for. Man skulle være et skarn at brokke sig over alle de skvalderkål og brændenælder der skyder op nu - og i min have i et særdeles rigt mål.

Børnene blev sendt ud for at høste de spæde skud, grøntsager blev klargjort og bålet tændt.


Umm, varm suppe og snobrød, en lun martsaften og en smuk solnedgang, det er bare godt!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The weeds begin to sprout ...

Making soup over a fire with the first green shoots of stinging nettles and goutweed, enjoying a mild march evening.

Nisserne i træet

Min bror kom på besøg med sin sav for at hjælpe os med at lave brænde til næste vinter. Lille S. (også kendt som Lille Hjælper) skyndte sig ud i skoven med sin lille sav. Farver og dolke blev hentet og der var livlig aktivitet ved bålpladsen.

Det viste sig at der faktisk boede en hel nissefamilie i elletræet...

Dette er A's historie om nisserne

Der var engang to nisser som var ude at gå en tur i skoven. Men de følte sig så ene og alene. Nissedamen sagde "skal vi ikke få nogen børn?". Og Nissemanden sagde "Jo, det er en god idé!". Og så besluttede de sig at gå over under bregnen og få børn. Og så fik de endelig børn.

En dag da Lille Bark var ude at gå en tur i svampene oppe i træet blev han ked af det, fordi han ikke kunne finde hjem. Han kaldte på sin mor. Men da moren ikke svarede begyndte han at græde.

Pludselig opdagede Nissefamilien at Lille Bark var væk. De ledte mellem krokusserne. Nissefar råbte "Lille Bark, hvor er du?"

Endelig fandt de Lille Bark som stod og græd på en svamp oppe i træet. Nissefar og Nissemor blev rigtig glade for at se ham, og det samme blev Nissesøster og Nissebror.

Nissesøster blev lidt bekymret for om hun skulle dratte ned, men Nissefar sagde at de bare skulle holde fast i mosset.

Og nu besluttede nisserne at de ville passe rigtig godt på Lille Bark, så han ikke blev væk igen.