​The Promise of spring. A pair of swans our wetland preserve, and the arrival of a tiny, gorgeous spirit horse!
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​                    Five days old, born on the equinox . . .

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After spending three magical days and nights with us our amazing turkey friends vanished. Returning to the wild, just as mysteriously as they had come.

While they visited the turkeys followed me everywhere, seeming to have no fear. In the morning they were waiting by the front door, then would come along as I walked the rounds of chores.

First the big tom, then all the hens followed along down the little path, and yes, even on into the barn.! They were all so curious, investigating everyone and everything. Once satisfied they stood around watching and chirping as I fed and watered all our usual barn friends.

The really odd thing was, it was never about food as some might like to think. They just seemed genuinely to want to be near us, strangely curious and bonded. And always looking up, talkative. Chattering  away in their own mysterious and ancient language, as if trying to convey something of great importance. 

Two of the nights the turkeys flew to the top of our two story house and roosted on the peak of the roof. The third night they took up position on the front porch. Two roosting on the back of the bench left of the door, two on the back of the bench right of the door. As if they were watching over us, sentinels of earth energy and and deep wild power. 

The next morning the turkeys were up early, a rosy-gold light tinting the frosty trees and ground. They hopped off their perches, then walked single file away towards the woods.  Never to be seen again. 

The experience was astounding, the magic intense, real and humbling. We will never see a turkey the same again.

The spirit of Earth Eagle came, there was grace, we are honored.
Thank you.

SvG


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Snow lies on the ground, winter continuing to shroud the land. Most of the wild animals are staying hidden away out of sight. Only the occasional set of tracks testifies to unseen activities and lives.

That is why this mornings encounter was such a surprise.. 

First there was a commotion in the yard Our male shepherd was stalking something. Then there was a whirl of black and white fur, flapping wings and grey-brown feathers. We called out, hurriedly retrieving our little buddy from his glorious chase.

To our surprise the feathers belonged to a large wild tom turkey. Along with three hens the bird had evidently been snatching food from the bird feeder-tub on the front porch.

After a few minutes every one had calmed down and our new acquaintances cautiously climbed the few steps back onto the porch.

We watched in awe. In a lifetime of experience and nature watching neither of us had ever been this close to a wild turkey. Normally these wary creatures flee in a panic before one even sees them. And these were completely wild birds.

After a time of viewing them through the large sliding door, I ventured to squat down and open it a crack. Speaking softly, I held out a handfull of seeds and corn. The turkeys chirped, gurgled and tweeted sweetly amongst themselves, seeming more cautious and curious than afraid.

Soon the hen with the bluest head approached. She held my gaze for a moment or two, considering. Then she actually took the feed. Slowly, gently I reached towards her with the other hand. We connected, my fingers brushing the feathery softness of her breast, the moment was powerful, pure. 

The magic continued. For hours. My new friends were soon following along behind as I made my way to the barn for morning chores. They investigated everything. The buildings, the fences, the other animals. Then as I threw some scratch feed to Mr. Rooster and his hens, I called toward the turkeys. Gathering around my feet, they watched attentively as I tossed a little feed their way too.

Then it was back to the house. The turkeys stayed by the barn, hens feeding,. male intent on displaying and performing a little wing dragging circle dance. Claiming his girls, his new territory.

After a while I went back outside and called. It was truly amazing. There the turkeys came, slowly, single file, from the nearby cedar woods. Through the yard, up the path and back onto the porch to peck up the cracked corn placed in a pan for them.

And I've heard it said that turkeys are among the stupidest of animals. These amazing wild beings learned in one un-orchestrated session the meaning of my sing-song dinner call.

                                       Spirit Sisters


When you are your authentic self, walking in stillness, not wanting, nature and Mother Earth respond. Then, in innocence, true connection takes place.
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                                       Earth Eagle

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Sacred messengers of abundance, trust, dignity, innocence, peace, harmony and shared blessings.


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                                 The Curious One

Deep Peace, 
SvG


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Last night lightening flashed, thunder rumbled and the wind howled along the drive and lane. The shapes of tall white pines swayed wildly against the dark of the sky. As I lay awake listening, the change was palpable, the night full of mystery, and magic.  

Later I dreamed of a young woman with the wide fierce eyes of an owl. She stood on a mountain top, dark hair flying in the wind. Music came, she danced to a gypsy tune and reached out, hand seeking mine.

Rain thrummed steadily on the roof. Tears spilled down my cheeks.  Staining the pillow, shimmering softly in the first faint light of the coming dawn. 

I recalled a time long ago, when the still of the winter solstice and the dark of the new moon conspired to bring on a birth. A little girl. The third of three lives I would love with the deep, true love only a mothers heart knows. 

She was mystery and quiet, beauty and night. A child of the deep, the winter,  the horse-path of ancient knowledge and wisdom. A precious gift from the Great Divine.

                                            * * *
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Tonight an owl calls in the dark. Snow enfolds the earth, bringing softness and silence. The solstice grows nearer.

Decades have waxed and waned, solstices and winters come and gone. Yet still, the memory is present and clear. Through the disordered maze of stones and sorrows littering the way between us, Love flows. A great strong river, sweeping away all doubt. The time is precious and unforgotten. 

In my dreams the raven haired girl remembers too . . .


The dark thins and fades, the owl falls silent. Dawn dances rose and gold along the eastern edge of the horizon. Night reaches completion and winter nods bravely to the warmth and possibilities of spring.

The sun is on the verge of a long slow rise away from this shadow-time of healing and reflection. 

​The light is returning, inevitably, and surely as it has for countless  generations. Life goes on. The cycles turning, completing, turning again. And just as surely, Love goes on too. Lighting the dark, dancing on the mountain tops, whispering its secrets and possibilities on the wind

You are mystery and quiet
Beauty and night
Daughter of the winter
Child of the Light . . .

Love and Blessings,
SvG

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                          WHEAT STRAW HORSE

                                The process of creation
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                                       Day Four
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                                       Week Three
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                                      Week Five
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                   Elements of the land woven and bound,
                           into a unique and magical work of art.
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Well here we are again. In that space between summer and winter.

This morning the first light of the sun turned dew into diamonds, and warmed the autumnal flowers into fragrance. Cranes called to their families and lifted off. Their lanky, blue grey shapes silhouetted against a backdrop of just harvested, grain-fields gave weight to the change sensed clearly in the air. From beneath a pile of stones, a cricket chirped, the slow notes of his song betraying last nights lingering chill.

 Stepping through the silvery damp of the grasses, my feet left a trail of bent blades and dark green prints. Spiders clung to sagging webs draped from weed to weed. Silken strands held the moisture, looking like tiny strings of translucent pearls in the new light. 

Soft calls and restless movements announced my arrival as I drew nearer the barn. Enclosed safely within wood sided corrals, gentle-eyed cows and tiny horses waited, each eager for apple treats and release into their grazing fields.

Begging goodies for his hens, Mr. Rooster called out too. Taking care of them all, and walking proud little mares and stallion to their pasture, each moment shone with beauty, and grace. 

Just as chores were finished our resident Redtail Hawk came to perch in the cedar grove just north of the barn. She whistled in greeting as she often does. I spoke out softly to her. She answered, honoring our little world with a cascade of talkative chucks and chirps.

Unafraid, this fierce creature of the wild trusts and communicates. Even asking for help when 'great-white-hunters' come stalking the nearby woods.

Life is truly amazing in its interconnectedness.

If only the illusion could be dispelled and we all understood that separation does not actually exist. That nothing, and no one, is ever really alone. That unobstructed connection and trust, carries us through the gateway. Unveils our authentic selves. And ultimately, brings us face to face with destiny.

                                           Blessings, SvG







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Last night there was more rain. Splashing on the deck. Filling the ponds to overflowing. Drumming steadily on the roof. 

This morning the wild honeysuckle along the lane had turned from yesterdays bare brown to a hedge of lacy, green. In their rock-edged gardens, daffodils nodded, growing fuller by the moment. In just a day or two there will be clumps of happy yellow blossoms.

New life is all around us here on the farm. Trees are budding, songbirds incubating clutches of eggs, and even insects have suddenly appeared. The grass and early weeds are already several inches high.

In the barn, feathers rustling softly, a hen clucks and settles on her nest box. Our male dove adds his gentle tones. Throat puffed, he coos and dances for his own pink-footed lady.

I toss some feed in a bucket.

Mama goat dives in, eating hungrily. At her side, tails wagging, two goatlings suckle vigorously at her full, warm udder. Just a few days old, the little twins have already been playing king-of-the-mountain on the old cinder blocks in their enclosure!

Deep in her straw bedded stall, a tiny mare munches hay, feeling the kicks and stirrings of her unborn foal. Small cow stares, and shakes her horns. She lows softly. Soon it will be her turn at pregnancy and birth.

Taking care of them all, the wonder of new life is present and real.

A small, red form zips by my feet. I can't help but smile.
​It's evident, when you are a fuzzy puppy, every day is a very good day indeed.

Happy Springtime Blessings,
                                SvG

Like birds in flight we wing our way through life. Buffeted by gusts. Sailing calm skies. Feeling the sudden rush of updrafts. We soar with the eagles, bank with the swallows and make our way homeward with the wild white swans.

Swept up by memories, I found myself carried into the realms of the past today.

As I stepped across the new fallen snow I was young again, belly swollen with the first of the three lives I would carry. Pacing softly through the drifts, walking my way beyond pain, I moved with the new life struggling to be born.

Inhaling distance and time, I breathed in the frosty air until there was no sense of division. I was there. Giving life, giving birth, giving love, in the cold grey hours just before dawn. My body felt the pull of the full round moon, my spirit the pull of the heart.

The memories flew me into a red sunrise. I watched the new mother that was me, holding her small dark haired son. I remembered the faint sweet smell, the feel of the tiny frame, the beating of the little heart, rapid and fragile as a bird’s.  
  
Rose and gold spread across the land. The moon set, the sun rose and the baby sent his first fierce cry out into the world. The sound reverberated across the years and fell softly into the snow at my feet. Looking down I saw my sons face in the curve of a footprint, the shape of a shadow.

Grown now and lost to the tides of life, I can no longer touch him, or see the light in his eyes. But no matter the time or distance I will always hear his heartbeat. Thrumming on the wind, whispering to my own heart.
 
Even the lonely vulture is a bird of power and grace in flight.  Restorer of harmony and balance, he was held sacred by the shamans of old. A totem of the dance between life and death, male and female, light and dark, he bravely carried the sun to its proper place in the sky. Singeing his body, burning off every neck feather in the process.

I look up and see two great birds. One smoky dark, one with snowy head and tail. They circle, wings spread, playing on the wind. Bound by feather and bone, season and circumstance, they swoop and dive in almost perfect unison.

To restore our own connection and harmony perhaps we too must be willing to dare the fire, go beyond boundaries and conditioning, and carry the sun. Perhaps it is in the burning that we will finally awaken to the sacred, spread wide our wings and find balance.

The sun grows higher, shining bright across the snow. The shadows and memories fade. Another year has flown by. Soon the wild swans will be winging their way homeward.

Listening, I can hear the faint thrum,
​                    of a heartbeat on the wind . . .
                                 
                                                             SvG

'Today is cloudy, cold and grey. Earlier the wind blew in short strong gusts through the leafless branches of the big, old Box Elder by our home.

Everything is still now. Mother Earth quiet, getting ready for the coming storm.

Long ago on a similar day a child was born. A little boy with golden hair and eyes like a lions. A mother's love, a mother's pride. Born amid great tall oaks and slow southern hills. On a farm overlooking river curves and the blue-grey folds of ancient peaks., it was a time balanced precisely between winter and spring.

Years passed, the mother's true heart loved deep, but the bond was thwarted. and broken, taken by the hunger of one whose emptiness could never be filled. A thief with grasping arms and a mouth full of cleverness and false divinity. Usurper of innocence and God-given rights.

More years passed and the boy grew into a man. The mother's true heart loved on. Steady and unwavering she waited.. Getting ready for the storm which would one day come.

The wind whispered, the seasons sailed by, winter, spring, summer ,autumn. Still the mother waited, drawing strength from her love, her trust.

The cycles of the wheel turned, the stars shimmered on their courses, and yet another winter melted slowly into spring.

Great storms came, tiding over the weak and unwary, blowing through walls and doorways, seeking to restore the natural order of lands, and hearts.

In this impelling time, between winter and spring, wild geese cry and take flight, wing to wing, with last years children. 

The mother's true heart loves on, remembering closeness and a bond shared only by one.

Long ago a child was born . . . 

                                             SvG

Last evening was cold, white and mysterious. Alongside the three quarter moon, Venus lit up the southwestern sky with unusual brilliance. Following its ancient course across the heavens, the Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon., and on Orion's right shoulder a glittering red star graced the night.

In the woods, two Great Horned owls called back and forth, their voices restless and urgent.

There is more daylight now. A subtle shift moves  through the land. Tiny whisperings awaken roots and branches, small squeaks and rustlings increase, as word spreads that the green fire is stirring.

The not-so-wild creatures sense something too. Our small horses have already begun to shed a little of their winter woolies, goat-friend's golden eyes glow with the new life growing within her, and little moon-cow dreams of sunshine and meadows.

The green fire comes in other ways as well. Sometimes it comes in the form of shimmering northern lights, or luminescence on the sea, or foxfire on a soft southern evening. Sometimes it comes as the taste of summer wine, wind among the leaves, or the light in a lovers eyes.

Last night it came as a huge green fireball. Streaking hot-tailed across the sky, until  it exploded and fell like a thousand stars into the great dark lake below. I was awake when it happened. First an emerald flash, then silence. The owls were still, the land surprised and waiting.

Wild green power reverberated through the darkness. 

Words came. Forming, unfurling . . .Time to awaken. Time to shed. Time to send out new shoots, give birth to dreams, and sing out loud to the sun. 

 The green fire is stirring. Open your heart and welcome in spring.
                                                        
​                                                               SvG

                                 

    This evening fell soft and still, as if all of the land and her wild creatures knew that a new wave of cold was on the way. Walking to the barn in the twilight I had to step carefully, wary of slick patches of ice and scattered water puddles, leftovers from the days unseasonal warmth.
   Like usual, when the outer door swung open, nickering, bleating, clucking and cooing greeted me as all eyes watched eagerly for their  caretakers arrival. I breathed deeply, taking in the earthy essences of sweet hay, animal breath, manure and damp old wood.
   Going about the chores of feeding, watering and bedding down stalls for the night, I felt the closeness of mother nature and the ancient ways of our ancestors. In that life-affirming moment of awareness the veils between past, present and future seemed to flutter away into the night.
    I sang with the doves, stroked the soft mane of the little stallion, and wished sweet dreams to the chickens on their roost. Life was good and full, the night alive with magic and wonder as I closed up the barn and made my way back towards the warmth of the house and those waiting there.
    For me it is often the simplest, most basic things that bring the greatest peace, joy and satisfaction. I often wonder what life is like for those who run so hard after money, things and so-called success. Does the wonder of a birds flight or the beauty of a spiders perfect web ever make its way through the deluge of distractions? Does the wisdom of a tree, or the silence of a stone ever gain even a moments notice? 
    
     Late in the deep-magic hours just before dawn, the frosty heart of winter echoed with the haunting calls of an owl singing to his mate. A slight breeze moved the curtain as we listened through the half opened window and knew that this time of dark and cold would soon pass and the stir of new life begin again. Cycles and seasons, the mysterious turning of the  Great Wheel . . .
                                             . 

                      Breathe deep, listen to the wind
                    and remember your own true Song.
                                 Blessings, SvG


    
    

            Hello again friends, it has certainly been a while! 
    I sincerely hope that you have all been happy and well, or at least have managed to keep centered and in touch with the amazing journey of life no matter where it has led you. 

   Where to begin . . . So much has happened here on the farm, in our personal lives, and of course beyond in the greater world of family, friends, nature and humanity.

    It is mid summer here now, the days are hot, long and often humid with afternoon thunderstorms. Not so conducive to the busy outdoor labor of earlier months. Gears shift and the natural rhythms slow a bit, entering into the waiting time, the space between planting and harvesting, growth and fruition, formation and fulfillment.
   In the garden the first of the heirloom tomatoes are ripening, sweet corn has tassled and formed silk tufted ears, and the cool-loving lettuces are beginning to wither and turn bitter as they always do this time of year.
 Mediterranean herbs and hot pepper plants are thriving in their compost beds however, seeming to absorb and concentrate the fire of the midsummer sun in the small forms of their leaves and swelling fruits. Later they will remind us of tan-lines and sweat, and add a touch of warmth to cold winter days when we crack open a jar of spiced pickles, or drop a shriveled pepper-mummy into a slow-simmering pot of soup.
   In the basement earthy aromas of fermenting sauerkraut, pickles and jugs of flower wine permeate the air, while shelves grow heavy with canned goods, wheels of aging cheeses and a surplus of drying herbs. Life is rich and good, its cycles never ending, yet always complete, like the timeless movement of the cosmos, the steady breath of the great What Is.

    So many of us are being stretched, tested and humbled these days, whether through unexpected inner shifts, or through the shock and challenge of inescapable outer events and circumstances. It seems that we are being asked to integrate every experience and nuance of our lives into full expression and presence, leaving nothing out, letting nothing slip by.
   No matter how we struggle, suffer and resist, that is the gift that is being offered. The gift to step out of the fight, to experience life completely and fully. To embrace each moment with absolute trust and stillness of mind, allowing the space within the usual busyness that is our daily life, to grow and blossom For there, in this space between, in the quiet beingness of the moment, is our harvest, our fulfillment, and ultimately,  the grace of lasting Peace . . .

                                              Blessings, SvG

                                        

   

   

                          (Original SvG Composition)

   
​    After several months of unusual warmth winter has finally come and dropped a few cloudfulls of snow on our little world. The geese, swans, cranes and ducks that love to stop over on our protected wetland preserve have all gone now, perhaps enjoying balmier, sun-drenched southern climes. 
   Small horse and little moon-cow have put on some winter weight, grown thick woolly coats and don't usually want to leave the comfort of their deep, golden straw-beds. We humans are staying warm and cozy as well, safe in the enfolding walls of our little cabin-house.         Outside, the snow falls in tiny frozen crystal-flakes and drifts into wind shaped ripples, reminding one of beach sands and long, golden, summer days. Yet winter is a time of tempering and reflection, a perfect backdrop for creative endeavor, regeneration and healing. Our ancestors living close to the land understood . . . they honored and acknowledged earths ancient cycles, moving in rhythm with her instead of inhabiting artificial uni-season environments which has become a way of life for so many of us now. 
   It seems to me that we are missing something vital, nourishing and rich in our relentless quest to control and dominate the natural world.  After all, it is the tree that is challenged and experiences all of the nuances of seasons and weather that grows the sturdiest and has the most character in the end.
   
   A few weeks ago we were awakened by flashes of lightening and the strange sounds of muffled thunder and were lucky enough to experience a very rare phenomenon known as Thundersnow. Amazing and quite wonderous . . . such a magical gift!
   Yes, snow has certainly been the focus here of late, shoveling it, driving through it, walking in it, catching it on clothes and hair, eyelashes and lips, marveling at its perfect crystalline design . . . No wonder the notes came so easily one morning, guiding my heart
and fingers, as I watched the ancient, white wonder
of softly falling snow . . . . . .  
                          
                                        Wintertime Blessings, SvG
   

                                    (Part One)

    Deep in admiration of natures perfection, the man smiled slightly as he lifted the warm smoothness of the carved wooden drumming stick and began to play the rhythms that called out from his inmost being. As he began his journey the old apple tree before him beckoned like a siren, drawing him irresistibly in towards the rough, dark hole at its base. Slowly the man allowed his mind to become quiet and still, until all thought was absorbed into the intertwined beatings of his heart and the drum held by the rough twine bracing. 
    On and on the rhythm flowed, resonating through the cloudy, greyness of the day, permeating every nuance and aspect of the drummers life. He found his body growing strangely buoyant, and observed as if from a distance, as it slipped easily into the hole in the old trees gnarled trunk. Soon he was falling down, down among the thick tangle of roots and rich black earth. He reached out curiously, his hand sliding over the hard, round forms of stones and pebbles.
    Looking about the drummer saw small creatures moving, eating and hiding among a myriad of tiny filaments and rootlets. Everything was extraordinarily clear and detailed as if lit by the midday sun. He kept moving, spiraling ever downward until soon all signs of livingness had vanished and he was enveloped only by an impenetrable darkness. Then the man noticed that he could smell the rich, ancient essence of minerals, secret crystal pools and water veins. Reaching out with his mind he felt a presence that could only be described as  the flesh, bones and soul of the very earth herself.

   The man moved boldly into that presence and was soon swept away before a tide of indescribable power and beauty. He was no longer a separate entity, but melded and become one with all that had ever been, was, or would be. He flowed through light and darkness, enfoldment and unfoldment, carried away beyond any last vestiges of form or time. He passed into eternity, no longer existing.
   The man, in his essence of pure spirit, experienced the totality of all lives, movements, realities. Nothing remained hidden, it was an awareness that could never be held, or named.
   Then as he floated in pure potentiality, an effulgent form began to materialize and take shape before him. It was a great burning bird of light. From its beak issued forth a sound that toned like the very song of the universe itself and reflected in its flickering fire-eyes was the knowledge which men had lived, killed, sought and died for since the beginning of time.
   The man felt vast, shimmering waves of the great birds heat pouring over and through his soul until it was filled beyond bursting. Then suddenly he began to spiral, faster and faster, until he too was all light and fire, a song pouring forth through a vibration that could no longer be defined . . .
​

                                 (Part Two)

​   The drum sounded on and on, its rhythm steady, unchanging . . . The man was aware of the surface beat as well as the deeper, hypnotic pulse of under-tones that wove in and out keeping a  pattern all their own. A melody sounded into form, carried on the warp and weft of the living tones.. It joined up with the man, flowing through the undulations of his own soul song like a great wild river.
   The man found himself riding the crest of the river until he was carried to the edge of a high precipice that reached out over a vast landscape. As his sight cleared and followed a range of high peaked mountains then dipped down onto a small crystal lake at their feet, the man noticed a creature of supreme loveliness floating serenely amongst the reeds and lilies.
    A lone swan with a feathers as black as the darkest night gleamed like polished onyx as it turned beneath the sun. The creature gazed directly towards the clifftop watcher then dipped and curved its elegant neck, pointing at a vision reflected on the surface of the water. The man looked closer, staring hard before he was able to make out what was being shown there.
   Horses ran across the vision, seeming to leap across every boundary of time or distance. They carried the beat and magic of distant drumbeats in the galloping rhythms of their hard black hooves. Behind them walked a spirit-woman of breathtaking beauty. She held a painted skin drum in her hands and effortlessly matched the horses proud steps as well as the mans own racing heartbeats. The woman's long dark hair streamed behind, a flowing raven cloak that held the shine of sun, moon and stars in each and every strand.
    Then all changed, the man was no longer looking down from the precipice but was dancing in perfect unison with the dark haired swan-maiden. Drums and horses pounded about them, the hypnotic rhythms sounding out through all dimensions and worlds.. Eternity passed, a slowly turning sacredness, until the sky above sang, the swan-maiden cried out, and the still lake whipped up with a sudden storm as lightening flashed and thunder rolled in the heavens.  
   The man fell to his knees and reached out through the veil of sudden darkness for substance and tangibility. His groping fingers felt first, smooth layered stone, then, twisting, curling rootlets as he moved step by step up through a tunnel of rock and rich black earth. Soon he emerged into the light of day to find his body sitting frozen before a rough-barked old apple tree. The hole in the trees middle seemed to be glowing mysteriously with a gradually dwindling golden light.
    Looking down the man was almost surprised to see the silent round form of a painted drum gripped tight in his hands. Then he noticed something else . . . next to his jean clad right thigh lay three strands of  raven hair twisted around a feather that gleamed as black as the darkest night. Precious gifts that had come from a reality that lay as far away as eternity, and yet, just as close as the beating of his own heart.
   The man carefully tucked the gifts away, rose to his feet and set out for the familiarity of his usual life, routine and home. On the distant horizon he thought that he could just make out the form of a large black bird flying away over the edge of the world and feel in his soul the faint, far off pulse of drum song . . . . 
   
​                                                 SvG

   Dear Friends,

   Today I knew the feeling of flight at earth level. After having spent the last few months training our small, enchanted, horse friend to cart it all came together and the two of us set out on our first adventure. The little mare had come into our lives a wild, blue spark of spirit and horse fire. Now settled into the routine of farm and family life, she has gracefully accepted being taught the responsibilities and joys of true partnership. Each day we practice the steps that it takes to dance in unison, trust and harmony. 

   In her new harness and soft fleece pads the small equine lifts her slender legs proudly as if she is sure that this is what she was born to do. As we fly down the drive and leafy back lane the rhythm of hard black hooves creates a music that is hard to resist. I find myself humming along as my soul soars away with the wind. If only each moment lived was just this simple and free . . . 
   Going on at an energetic trot every detail and nuance of the day rises clear against a back drop of sheer magic and joy. . .The precise, delicate weaving of a spiders web swaying between two twigs, a small puddle glistening with reflections of sun and sky, a tiny, dark furred creature darting through a jungle of flowers and sedges. In the air a familiar hint of autumn stirs the senses and the smell of mushrooms, falling leaves and ripened apples add their own delights.
    Later on in the evening, by the faded light of sunset and a quarter moon, wild geese fly in wave after wave of v-formation sounding their mysterious autumnal calls and songs. The moment stands still, eternal in its beauty and absolute perfection 
   How is it that we humans so often let such events slip by without noticing? How is it that we seem to have forgotten our ancient connections to the natural world and spend the days, weeks and years walled away in the artificial security of houses, jobs and cities? How much longer can we survive an existence without the unfiltered sun on our faces, the healing vitality of grasses and trees, the songs of birds, the untamed ferocity of hungry hunters, or the cyclical movements of the great herds, flocks and migrations?
   Have we become so dull, arrogant and complacent that we no longer feel the sacredness of our ancestral heritage, are we really no longer curious or sure of what it means to be truly human? I would ask . . .When was the last time that you really looked at the moon, the stars, the fragile butterfly floating by on her thousand mile journey? . . .When was the last time that you fell so deeply in love with the incredible richness of life that the ache in your soul brought tears to your eyes?
   Perhaps, like the song of the phoenix, such freedom can only come with the willingness to catch fire and rise burning, from ones own ashes. Then reborn like an eagle, to fly beyond the mediocrity that has so sadly become the reality of most human existence, we too would more fully taste the essence of our own lives.
   
    Trotting down the lane again today, the ancient rhythm of hoof-beats reverberates hypnotically through my mind reaffirming the truth that we are all part and parcel of the great Divine, unknowing dancers whirling to the ever-flowing pulse of the cosmos. . . . Trot-trot-trot, hum-me-hum, the song pours through my spirit and soul . . . Then, before my eyes, a fleeting shadow passes across the land, a great smoldering fire-bird soaring high on wings of purest silver . . . . . . . . 


                                  Deep Peace,  SvG


                                     


                                     

Dearest Friends,

   The seasons are moving on and even though the weather has been hot and sweltering of late, summer is in slow decline now. In the fields and pastures small, purple asters have bloomed tentatively  among the  fading chicory, Queen Anne's' lace and golden rod . . . a sure sign that autumn is just around the corner. Our small horse friend, chickens, love-dove and moon-cow are shedding fur and feathers, obviously getting ready for cooler times with new, warmly layered, winter coats. 
   Across the road, on the wetland preserve, ducks and geese are beginning to flock and gather, instinctively drawn towards the ancient pathways of their fall migration routes. It's definitely beginning, the sure downward spiral into winter and the long, patient wait until the coming of another spring. Life, once again, cycling and weaving its way through eternity. . . 
   I have been pondering and considering something recently, the powerful, mysterious forces that draw and bind us to certain events, locations and people. What is it that moves us each along our individual paths of living and dwelling? How is it that our intuitions, dreams and longings can lead us into places and circumstances that we would otherwise pass by or fearfully avoid?
   The knowing that comes silently on little cat feet and winds its way into our hearts and minds, a small or great disturbance, a gentle wind that ruffles our hair and consciousness, a beckoning song that calls us to follow its soul-felt direction . . . Those sometimes easy and sometimes forceful hints that our lives have grown encrusted, stagnant and mediocre, no longer humming with the fires of aliveness, joy, and curiosity. 
   Every so often we are challenged to let go it seems. Forced to surrender to those mysterious inner plans that we were all born with, moved irresistibly along to where we have to, must, go . . . Just as the great migrations move our fellow creatures forward on their individual and collectively inherited journeys. The great river of life sweeping all before it on waves of divine intelligence and order.
   Through time and circumstance our lives shift, change and transform in this amazing earthly existence, no one phase more profound or rich than any other in the sacred scheme of things. And yet, in our own individual worlds the events can seem huge and overwhelming. Birth, death, loss and gain . . . the powerful transformations that affect us all, the choiceless migrations of lives, souls and earthly securities in and out of our own small worlds of existence.
   The real question is, what do we do with these changes? How do we proceed after loss or disappointment. Do we settle forever into suffering, self pity, anger and depression, or do we rejoice in the living wonder, beauty and richness that these experiences are all part of, opening wide to the endless flow of love and possibility still awaiting?
   Migratory paths haunt us all, sooner or later our lives will change and move on. Like the fragile Monarch butterfly and the great flocks of gathering waterfowl, we too will give way to the inevitable flow of life's cycles and seasons. Leaving us with nothing but to trust that we are being unerringly guided to the places, people and circumstances that will help move us exactly to that which we were born to experience and do in this life. And perhaps, we may even be drawn just a little bit deeper into the shining, limitless, light of love and understanding.

                           Peace, Blessings, SvG

   Hello Again Fellow Travelers,

   Thunder rumbled heavily through the humid air and the land felt the cooling relief of towering cloud shadows, the kind that only come with late summer storms. Sitting beneath swaying green-branched cedar trees talking with my dear sisters, I felt the wind and my heart pick up as we laughed and reminisced easily about bygone adventures and travails. Perched above, a long time resident of this bit of earth which my husband and I temporarily call home, a red-tail hawk elder had noticed my arrival and had come to join in the conversation with her own soft, clucking chatter. Thus far, she remained unnoticed by the pesky black-feathered crows that seemed to love tormenting her.
   The hawk had lived here for a little over two decades now. She had been part of this particular landscape and community years prior to when I myself had arrived. She had known and trusted the man (now my husband) long before I was even aware that he or she existed. This wise, wild being had flown with him through his most precious experiences as well as his most difficult years, giving comfort in her far ranging freedom, fierce beauty, and her constant presence in a world of shifts and change. And, likewise, the hawk had trusted this lanky, unlikely, golden haired man-being to protect the forests, creatures and land where she hunted and nested. Once he had even witnessed her sacred, aerial mating dance as she tumbled gracefully into eternity with the fiery male whom she had chosen to share her life and spirit.
   The mate was long dead now, and most of the land sold off for a price much too high. But still the beautiful lady hawk came to warn of intruders as well as just to chat with old friends in the twilight of her long life. She seemed to know that her enduring human companion and fellow steward was soon leaving for good, passing away into the beckoning arms of another land and skyscape never to return. Others would come and stay here, but they would likely never notice the old queen of the air as she watched them with knowing golden eyes from hidden perch or spiraling flight path. She would never have the same bond with a human again, but that was alright. She had lived a long, good life and no doubt would soon be going away herself . . . called by the Great Spirit to soar the limitless updrafts of other realms and skies, far beyond the reach of cold, hunger, greed and mistrust. 
   Times come and go, the old giving way to the new . . .the mysterious cycles and transformative rhythms of life carry us all across the ages . . . a fierce, wild bird soaring the currents, outstretched wings brushing the earth, reflection mirrored in glistening ripples on the endless, rolling swells of creations great cosmic sea.
   Yes, times have changed and we here in our own small world and way are busy cleaning up the last of a lifetimes worth of residues and memories in preparation for a brand new life and the living of it. Farewell precious land, farewell trees and flowers, waterways and starry sky-dome above, our time here is up now. Much honoring to you all, and gracious appreciation for everything that you have shared and given. Goodbye fellow creatures of the land, deer and foxes, voles and otters, wolves and eagles, as well as all the tiny ones of pond, earth and air. Sincerest farewell to each . . . especially, one divine, and extraordinarily beautiful, red-tailed Lady Hawk . . . . . . 

     Peace and Blessings,
         May you each prosper in love, gratitude and new beginnings, 
                                                               SvG

Post Script 8/20 - Today, watched in wonder as our fierce, lovely hawk friend flew low past the barn and firmly, but peacefully escorted a mature white eagle out of her territory. She followed the larger bird across the small strip of forest at the edge of our property, making certain that the trespassing eagle was well on its way before banking sharply against the erratic currents of a stiff northwest wind and returning home.

   Hello Fellow Travelers,

       So, spring has come and even given us a taste of summertime heat and humidity this week. The wild grasses and weeds are well past knee high now, flowers are blooming and spreading their seeds and pollens on the wind, while each tree and bush has soft, new leaves reaching eagerly for the light of the sun. All the critters, wild and domesticated, seem happy and content in the long awaited warmth and flush of succulent new growth. The only thing missing is the sight of butterflies and native bees buzzing and dancing on the fragrant air. . .but this year they are all strangely absent.
   The lilacs in our yard and hedgerow bloomed and waited in vain for their usual pollinating, nectar sipping visitors, the little birds and other creatures who depend on these small flyers for sustenance also waited in vain,  they never came.. . . Evidently, finally and shamefully, poisoned to death by the perpetrators of large scale agribussiness. 

    It is so hard for me to understand the enormous use of chemicals and GMO crops in this area. When I first came a few years ago I was completely awestruck by the deep black soil and its incredible natural tilth and fertility. Why anyone would want to poison and control, instead of work with, this magical land is really beyond me.       Why don't we humans think past what can be grabbed in the short-term? Why don't we feel the spirits and lives, large and small, that vibrate with and all around us? Why is there such a soul damaging disconnect between ourselves and the absolute magic and miracle of life and the living of it? Why can't we realize that we are all just tiny threads in the indescribably amazing tapestry of all beingness and why is it that we never stop and take time to observe the truly  immeasurable gifts and treasures all around us?

   Yesterday, while working in the little patch of woods that we have been given care of, I spotted a tiny fawn bedded down beneath a small clump of red willow. She was as still as the stones that surrounded her, white spotted rusty-red coat blending into the shimmering dapples of sunlight and leaf shadow. What a wonder and miracle. . . the incredible harmony and perfection of natures design written into this one small, innocent creature. 
    The little fawn lay there for hours, only the slight movement of her breath and the glow of her dark, liquid eyes giving away the fact that she was a living creature. As I worked I sang small deer songs to her and felt a wealth of gratitude and humility sweep through my soul at the gift of love and life that surrounds and engulfs us all. In the sacredness of the moment my heart seemed to be beating with the rhythms of all that had ever been or would be, my spirit irrevocably intertwined with all that was. 
    
    A little later I walked the meandering path that I had just cleared and cleaned, the land breathed in and out, the wind picked up and seemed to be whispering ancient songs of flow and circumstance. Heading back to the barn to put away my tools the little trail took me through a stand of tall, white cedar trees and on past the steep, flowery banks of our swimming pond. My foot steps stirred the grasses, sending small frogs leaping for the safety of their watery hiding places before I emerged by the side of the pasture just built for the latest edition to our little family. . .
   A tiny black horse with soft, curious eyes and wispy shadow-tail ran towards where I walked, tossed her head, and called out eagerly. Speaking softly in return I reached to touch the soft velvet of her nose and remembered the magical way in which she had come to us. . . .

   It was early one day about a month ago, I had just brushed and turned out our tall riding horse and gone back into the house for a few bites of breakfast. Quickly finishing up my meal I headed back out to check on fences and fill water tubs when I was surprised to see a small, black, horse standing next to our larger, friendly mare. I shouted the news of the little stranger to my husband and flew out to see if I could catch her with lead rope and nibbles of tasty horse feed.
   Carefully approaching, and speaking in low, reassuring tones, the wild little horse finally allowed me to grasp the ragged halter that was digging painfully into her face and poll. As soon as I had secured a good grip, I snapped on a lead rope and walked the small stranger out of the field and on towards our old barn. 
    The little horse was filthy and unkempt, her coat dull and ragged, her lovely brown eyes wild and suspicious. What little mane she had left was brittle and mite damaged. As I examined the small creature I could see that she had never received the love and care that she deserved. She flinched and pulled a way when touched, tried to kick and run when her feet were checked, and was terrified of being brushed, especially around her ears. 
   After cleaning up my new little charge a bit, I bedded down a stall with fresh shavings and hung feed, water and hay containers at a height she could comfortably reach.. The tiny creature measured just 33 inches at the withers . . . a true little fairy-horse with her small size and delicate build!











   And so . . . that is how a beautiful new friend and spirit came to be part of our lives. . . . After weeks of seeking possible owners with no success, we gifted the small mare with the name Little Secret journey, due to her unknown adventures and travels on her way to arriving here on the farm.
    As of this writing, Journey has settled in wonderfully and is learning the joys of love and companionship with eagerness and much curiosity. Her coat shines brightly in the sun now, her mane and tail are soft and rapidly growing out to their natural length, and in her eyes is a new confidence and glow at having found her small place in the world.

    If only we humans could also take such little brave and mysterious journeys to discover our own true places in this world. Then perhaps, the birds and bees and butterflies, as well as all small, magical, fairy-horses would live and thrive within the love and protection which I believe all human beings were born to find, awaken to, and ultimately, to give. . . . . 

                   Peace and Good Travels, SvG

    

    

Dear Friends,

    I have been wondering a lot lately about bloodlines, connections, ancestral patterns and the intricate nuances of the family tree. . Like the greater Tree of All Life, there seems to be a strength and purpose to its growth and form, as if there is some mystical, self sustaining blueprint in even the tiniest of roots and branches. 
     The curious thing is, why are some of the branches so defective by nature that they cant help but twist themselves around companion twigs and limbs in a desperate attempt to parasitize, prune, and suck life from them. They don't seem to understand that all sustenance, theirs included, comes directly from the great, warm heart of the Life Tree itself. There is no need for control, manipulation or attack on fellow twigs and seedlings. An endless supply of love and nourishment is already there, wide open, and ready to be surrendered into.
    What got me wondering about all this was a recent event in my own life . . . an unexpected and magical reunion with long missed kin, sisters that had shared the life and love., traumas and joys of a younger, more naive, existence. Sisters who long ago fled the snares of a damaged, soul-stealing mother-branch, never to return.
What an amazing re-connection. . . the divine blueprint shifting, shaping, returning to its natural order.

    It was late evening when, drum in hand, I walked alone through the darkness, every sense attuned and aware.  Entering into the rock ringed healing circle, I stopped momentarily in honoring, gratitude, and acknowledgement, before quietly moving to sit on the jagged, round coolness of a huge, old boulder. Slowly I began what I had come for, drumming down the walls of a lifetime of hurts and disconnection. 
    After a while, the hum of life force could be felt vibrating up through the old stones solid form seeking an avenue in my own body. I let it pour through, and over, and into me, surrendering to what was happening, had to happen. My heart and soul cried out, merging with all time, all space, all Love., until there was only the transcendental sound of resonant drumbeats over-toning against the immense pulsations of the great, primordial Heart of all the World.
    As I drummed for Love, for healing, for family and friends and all that is good and pure and honest . . . a chorus joined in from the direction of the nearby pond. Small frogs trilled musically, weaving their watery songs around the rhythms already in place. We were all singing then . . . stones, frogs, me, wind spirits, thunder beings, all brothers and sisters, born of Mother Earth, connected by heart, and soul, and ancient lineage.. 
    And suddenly it was clear . . .Yes, through sincerity, purification and enduring dedication, divine healing can occur, in hearts, in souls, in families, as well as in all of life  . . . Love and drum beats moving through time and distance to help re-awaken lives once shared, sadly missed, and often dreamed of. The sacred bonds of twig and branch, leaf and limb,  suddenly regenerated and ready to bloom anew. The ancient tree of kith and kin flowering once more with the gifts of loving generosity and support for those whose blood inheritance is so close to our own.         
     It makes me think, perhaps we should all listen more closely to the sacred drumbeats of our ancestral life, giving love and thanks for all who came before and will come after our own leaves have withered and fallen. After all, each one of us will eventually die to be recycled as choiceless nourishment for the ancient Tree from which we all sprang, the song of our branch mates a call for redemption and continuity. . . .   
    The drum beat on, and a new awareness came, sweeping all away before it. Each small leaf and twig shone with life, and long dormant secrets were unveiled, leaving behind the whispered council of ancestors long past and the uneasy revelations of those still living.     After a time the night stilled, the frogs fell silent, and the drumbeats grew slow and soft, until at last, they faded away altogether. . . .The old stone lay in peaceful serenity, the storm clouds lifted, and the shine of the full moon turned everthing to silver . . .
   
    
     
    In closing I would like to say . . .Deepest honoring to my precious brother and sisters for your perseverance, courage, understanding and love. May each of your branches continue to grow and bloom with the gifts of creative inspiration, kindness and compassion for all. And, for those, past, present and future, who have not found the beauty and strength of your true place on this sacred Tree, may love open your hearts and forgiveness heal your wounded spirits. 
                   
                          Peace, and Sacred Drumbeats, SvG
                                                             

   
    
    
     


    

    Greetings Friends, 
       
      Yesterday a large flock of Tundra Swans landed on our Wetland Preservation Area. What a beautiful sight! The birds were passing through on their annual migratory path, in route to their summer nesting grounds in the high arctic tundra. They will feed and rest here overnight before heading north again. I was thrilled to be able to snap a few pics in the late afternoon. These lovely creatures are quite wary and not wanting to spook them I made certain to keep a respectful distance while capturing their startling essence amid the reeds and cattails.
      My partner, who had spotted the birds first, was just as excited as I to view the wonder that floated so serenely on the just thawed water below our house. We drove as close as we could in our old pickup before I jumped out and crept stealthily up on my unsuspecting photo prey. Wow, what a gift!
      Other migratory travelers have made their presence known lately as well. Red Winged Blackbirds arrived in the hundreds this past couple of weeks, females first, and now large flocks of males. Last evening our big Box Elder tree, Chief, was filled with music as the males sang in carefully pitched and harmonized chorus. It was quite amazing, like a whole orchestra of tiny, silvery bells and whistles directed by some ancient and masterful nature spirit.
      Yes . . . the songs of birds are all around us now, and even though we just received a few more inches of snow the rites of spring have obviously begun in earnest. Even the silent swans have their own secret songs, known only to others of their kind, and perhaps those of us who stop to listen with something other than ears and mind.
      Swan Song . . .It is interesting to note that the normally nonvocal Tundra Swan has an additional tracheal loop within its sternum that seems to prove true the "myth" of the musical and haunting cry that this magnificent creature has been observed to make upon dying.
      Perhaps we all have our own swan songs to express as well. Maybe, as we move through the nuances of this amazing life that we have been given, there comes a time to sound that hidden soul-voice that has lain dormant for so long. To let out our cry of release and transformation, to die to the bonds of the past and begin anew, wonderously reborn.
      Swans have traditionally represented the ability to awaken to your own inner beauty and self expression (the tale of the Ugly Duckling). Swans are fiercely loyal, protective, mate for life and are known for their longevity, often living into their seventies or eighties. As well as being an ancient symbol for poets, mystics and bards, the swan is said to be a powerful messenger from the dream world who has come to speak to us of harmony, grace, balanced perception and innocence.
      Swan sings her mythic song and holds us captivated with her wild, white beauty . . . If you could sing one last song, what would it be? What would you say or do? Swan tells us, "Don't wait . . .the time is now."
                             Peace and Wonder, SvG