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