Do you ever wonder . . . ?

 Do you ever find yourself wondering, on a grey day without much sparkle,

 amidst the inward-moving energies of winter,

 about a particular person

 whose anniversary it is?

And you wonder, 'how old would they be now, had they lived?'

 I've stopped doing that with my parents, because it gets a bit ridiculous now that my calculations are going into the hundreds.

But with a little one, it's different. 

My first granddaughter. She died at 6 weeks old. She would have been 21 today. 

Lights of winter

 It's been a long time. At last a long weekend unfolded its fan of invitation before me, and of course I said yes!

 In winter, I seek out what will light the inner fire. So on the way to the bach I turned up a steep driveway to the organic growers, knowing that my favourite winter fruit (once the feijoas have finished) would be waiting for me. Persimmons, so sweet and bright,

and fiery. Winter flares in many places, expected and unexpected.

 At the bach, the door of the cabin is glowing in the sun, welcoming me in,

 while the first jonquils exhale their sweet scent.
 It's cold now, especially at night. The first frosts have blackened my sweet basil plants,

but I'm snug with my books and music, basking in the warmth of the log fire. Can you see the pine cones in there, that I gathered in autumn? While the fire burned down to golden embers, I listened to Mozart's violin concertos which I have on vinyl.

The lights of winter: they reveal patterns, shapes, and hidden beauty. I return to the city feeling revived and refreshed, and full of gratitude.
What are your favourite lights of the season?

A winter secret

In the dark of winter

an eyelid is forming

In the quiet of winter

seeds are saved

In the storms of winter

a face sleeps

In the hail and bite of winter

a foot thumps

Winter's cloak

wraps around us

 while we wait.

The season's dark cave

spins a welcome of silk.

Can you guess the secret?

Looking for light

 Do you know that feeling, when you've had to withdraw from life for a while, to spend time in the shadows, and then you know it's time to emerge once more? The whole world looks brighter somehow. You see with fresh eyes. And you seek out what is light and bright, from the dramatic . . .

to the subtle, like the changeover period in the flame tree, when green leaves are replaced by yellow, disappearing foliage, and as if to compensate, the red flowers of winter come bursting out of hidden places . . .

The lemon trees coming into fruit at last, fill the air with a tangy scent . . .

Yes, dear friends, I've been recuperating from a little op that left me feeling weak and woozy. So when my friend offered to drive me to the gathering of our women's group, I was glad, for I felt my longing to be with the goddess once more. She stands, higher than life-size, holding up the crescent moon in our friend the sculptor's garden. We all took quiet time there before moving indoors.

The little one has lent me her Easter egg pouch. The Steiner School where she is a pupil, teaches the most wonderful crafts. And so for Easter, the children learned how to make their own eggs out of felt.

Little balls of light, tumbling out of the dark.

We may have crossed the threshold into winter now, but light still flares, in the jade plant, in the love of family and friends, in the magic of shared rituals, in the wonder of the changing garden, and the joy of recovery and healing.

Resonating with the dark

 The old seasonal festivals have deep roots. Today is the half-way point between autumn equinox and winter solstice. We are on the threshold of winter, and we are harvesting nuts, apples, pumpkins and kumaras.

We are also harvesting our memories, for this is the time of southern hemisphere Halloween. For many years now I have been encouraging people to celebrate this festival by moving it from spring time (when the commercial world cynically promotes it) to late autumn, where its roots lie in the old Celtic festival of Samhain.

 For five years I have held vigil on Ponsonby Rd, holding a space for people to come and light their candles and lanterns in honour of the dead.

 For my Celtic ancestors knew that as the season darkens towards winter, the veil between the worlds is thin. Spirits of departed souls come out of their resting places to stalk the earth.

This year, Kiwi Halloween has come off the street and into a church hall, for a full scale ritual of remembrance. Families and children were especially welcome; and so the little one helped with pumpkin carving. We sat in the sun, making one for me and one for her. She's good at scraping out the seeds, and making sure the base is flat enough to take a tea-light candle.

  We held our remembrance ritual last night (a day early this year, because that's when the hall was available). Can you see the cluster of seven white shells on the black cloth? They represent Matariki (the Pleiades), an important constellation for Maori, because that's where the ancestors reside. At this time of the year, Matariki dips below the horizon for about a month. Its reappearance in May/June marks the start of the Maori new year. As part of the ritual I placed the small black cloth over the shells to symbolise the disappearance of Matariki.

 Kawakawa leaves are associated with tangi (funerals). We began with stories of the dark. Maori would go into the bush to hunt birds and the little kiore (native rat) as winter approached.

 Everyone was asked to bring a candle or lantern. When they arrived they were given small cards, on which to write the names of those whom they wished to remember.

 We turned out the lights as people came forward. Lanterns and candles appeared out of the dark, the cards were laid down and the names spoken. We spoke the names back, in recognition.

One hundred and forty departed souls were remembered last night.

One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious. — Carl Jung

This is the last year that I will lead Last Light/Samhain/Kiwi Halloween. I have handed it over to Kim, an Auckland celebrant, and she will take the work forward. Just after I announced this, some women came forward and presented me with a big bouquet of red roses. What a wonderful way to end a long commitment. Thank you to all those who support my work with the seasons, and are equally committed to restoring the resonance to our southern hemisphere cycles.

Let's look for treasure

 Easter (or thereabouts) is when I create a treasure hunt. I used to do one for my son, then for my granddaughter who is now 20, and now for the little one. First she has to 'Look in the box where the music lives'. Aha, it's Granny's concertina box. Then 'find the palest yellow flower in a pot on the balcony. 'What does "palest" mean?'
The next clue sends her running up to the letter box to find a note saying, 'Look for a plant with round white flowers'. Then 'Search the bouganvillia.'

 It's such fun when you know exactly where to go for the next clue,

 but others are more tricky. What is the difference between a lime grove and a lemon grove?

 Ah, so that's it.

 And now to follow the trail of small leaves to the secret garden, a place where you have never been before.

 The trail is getting warm,

 And here's the first treasure,

 the second,

 the third,

 and the fourth.

 oh what fun!

We don't do sugary things, but there are plenty of other treats to be had. The little angel made of glass will watch over you, the chickens are pronounced 'delicate' but soft to the touch, and stickers are always well received.
Easter falls in autumn in the southern hemisphere, and it requires sharp timing to lay a trail between showers and before the wind blows away the clues, but today we managed. It was a little later than planned, but it's never too late to have fun. We finish with warm Easter buns laden with butter. Yum.