Two faces of winter

 As I do my Tai Chi by the sea, I look back and see the bare-limbed face of winter. It's the flame tree, whose branches from this angle seem to be scratching the sky. All the leaves are gone now, and the shape of the tree is revealed.

 When I look back to the west, I see the leafy face of winter, in the pohutukawa tree. It rises up against the sky and seems to be softly brushing the blue. Like nearly all of our native trees, the pohutukawa keeps its leaves throughout the winter.

Once this land was clothed in thick, lush evergreen vegetation. I've grown up valuing our native trees,  learning their names, and planting them wherever I can. Despite this favouritism however, I must say that a little splash of exotic colour brings me great delight as I shiver my way back home.

Here we have it: one of the bromeliads that have been planted down our driveway. This one is so fresh and perky, I could almost be deceived into thinking that spring has leapt in early.
In the bleak days of mid-winter, I need surprises such as this.

Winter Solstice/Matariki

Our winter solstice celebration was a little late this year, having to be postponed from last week. All the same, we entered into the mystery of this time. We began by viewing a brief video clip of the solstice sunrise at NewGrange, in Ireland. You can see it on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gZzpDgatOa0 It must have taken several generations of workers to build this ancient tomb. Great precision was required to ensure that the light of the solstice sun shafted down the long entrance tunnel to hit the stone in the centre. In the video, the solstice light appears amber, flickering and magical as it enters the chamber.

 Here, on the other side of the world, we meditated in the dark. 'Winter . . . liberates the vision of the soul', said Vita Sackville-West. We discovered and shared our visions born out of the depth of darkness.

 We lit candles and ate the solstice fruit.

And celebrated also Matariki, the wandering celebration which this year fell exactly on Winter Solstice. Taranaki Maori would welcome Matariki back in a tearful reunion, and speak out the names of those who had died since Matariki last disappeared. My old teacher, who was from Taranaki, was remembered together with Matariki this year.

I've come to love winter solstice for its connection with ancestral rituals, the depth of its darkness on the longest night, and the hope that is seeded with the returning sun. In the northern hemisphere, at summer solstice, darkness is seeded. For you in the north, the season is turning towards the dark now, even as our season turns towards the light. At the equinoxes, we will feel the changeover, but meanwhile you have increasing warmth, and we increasing cold. Happy solstice, wherever you are.

Solstice Visitors

 The word has got out. Yesterday was winter solstice, marking the return of the sun. The day before yesterday was Matariki, the Maori new year, marking the return of Matariki (the Pleiades). Who knows where this monarch flew from, but this morning here it was, alighting on the jade bush,

flitting around from one flower to the next with such grace, like a messenger from other realms, telling of colour, lightness and freedom.

 And then another visitor arrived. I was excited to see it, and I'll tell you why. Two years ago the jade bush was covered with bumble bees. I did a post about it, and gave the background to the disappearance of the bumble bee in Britain, and the failed attempt to send crates of hibernating bees from New Zealand. You will find the post on http://seasonalinspiration.blogspot.co.nz/2010/06/getting-close-to-bumble-bees_14.html

 But last year there wasn't a single one to be found, and I feared that the bumble bees were disappearing from New Zealand as well. See
http://seasonalinspiration.blogspot.co.nz/2011/07/where-are-bumblebees.html
Today a lone bee buzzed in. It clambered clumsily over the flowers and leaves, and made quite a contrast with the elegance of the monarch.

It - well, it bumbled around. This bee is well-named., as it was In Thomas Hardy's Dorset where they were called dumbledores by the farm workers.

At winter solstice, although I know that the sun has begun its return journey, I don't always feel it. But today was warm, and with these hopeful visitors, I can believe that the return to summer has begun.

P.S. On the news I heard that short-haired bumble bees have now been sent from Sweden (50 Queens) to England, where they haven't been sighted for 24 years. In Kent they are planting bee-friendly plants such as clovers and vetches, in readiness. I hope the bumble bees survive. I feel great affection for their bumbling ways.

Mist

On Saturday morning at the bach, I was up early, for an international conference call, before the big event of the day. The valley was shrouded in mist and the air was chill.

 The big event took place later in the morning, as with two friends I walked the bush block next to the bach. We were looking for a way through the bush, and the best place for a house/bach site. Not for me, however. For it's time to sell this land.

Sometimes we can't see the way forward very easily. When my ex-husband and I bought this land over 40 years ago, our intention was to keep it as a green zone, and so preserve the privacy of the bach. But now I need to raise money, and the land must be sold. I entered a misty zone when I couldn't see how anyone could build on that land without robbing me of my privacy, and my view to the sea. Even though I tried to find a way through the bush to a suitable building site, it was without success.

I then made some good decisions. I had a surveyor locate the missing boundary pegs. And I asked for help.

My friends were great. Clad in woolly hats, gloves, warm clothing and gumboots, and armed with spades, we scrambled through the bush. We found the line of the far boundary. We located a building site that will suit everyone. We even identified where a driveway could go in. It was like the lifting of the mist in the mid-morning, when the line of the hill appeared, flooded with sunlight.

The good earth

 As I drove out to the bach, I wondered if the persimmons at the organic growers would be ripe. Were they ever! I had to stop at the bottom of the drive to photograph the orchard.

 The laden branches were quivering with the excited squawks of minahs, who were going crazy over the bounty. I felt like squawking too, because I adore these delicious fruit.

 The growers, a couple, have worked for years, bringing in manure from a pig farm, adding compost and other manures until the soil has become rich and black. They've just spread fresh sawdust between the rows of the vegetable beds, giving an orderly, bright appearance.

 To my surprise, they still had some of their famous beefsteak tomatoes. In my book 'Dancing with the Seasons', I tell Alan's secret for growing the very best every year.
Yes, I know it's the middle of winter, but these were ripened in the green house. I bought 3 bags of persimmons and two of tomatoes.

And a big bunch of silver beet (this is only a fraction of it). What a pleasure it is to eat straight from the good earth, and to find lettuce, rocket, sweet basil, carrots, calendula flowers (that's one of mine in the photo) and a small capsicum in my own garden. And then I was able to get a jar of tomato relish from Kathy, the organic grower at the beach. It's my favourite, and I always go through it too fast.

It may be winter, with frost predicted for tonight, but with all this goodness to fuel my inner fire, I feel as happy as could be.

Bach in midwinter

 It was cold and damp when I arrived at the bach. It's been a few weekends since my last visit, and in winter the walls turn cold in the absence of someone to light a fire or turn on a heater.
But look! - the snow drops are out. Ever since I was a child I've loved these pristine little flowers, which seemed to me like tiny skirts for fairies. Why did nature come along with her paintbrush and add those green dots? I like to think it was for fun and beauty.

The other surprise is that the little kowhai tree is flowering prolifically. The yellow tongue-like flowers are even getting themselves twisted up in their eagerness to bloom.

Kowhai and snowdrops are flowers that I've always associated with spring. Yet here they are, dancing against the dark background of the bush, even though winter solstice has not yet arrived.

I lit the fire on arrival, and after some hours, the walls have warmed up, roast vegetables have come out of the oven and into my belly, and once again the bach has become a home.

Winter magic

Today summer came to visit, in the form of Mira, a sunny day, and a ramble to the beach. Everything becomes timeless as I watch her becoming absorbed in collecting 'treasures' in her yellow bucket.

 The tide was up, sliding over the sun-warmed sand, and covering the shell fragments that lay about everywhere.

Mira, wearing a funny little cap of mine, trotted off to have adventures while I did my Tai Chi on the beach.

Then we played walking in each other's footsteps, up and down the beach. Mira made me a 'chocolate cake' for my birthday (even though it's not due for a while), ran off to find ingredients such as 'raisins', 'flour', 'salt', and 'sugar', and then planted leaves for candles in it. I blew them out, and then was served sandy handfuls of birthday cake.

On the beach we found this  gravity-defying branch, which somehow wasn't surprising on a day such as this,

and it stayed upright, even as the tide came in. That's how today felt - gravity-defying, lifting into the blue, and full of wonder.

Eventually, as the shadows lengthened, we made for home, happy and hungry.