By Linda Monsees Stump © 2011

Now it is the time of the Wolf Moon, in the cold of winter, when the trees are dormant and the grass sleeps under a mantle of white.  It is a time for storytelling, for passing along the rich oral traditions of family and clan.

It is a time, too, for dreaming.  Not only using the dreamtime of sleep, but a time for daring to dream of what you want your life to become, what you want to create.  In last month’s post, I posed the question that our group has been contemplating:  What is the spark that inspires creativity?  For each individual it can be different.

I find much of my own inspiration in nature, and our recent winter weather has provided a wealth of images from which to draw.  The silence of snowfall leads me to introspection; there is nothing quite as peaceful as moonlight on new fallen snow, the blue spruce boughs heavy-laden in a mantle of white. Animal tracks in the snow tell a story of their own if you take the time to read the tale.  An ice storm leaves the bare tree limbs dipped in crystal like the magical realm of the ice queen, reminding me of beloved faerie tales of childhood, and gives me visuals to use in my very own faerie tale.

Animals, too, are my inspiration.  The red-tailed hawk soaring over a frozen world reminds me to look at the big picture, his far-seeing gaze showing me to look beyond the frustrations of the here and now and see what can be.  The honking of a flock of geese flying south in their V-formation in the autumn somehow never fails to stir the gypsy spirit within me.  Just as my ancestors were like the wild geese who roamed far from home, I always yearn to get out and explore when I hear them.  There is nothing like the beauty and strength of a horse, mane and tail flying in the wind of his passing.  The horse is sheer poetry in motion and I cannot help but watch, spellbound.  A dragonfly hovering over the water, iridescent wings vibrating, is a messenger who somehow always connects me with loved ones.  A gorgeous red fox creeping across a meadow, a deer caught in mid leap, antlers flashing in the sunlight, the wolf, intelligent, wild and free, whose eyes hold such wisdom…And I cannot help but be inspired by my faithful companions of home and hearth – the cats, each with their distinctly different personalities, and my Sheltie, my heart-dog, who constantly demonstrates the meaning of unconditional love.

Sometimes I have the visuals in my head, the dream of how I want the story I’m writing to go…yet I don’t always get the story in a straight line.  I see bits and pieces of it, and have to try to capture the images before they get away from me, even when I can’t yet see how all the pieces of the puzzle connect, and how my characters got to where they are.  What’s their back-story?  What made them who they are?

When I find myself in a creative slump, feeling as though my muse is not amused, I need to make the time to get outdoors.  Sometimes it is simply sitting in silence, listening to the windsong and feeling the breeze in my hair.  It doesn’t matter if it’s raining or snowing – although I admit it’s a bit more challenging when the temperatures are in the 90’s and the humidity makes me feel as though I’m walking through a sauna! – I still need that connection to the elements.  In today’s world of smart phones, laptops and multi-tasking, taking the time to simply be is often looked upon dubiously.  And yet I believe we need that time to disconnect from all the electronics, and re-connect with the natural world.  When I am attuned to the land, I am more aware of the subtle shifts of the seasons; just as my Celtic ancestors did, I can see the beginnings of spring hidden beneath the winter snows.  I can accept the promise of the season before it is fully come.

It is then that the word pictures come, and the characters come alive on the page to the point where my fingers can’t keep up with the images in my brain.  It is then that I can sing the story, and dance my dream.

By Linda Monsees Stump © 2011

Words have power.

To hurt.

To heal.

To challenge.

To encourage.

To evoke.

To inspire.

You might argue the part about words having the power to hurt by quoting the old rhyme, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”  Perhaps…but the validity of that statement in the rhyme often depends upon where one is at a particular time physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.  Think about it.  When you are sick or in pain, mired in self-doubt, or not in a good place in your spiritual life, negative comments tend to have more of an impact on you.  By the same token, encouraging words can be just what you need.

Words have the power to evoke strong emotion, create a call to action, or trigger self-reflection.  Words can create an image in your mind, whether positive or negative, and can even affect your mood.  How often have you said, “Oh, I’m so exhausted!  I don’t know how I’m going to get everything done today.”  Just verbalizing it somehow seems to make you more conscious of how tired you really are – and makes you doubt that you can achieve your goals.  What if you acknowledged the tiredness but ended on a positive note? Try, “I’m tired, but I know I can accomplish everything I need to do today!”  I tried this myself during a very stressful period of time, and although it might seem that I simply “psyched” myself up, the result was that I really did find within the energy to do what I had to do.  Words are magical!

In a recent Writers’ Night Out meeting, I decided to give the group (myself included!) a creative challenge.  I brought with me a rather enchanting magnetic poetry kit given to me years ago by a dear friend.  For those who haven’t seen it, this is a box comprised of all sorts of words printed on magnets.   This particular one was the “Book Lover” kit, containing over 240 words.  When everyone had arrived, ordered their coffee or latte and got settled, I dumped all the magnetic words onto the table between us.  I then asked each person to close their eyes, randomly pick up nine words, and then write a paragraph using all of those nine words.

It was interesting to see the words each person had drawn in this random selection.  I made the observation that the words we picked would have some significance and impact to us in the months ahead.   The nine words I picked (honestly, no peeking!) were:  Romance, mystery, know, when, book, soul, illustrate, wisdom, and speak.

There was a bit of nervous laughter, and a few comments such as, “This is harder than I thought,” or – directed to me upon observing the words I’d drawn – “Oh, those are so you!”  One group member said, looking at her words, “Now if I’d only picked ‘magic’ I could go somewhere with this!”  So I found the word ‘magic’ in the pile, placed it in the middle of the table and gave it to everyone as a freebie…we could all use it – or not, as we chose.  Everyone studied their words for a while, and then began to write.

My paragraph turned out like this:  “When the soul seeks to know the mystery, when the heart yearns for romance, and the intellect desires wisdom, search for the book of magic, for it will illustrate all of these – and the soul will speak the universal truth.”

The others had equally interesting outcomes, although I will leave it to them share if they wish.  One person commented after I read mine, “When you write, I can see it!”  She didn’t feel her narrative line of prose carried the same evocative sense.  And yet, she didn’t realize that others could clearly see the verbal picture she was painting too – she just has a different voice than I do.  We talked about each piece for a little bit and the different styles of writing, as well as how you are feeling can impact your choice of words.  This is true literally in the speaking sense as well as randomly selecting words from a pile in a writing exercise.  It reminded me of the saying, “Carry grace in your heart, in your mind, and in your words.”

The pile of words in the middle of the table began to exert their power on the group, and one by one, people began absently pulling words from the pile to make sentences.  Some were hilarious, like, “Evil strange human magic shop was open every day to inspire our world.”  Others sounded like the beginning of a quest saga:  “Enter the epic hero after only one page.  He must ask for wisdom, whisper beautiful poetry, haunt her heart with love, and answer through voice of truth.”  There was a lot of laughter, and Thorn commented, “It’s like doodling with words!”  Another group member quickly quipped, “Yes, this is the doodle that changed the world!”

Then we all started pulling words together to come up with this paragraph:

“The ancient spirit tome will speak a mystery: Wisdom is to whisper to a soul dreaming of love.  Imagine…discover romance…wander between worlds.  Fight fear, escape through truth.  You are the author.”

While the magnetic poetry kit provided our group with a fun and interesting writing challenge, it also made us think.  What is the spark that inspires creativity, whether with pen (or keyboard!), paints or other media?  What inspires me may not resonate at all with another.  What is that niggling urge that won’t let go of your mind until you do get that idea moving?  And what is it that bogs you down, saps your creativity?  Is it self-doubt?  Negativity?  Is it the clutter in your life, in your surroundings, or your mind?

This prompted our Writers’ Night Out theme for 2011.  In the coming year, we will share with you our thoughts, our own “Hidden Inspirations” and how we have brought those inspirations out of hiding and into the light of creation.  We will, through our words, endeavor to empower you to bring your own creativity to light.  Believe in yourself.  You are the author.

By Linda Monsees Stump © 2010

Our identity changes throughout our life and is defined by our relationships.  As infant, child and teen, we are either a son or daughter to our parents.  As young adults, we think of ourselves as an independent woman or man – but our own person.  We discover and refine our sense of self.  How we relate to friends, co-workers, bosses and/or subordinates helps to shape us in a professional capacity, although still as an individual.  That “singleness” of being shifts when we fall in love.  Becoming a couple changes who we are…no longer is it just “me” – it is “us”.  Parenthood really makes us look at our own identity in a fresh light, as this new life is totally dependent upon us.  The dynamics of a marriage change as children grow up and leave home and empty nest syndrome kicks in.  Couples often have to redefine their relationships once again.  The expansion of the family as our children enter relationships further expands our identity.  I still remember the first time I was introduced as a mother-in-law!  There is the prospect of assisting or caring for aging parents – another redefinition in the parent-child relationship, often requiring extreme tact and gentleness.

My own identity will be changing again before too long…This Thanksgiving, my husband and I were informed by our eldest daughter and her husband that we are to become grandparents!  Of course, we are over the moon at this news, and my mother-in-law is ecstatic at the prospect of being a great-grandma again.  My daughter said, “So you have until early June to come up with your ‘grandparent names.’”  With his usual off-the-wall sense of humor, my husband has been going around the house calling me “Granny”.  However, in spite of our leaning toward the traditional “Grandma” and “Grandpa”, I’ve been told that our grandchild will probably end up being the one to bestow upon us our “grandparent names” – and we are perfectly fine with that.

Now, you might be wondering, “That’s great that you’ll be a grandma, but what on earth does this all have to do with Fern, Reed and Elder?”  Bear with me, I’m getting there.

The Celtic tree month of Ngetal (pronounced as “nyettle”) runs from October 28 through November 24.  It is most often associated with Fern but has also been associated with the Reed.  In the Ogham alphabet, Ngetal looks like this:

Reeds are typically used to make wind instruments, and at the time around Samhain the wind song is often associated with the souls of those who have crossed over.  For me, the hauntingly beautiful sound of Native American flutes evoke the spirit of the Old Ones.  A recent business trip to the Rocky Mountain West put me back in touch with that music.  Although my own heritage lies “across the pond”, I’ve always been drawn to the Native American ways, and the Old Ones of this land are among my personal wisdom keepers.  Appropriate workings at this time of year are related to spirit guides and energy work, celebration of those who have died and honoring the cycle of life and rebirth.  Naturally, at Samhain, my thoughts were turned as always to my parents, who passed many years ago, and my grandparents, whom I never really knew as they passed either before I was born or when I was very small.  Interesting timing, then, to find out on November 25^th that I would become a grandmother myself!  I only hope that I will be a positive force and source of wisdom to this new, precious life.

The Elder month runs from November 25 – December 22 (note that December 23^rd is not ruled by any tree, for has been referred to as the day of the proverbial “Year and a Day”.  December 24^th, then, will begin the month of Birch, or Beth.  Elder is called Ruis by the Celts and pronounced “roo-eesh”).  In the Ogham alphabet, Elder looks like this:

The Elder moon is a time of beginnings and endings, births and deaths.  (I told you this would all connect!)  This is a good time to focus on workings related to creativity and renewal.  Elder is said to protect against demons and other negative entities.  It is also strongly connected to Faeries and other nature spirits, and elderflowers are used at midsummer.  Elderflowers are for blessing and making wishes come true.  Faerie lore said if you tied elderflowers in your handkerchief and placed them under your pillow, you would have what you wished for most.

Elder is also a time for renewal and rejuvenation.  So as Yuletide approaches and the calendar year draws to a close, I wish for all of you a New Year filled with amazing possibilities, inspiration, and wonder.

By Linda Monsees Stump © 2010

A brisk October wind scudded off the moors, whirling the fallen leaves into a spiral dance around our feet.  In the distance, I could see the whitecaps in the choppy waters of the bay.

“Let’s take a walk out on the moor,” Molly Baines suggested, her scuffed brown brogans crunching in the leaves as we walked home from school.  “The weather will turn cold soon enough and it’ll be too miserable.”  Molly lived in the village where her father owned the chemist’s shop.  Her mother usually helped him, so whenever she didn’t have to lend a hand at the shop herself, Molly would walk home with Rob Harewood or me.  Rob lived on the next farm over to Rowanlee, where I lived with my Auntie Geillis.

I shook my head and shifted my leather school satchel on my shoulder.  “You two go ahead – I should go straight home and do my chores.  I still have to finish my essay tonight.”

“I have to finish mine, too,” Rob said.

Molly frowned.  I noticed that she didn’t like it very much when Rob agreed with me rather than with her.  “Don’t be such a ’fraidy-cat, Gilly!” she exclaimed impatiently.  “I can’t believe you’re too scared to go out on the moor – it’s not as though we’d be trekking across to Buckfastleigh!”

“I’m not scared,” I protested.

“Of course you are!” Molly insisted.  “I’ll bet you’re afraid that the pixies will carry you off!”

“Pixies don’t frighten me,” I shrugged.  When I first came to Devon, Molly told me all sorts of stories about pixies who led unsuspecting humans out on the moor and then left them to find their way back…or not.  I knew I didn’t have to worry about being pixie-led, but I wasn’t going to convince Molly.  “It’s just that my aunt doesn’t let me go out on the moor unless she’s with me.”

“Well of course – you’re a city girl and you’d get lost by yourself.  But you don’t have to worry because we’ll be with you – and I brought horseshoes for protection.”  She handed them round.

“Protection from what?”  I asked, baffled.

Molly looked at me incredulously.  “From evil spirits and pixies, of course – any faerie creature, actually – they don’t like iron.  It’s supposed to work for the Wild Hunt and the hell hounds too.  Here – you put it in your pocket.”   The horseshoe was heavy, and it wouldn’t fit properly in my skirt pocket.  The ends stuck out and the weight of it made my plaid wool skirt droop on one side.  I hoped I wouldn’t tear the seam.

“What are the hell hounds?”

“You’ve never heard of the hell hounds?” Molly grinned eagerly and I knew she was about to tell me yet another West Country legend.  The scarier the story, the better she liked it.  And since I’d only been in Devon six months, she’d found a fresh audience for her tales.  “They’re a phantom pack of black hunting dogs with glowing red eyes and they raced across Dartmoor the night Squire Cabell of Brook Manor was buried, breathing fire and howling at his tomb.”  She paused expectantly.

“Why did they do that?” I asked, as I knew she wanted me to.

“Because the squire sold his soul to the Devil and so the Hell Hounds prowl his grave to get his soul for the Devil.  He lived over by Buckfastleigh – the squire, that is, not the Devil.”

“He must not have been a very nice man,” I said finally, having never heard of anyone who would deliberately sell his soul to the Devil.  “Did you know him?”

Both Molly and Rob burst out laughing.  “Hardly – Squire Richard Cabell died in 1677,” Rob explained.  He had a much better memory for history and dates than Molly did.

“Oh,” I murmured, a little embarrassed.

“Anyway, the Hell Hounds have roamed the moor ever since, and their baying can be heard for miles,” Molly finished her story.  “Come on, let’s go.”

“I can’t, I’ve got to get home.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You’re afraid the hell hounds will get you!” Molly exclaimed.

“I’m not,” I insisted.

“You are so afraid, Gillian Matthews!” Molly stamped her foot.

I tried to keep my voice even and not, as Auntie Geillis would say, descend to Molly’s level.  “I’m not afraid, I just have better sense than to go tearing off on the moor when it’s coming on to dark.”

“Gilly’s right.  Maybe it’s not such a good idea,” Rob agreed.  “After all, looks like a storm blowing up.”

Molly snapped, “Don’t be a nit, Rob!”  Maybe it was because Rob sided with my point of view, but she turned on me.  “You should have stayed in London, Gilly.  You don’t belong here – you’re a prissy little city girl who’s afraid of your own shadow!  ‘Fraidy cat!”

I lost my temper then.  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Molly!  Have you ever really been afraid?  You love telling scary stories, but they’re all make-believe.  You’ve never been in any real danger.  You’ve never been wakened in the night by the air raid sirens and have to run for the bomb shelter and huddle in the dark listening to the bombs falling around you, waiting for the all clear to go and wondering if you’ll have a house to go back to.”  My words tumbled out faster.  “You’ve never had your house bombed in a direct hit and been trapped for hours under the stairs until the neighbors can find you and pull you out, only to see your mum and dad lying in the rubble, covered in blood and not moving, and you know they’re dead and never coming back to you.   I have – and until you’ve been through it – don’t you ever call me a ‘fraidy cat!”

“Gilly…” Rob’s voice trailed off and he looked a bit strained.  Molly’s face alternately flamed, then paled.  She opened her mouth, then closed it without saying anything, and she looked as though she was going to cry.

But I was too angry to stop.  “You wanted a walk on the moor – then let’s go…unless you’re scared!” I flung the words at her and stalked off the pathway onto the moor, setting a rapid pace.

I heard Rob say, “That’s torn it, Molly!  You hadn’t ought to’ve done that.  Gilly may be quiet, but she’s got nerve, that one.  She…”  The rising wind tore the rest of his words away from me.  I kept my eyes on a copse of trees several hundred yards away and concentrated on the golden leaves falling like bright coins from the sky.  It kept me from thinking about the memories I had unintentionally conjured up.  They were far more frightening than the ghost stories Molly had been regaling us with in anticipation of Hallowe’en.

“Gilly, wait!” Molly panted behind me.  I wouldn’t turn around, not yet ready to let go of my anger.  I didn’t want to talk to either of them at the moment.  I was angry with Molly for goading me, but I was even angrier with myself for revealing more than I intended.  Although Rob and Molly both knew my parents were dead, I hadn’t talked to them about it.  And I didn’t want to talk about it anymore now.   If I did, I knew I’d burst into tears, and I didn’t want to be an object of pity.

Rob and Molly caught up to me at the copse of trees.  Rob was the first to speak, and he spoke quietly, in the same tone as I’d heard him use to calm a spooked horse, but his eyes were anxious.  “Are you all right, Gilly?”

I nodded and took a deep breath.  “I’m fine.”

Rob patted my shoulder, awkwardly trying to show comfort.  “I’m sorry about your mum and dad,” he said, broaching the uncomfortable subject head-on in the countryman’s way.  “I knew they’d died, but not how.  It must’ve been beastly for you.”  I nodded again, and he went on.  “You’re right, you know.  We’ve not been through anything like you have.  Sure, we’ve all done our gas mask drills and we’ve had a few planes come over, but the war hasn’t touched us other than knowing folk who’ve lost family in the fighting.  We haven’t had the constant air raids, and being on the farm we haven’t had near the rationing you had in London.  I reckon we’ve had it easy – we don’t know how we’d measure up.  We can only hope we’d never give in, like Mr. Churchill says.  You do know – and you didn’t give in.”

He looked pointedly at Molly.  Molly reddened again, then blurted out, “I’m sorry, Gilly – I didn’t mean to upset you.  You really aren’t a ‘fraidy cat…You were going to go home to your auntie and I just couldn’t face going home to an empty house.  Your auntie always has something nice for you to eat after school and my mum hasn’t done that for me in ages.  She’s too busy helping my dad with the shop since Mrs. Thornbury’s son went off to war.  I miss my mum being home!” She started to cry.  “I know it sounds really stupid, especially to you because you’re always missing your mum.”  She rummaged around the horseshoe in her pocket for a handkerchief.  As usual, she couldn’t find it.  “I only called you a ‘fraidy cat so you wouldn’t leave me all by myself, and I didn’t want to ask if I could come home with you again.  It was a really stupid thing to do – and I’m sorry.  Are you…are you going to be mad at me forever?”

I don’t know whether it was Rob’s quiet acknowledgement of my parents’ loss or Molly unexpectedly bursting into tears when I’d been so close to it myself, but my anger evaporated.  I understood how she felt.  “No, I’m not mad at you anymore,” I drew a spare handkerchief from my own pocket and handed it to her.  Mummy always used to carry two, so I did as well.  Molly gave me a watery smile of thanks and blew her nose.

I decided it was time to change the subject.  “Are you going to the bonfire on All Hallows Eve?”  I thought that the mention of Hallowe’en would probably start Molly on another ghost story, but at least it was preferable to the waterworks.

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it.  There’ll be bobbing for apples, roasted chestnuts and  – .”

“We’d better head back,” Rob muttered.  Unlike us, he’d been watching the storm clouds roll in.  A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.

“We’ve got time, haven’t we?” Molly persisted, reluctant to abandon her adventure.

Rob shook his head.  “That storm’s moving faster than we first thought.  We shouldn’t have stayed out this long.”

I looked up at the sky.  The storm was moving fast, gunmetal grey clouds massing over our heads.  Any minute now, it would start raining.  “Auntie Geillis might have baked apples for us,” I said, appealing to Molly’s appetite.

“D’you think so?” she asked hopefully.  “Her baked apples are the best!”

Rob intervened.  “Molly, you can think about food when we get back to Rowanlee.   Come on, let’s go.”

“Good idea,” I agreed, relieved that Rob was no more anxious to stay out on the moors in a storm than I was.  I had no doubt that Auntie Geillis was not going to be happy with me for this escapade.

We turned and headed back the way we came, but the sky was much darker now and lightning crackled across the sky, followed by a resounding boom of thunder.  “I guess I should have brought a torch,” Molly admitted.  “I can barely see the path.”

“We’ll have to stay together,” Rob instructed.  “Folk have been lost on the moors in storms.”

“Or the hell hounds got them,” Molly put in helpfully.  “They say that if you see the hell hounds running across the moors it means you’re going to die.”

“That’s a lot of rubbish, Molly,” Rob said stoutly.  “You’ve never seen a hell hound and you’ve never met anyone who did.  Those stories probably started to keep people from going out onto the moors in bad weather.  It wouldn’t take a hell hound to make you fall in a hole.”

With Rob in the lead, we walked steadily down the barely visible track.  The rain started, a chill downpour that had us all soaked to the skin within minutes.   Conversation stopped.  In the wind and pouring rain it was all we could do to stick to the path.

In the distance a dog howled, a lost, mournful cry that tore at my heart.  I loved dogs and had wanted one of my own for as long as I could remember.  Mummy and Daddy had promised me a puppy when I turned twelve because they felt I was responsible enough to take care of a dog.  But I’d spent my twelfth birthday sifting through the ruin of my house with Auntie Geillis.  I couldn’t ask for a puppy then.  To keep my mind off how cold and wet I was, I thought of a collie puppy with a white ruff, and soft golden brown fur shading to black around the ears.  Someday…

The distant dog howled again, the cry echoed by the deep baying of a hunting pack.  I couldn’t imagine why anyone would be hunting on the moor in this weather.  Then I saw them – black shapes racing straight toward us that soon became identifiable as large black dogs.  “It’s the hell hounds!” Molly shrieked.  She shoved a hand hard into Rob’s back.  “Run!”  The three of us broke into a mad dash toward Rowanlee.

My satchel bumped uncomfortably on my hip as I ran.  All at once my ankle twisted painfully beneath me and I fell, hard.  “Molly, wait!” I gasped, but she didn’t hear me, continuing in her headlong run for safety.   I tried to scramble to my feet but my ankle wouldn’t hold me.  I crashed to the ground again, feeling suddenly faint and slightly queasy.  “Rob!  Molly – help!” I called, but my cries were lost in the storm.  I could feel my ankle swelling, my shoe getting tighter every second.  I unbuckled it while I still could – I only had the one everyday pair, and I didn’t want to have to cut it off.  I pushed the wet hair out of my face and eased my shoe off.  The pain made me feel light-headed again and I waited with my head on my knees until the sick feeling passed.

Another flash of lightning, and I could see the hell hounds clearly now, coming straight for me.  They were big dogs – the size of mastiffs, black as night with eyes glinting red in the eerie greenish light from the storm.  I couldn’t run to get away, and I was right in their path.  What was it Molly said?  Iron…the horseshoe was supposed to protect me from evil spirits because it was made of iron.  I reached into my pocket with a shaking hand, but the horseshoe wasn’t there.  It must have fallen out when I took my tumble.  If hell hounds really did kill people, I didn’t have much of a chance.  It was too much to hope for that they wouldn’t notice me in a crumpled heap on the track.

The mournful baying filled my ears as the pack bore down on me.  I should have been terrified, but strangely, all I felt was sadness – that these poor dogs were fated to run across the moors forever.  In spite of what Molly said, I couldn’t imagine a dog being evil; dogs were some of the kindest, most loving creatures on earth.  Whatever had led them to this cursed existence, it couldn’t have been their fault.  A lump grew in my throat at the thought of them never having a home and hearth to call their own and a loving owner to feed them, brush them and take care of them.  “I wish I could help you,” I said aloud.  “I would if I knew how.”

They were on me then, and involuntarily I put out a hand, palm down.  “It’s all right, I won’t hurt you.  I’m a friend.”  I felt warm breath on my fingertips, then the brush of fur as the lead dog ran by, the rest of the pack following.  I watched them pass, marveling at their beauty and grace – and then they simply…disappeared.

For a moment, my brain refused to process what I’d just seen.  Something cold and wet touched my hand and I jumped, startled.  A canine whimper beside me brought me sharply back to my present predicament.  One of the hell hounds was still here!

And he was hurt by the look of it, holding one forepaw off the ground.  My fear totally forgotten now, I stroked the sleek black head.  He wasn’t as big as the rest of the pack and he looked like a half-grown pup.  He had that ungainly way about him that young dogs have before they’ve fully grown into their feet.  And this one had very large feet.  “There, it’s all right.  I told you I’d help and I will.  Did they leave you behind when you hurt your paw?” I was talking softly, trying to reassure him.  “Maybe they don‘t know you’re lost.  My friends didn’t know I got hurt either, so they just kept going.  What’s the trouble, then?  Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.  We won’t have to tell anyone you’re a hell hound, do we?”  The tail wagged feebly, and eyes that didn’t look red anymore looked trustingly into mine.  The dog pressed against me, shivering.  He was so thin I could feel his ribs beneath the matted fur.  I put my arms around him and the next thing I knew I had a lap full of very wet dog.

I buried my face in the dark fur, glad as he was to have some company on the lonely moor.  I rubbed his ears, murmuring all sorts of nonsense.  Carefully I let my hand slide down his foreleg.  He whimpered a little as I touched the injured paw.  I wished I had a torch so I could see what had to be done for it, and even more I wished Auntie Geillis were here.  She would know what to do.  My gently probing fingers found the problem almost immediately – a thorn pierced one of the pads of the foot.  “Oh, you poor dear, it’s all right, I’m going to get it out for you.  Hold still, now – it’ll only take a minute.”  He yelped once, sharply, as I pulled the thorn out, but didn’t try to get off my lap.  Thankfully I still had a clean handkerchief in my pocket.  I let the rain soak the cambric so I could stanch the bleeding, clean the pad and tie a makeshift bandage around the dog’s foot.  I talked to him constantly as I worked.

“It’s not the best, but it’ll do until someone finds us and I can get Auntie to look at it.  She’s as good as any vet – even the farmers say so, and she makes a salve that’ll draw out any infection and make it feel much better.  You can live with us and I’ll take care of you.  You’ll never be hungry again.”  The tail thumped again, more vigorously.  “There, you’ll do, boy.”  I patted his neck.  Suddenly my fingers touched leather.  He was wearing a collar!  It was too dark to see if there was a tag, but….This was no hell hound, but a very real, flesh-and-blood dog, now slurping my face with a rough warm tongue.  He must have gotten lost somehow and when he couldn’t find his way home he’d joined the pack of hell hounds…I couldn’t quite make sense of that.  It was almost as though the hell hounds had heard me, knew the dog needed help, and brought him to me.

“Thank you,” I said softly.  “I will take care of him.  I hope you can find peace and a home.”  The dog licked my face again and laid his head on my arm.  I lost track of time, just holding him.

The rain had started to ease up when I heard someone calling my name.  “Gilly!”  It was Auntie Geillis, and she sounded more worried than angry.

Lights flashed some way down the path and in the feeble yellow light I saw Auntie Geillis, dressed for the weather in mac and Wellingtons, and carrying a torch.  Rob Harewood was with her, and his father as well.  Mr. Harewood had a lantern.

“Over here, Auntie!” I called back.  The lights wavered, then shifted in my direction.

“Gilly, are you hurt?” Auntie called.  Her voice was calm, but I heard the undertone of concern.

“I’m all right.  I think I just sprained my ankle – but I’ve found a dog.”

“A dog!” I heard the exclamations of surprise.

The dog pressed against me as the others came up, watching them guardedly as though he were protecting me.  I wrapped my arms around him again as Auntie knelt down beside me.  In the lantern light, I saw that her grey eyes were shadowed with concern.

“It’s all right, I’m here to help Gilly,” she said to the dog, holding her hand out, palm down, for him to smell.  With her usual sense for animals, she realized that if she wanted to have a look at my ankle, she was going to have to reassure the dog first.  The tail wagged and he licked her hand.  Introductions completed, Auntie turned her attention to my ankle.  She manipulated it gently and I bit my lip.  The dog licked my face.  “It’s not broken, dear, but you’ve got a nasty sprain.  The best I can do is wrap it for you and we’ll get you home.”

“Auntie, could you look at the dog’s paw?  He had a thorn stuck deep in his foot – I think I got all of it out, but could you look at it?”

“Of course – here, let’s have a look at you,” The dog allowed Auntie to pick up his paw and unwind my handkerchief.  After her inspection, she nodded, and slanted a look at me.  “You did a good job, Gilly.  When we get home I’ll put some of my comfrey salve on it.”  She re-bandaged the paw, the dog watching her trustingly.  She murmured, “Heaven knows how long you’ve been living wild.  You need a few good meals and a bath and you’ll be right as rain.”

“What happened, child?”  Mr. Harewood asked gruffly.  “Rob said you got separated in the storm and Molly was shrieking some rubbish about the hell hounds got you.”

I caught Rob’s look – it was clear that he wasn’t sure how to respond to the bit about the hell hounds, so I answered the easier question.  “I think I stepped in a rabbit hole, that’s how I sprained my ankle.  Rob and Molly didn’t know I fell.  Then the dog found me….”  I didn’t want Rob to get in trouble for leaving me out on the moor.  “I think he’s lost – there’s a collar, but I couldn’t read the tag.”

Auntie shone the torch on the dog’s collar.  “Sam,” she read, her voice a little husky.  “He’s a long way from home…there’s a Coventry address – we might be able to phone.”

Getting home was rather an undertaking.  I still couldn’t put any weight on my sprained ankle, so Mr. Harewood handed the lantern to Rob and picked me up.  I was a bit embarrassed at having to be carried all that way.  “I’m sorry I caused all this trouble,” I said in a small voice.

“No trouble,” Mr. Harewood assured me with a grin, “I’ve had to tote sheep around who weighed more than you, child.  You’re just a little slip of a thing.  Pay it no mind.”  Sam – for I must call him by his name – paced between Auntie Geillis and Mr. Harewood, jumping up now and again as if to make sure I was still there.  Auntie didn’t say anything to me, just murmured a few words to Sam and patted his head.  At least she wasn’t upset with Sam.  I just hoped she wasn’t angry enough with me to send me away.  I’d seen enough pictures of the bleak orphanages where children like me ended up.  It seemed to take quite a while to get back to Rowanlee.

After Rob and Mr. Harewood left for their farm, Auntie wanted me to take a hot bath right away, but I insisted on seeing to Sam first.  Surprisingly Auntie didn’t argue.  But then farm folk always saw to the needs of their animals first.

Once both Sam and I were bathed and fed and Sam’s paw properly cleaned and treated with Auntie’s comfrey salve and rebandaged, Auntie Geillis called the telephone exchange to get the number for the Coventry address on Sam’s collar.  I waited anxiously, with Sam now sleeping contentedly on the sofa beside me, his head in my lap.  The phone call seemed to be taking quite a while.

“I see.  Thank you very much.  Good night.”  Auntie replaced the telephone receiver and looked at me.

“Did you find Sam’s family?”  I asked in a small voice, half dreading the answer.

“Not yet – the operator in Coventry said the address was bombed out.  She put me through to the police station and the sergeant at the desk knew the family.  He said they survived, although one of the children was injured, but he’d heard they’d gone to family in Paignton about a month ago.”  Her voice was matter-of-fact as she spoke of the bombing, but her grey eyes were shadowed.  I knew she missed Mummy too – after all, they were sisters and had been very close.  With Auntie’s husband, my Uncle Chris, stationed in Edinburgh with the RAF, she had been alone at Rowanlee until I came to live with her.  “I’ll have to call the exchange in Paignton.”  She picked up the receiver again.

“What happens if you can’t find them?” I ventured again, needing to know, but afraid to ask outright if we could keep Sam.

Auntie sighed.  “We certainly can’t turn Sam out to fend for himself, he’s still just a pup, but you must understand that we’ve got to do everything we can to find his people.”

“Is it because I disobeyed and went out on the moor?” I asked miserably, tears very close to the surface.

“Of course not!  Whatever made you think that?” Her voice gentled. “Oh, Gilly, love – ”

She put the phone down and came to sit on the couch beside me.  She put her arms around me and held me close.   “I know you want to keep Sam…but think about how much you care about him – and you’ve known him only a few hours.  If he were your dog and got lost somehow, think about how you’d feel.  Wouldn’t you want whoever found him to let you know so you could come and bring him home?”

I nodded, resting my cheek on Sam’s sleek head.  I couldn’t speak around the lump in my throat.  Auntie went off to call the Paignton exchange.  When she came back, she said quietly, “I found them.  The Carstairs family will be coming up by train tomorrow – they’ll take the taxi from the station.  You and Sam had better get to bed, Gilly.  He can sleep with you tonight.”

Sam curled up on the bed beside me and was soon fast asleep, but I lay awake long into the night.  My sprained ankle throbbed but even worse was the pain of knowing I would have to say good-bye to Sam.  I’d found a dog I’d hoped could be my own, only to lose him again.  At long last I cried myself to sleep.

Morning dawned too soon.  I fed Sam, took him outside and brushed him, but it quickly became evident that I wasn’t going to be able to go to school.  Rob stopped by on his way to the village, bringing a pair of crutches for me to use, and Auntie gave him a note for my teacher.  After the usual farm chores, Auntie was busy in the kitchen much of the morning, which left me free sit outside in the brisk autumn sunshine with Sam.

It was nearly eleven when the taxi came up the lane.  It came to a stop at our gate and a man got out, then the driver got out and opened the boot.  The passenger pulled out a wheelchair, unfolded it and wheeled it to the other side of the car.  He seemed to be helping someone get out and into the wheelchair.  Then he and the driver spoke for a few minutes, before the driver nodded, got back in the cab and drove away.

The man pushed the wheelchair through the gate and I saw the girl for the first time.  She was perhaps my age and very thin, with long brown ringlets tied back in a yellow bow.   She wore a brown skirt and yellow jumper, and her thin legs were encased in steel braces.

At the creak of the gate, Sam’s head came up sharply from my lap.  He barked once, joyfully, then bounded to his feet and raced down the drive.   The girl caught sight of him and cried, “Sam!” and then she was laughing and crying all at once as Sam leaped at the wheelchair, his tail wagging madly.

Auntie Geillis came out and shook the man’s hand and spoke to the girl.  By the time I reached the house I was composed enough to be introduced to Mr. Carstairs and his daughter Susan.

“My wife had to stay in Paignton with the boys – we didn’t have train fare for all of us,” Mr. Carstairs was explaining somewhat apologetically to Auntie.  “You see, Susan was in hospital for several weeks, and it took all we had to come here where we can stay with my wife’s sister until we get on our feet again.  But we’re luckier than most – we can start over, and the doctors believe Susan will walk again in time.”

Susan said, “I’m sure I will now because I’ve got Sam back – I’ll work hard at the exercises so I can run and play with him again.”

Mr. Carstairs said quietly to Auntie, “We were afraid she’d given up after we lost Sam.  We brought him with us but he had to be kept in the baggage car and when we got to Paignton, he was gone.  The conductor said it was likely he’d got loose when the train stopped at Torquay.  Susan was devastated – having him was the only thing that got her through the pain.”

Susan turned to me, “Thank you so much for finding Sam.  I was so afraid I’d lost him forever.”  Her voice caught and she bent to caress Sam’s ears.

“You’re welcome,” I replied.

Auntie, tactful as always, stepped into the awkward moment and invited Mr. Carstairs and Susan to stay for lunch.  “You’ll need time to eat before you catch the train.”

Mr. Carstairs accepted and maneuvered Susan’s wheelchair inside.  Sam curled up on the floor between Susan and me.  While Auntie and Mr. Carstairs talked about Mr. Churchill’s latest speech, Susan asked me, “However did you manage to find Sam?”

“He found me,” I answered, and told her about getting caught out on the moor with Rob and Molly.  I didn’t tell her about the hell hounds.  “He came right to me – he had a thorn in his foot, but I got it out.”

“You must be very good with animals,” Susan said.  “Sam doesn’t usually come to anyone but family.”

I shrugged.  “I love dogs, and I think Sam knew that.  His foot really will be all right.  Auntie Geillis put some of her salve on it and I’m sure she’ll send some along for you to put on until it’s fully healed.”

After that it was easy to talk to Susan.  Auntie had made bread pudding for dessert and we chatted while Auntie and Mr. Carstairs had coffee.  Before I knew it, the taxi was at the gate.    Sam seemed to know it was time to go.  He came to me, and put his paws in my lap.  “I’ll miss you, Sam,” I whispered in his ear.  I buried my face in his dark fur, then he was covering my face in doggy kisses.

Mr. Carstairs had brought a lead, which he clipped to Sam’s collar.  I got to walk him to the taxi while Mr. Carstairs helped Susan into the cab, then Sam jumped in beside her.  Our good-byes were a bit rushed, as they had to a train to catch, but we promised to keep in touch.  The driver pipped the horn twice, then they were gone.

The farmyard seemed very empty without Sam’s presence.

Two nights later, Auntie and I decided to forego the All Hallows Eve bonfire on the village green.  My ankle still wasn’t strong enough to stand for that long and the crutches would be awkward in the crush of people.  Instead, Auntie filled a thermos of hot apple cider and brought some shortbread and we sat on the hill behind the barn as the sun slipped below the horizon.  We could just see the flickering of the bonfire through the trees.

“I know you’re missing Sam,” Auntie said conversationally.

I nodded.  “You knew, didn’t you – about Susan, I mean?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

Auntie sighed.   “You thought I wasn’t allowing you to keep Sam because you’d gone onto the moor, and that wasn’t it at all.  But I couldn’t tell you about Susan…you had to see for yourself to understand how much she needs Sam.”

“I know she does,” I said in a small voice.   “I am sorry I disobeyed you and went out on the moor.  I knew I shouldn’t have gone.  Molly just made me so angry by calling me a ‘fraidy cat.  But she doesn’t know what it’s like to be really scared.”

“Molly talks a lot of rubbish sometimes,” Auntie agreed.  “But I think she has a better understanding of fear now.  Whatever it was that happened to you three on the moor absolutely terrified her.  She was nearly hysterical when she and Rob came running up the lane, screaming that the hell hounds had taken you and it was all her fault.”

I swallowed.  The hell hounds again.  I’d been able to dodge the question with Mr. Harewood, but didn’t think I’d have the same luck with Auntie.  One dark brow arched a query.  “What did happen out there, Gilly?”

I lifted a shoulder helplessly.  “I – I’m not sure.  On our way home from school, Molly told me about the hell hounds and how they race over Dartmoor.  I didn’t really believe her.  But then we got caught in the storm and we heard the hounds baying.  Then we all saw them – ”  I told her everything.  “Auntie, I felt the breath of the lead dog, touched his fur as he passed me…and then they ran on and just disappeared, and Sam was there.  I don’t understand it, but it’s like they brought Sam to me.”

Auntie listened thoughtfully and didn’t try to tell me I was talking rubbish.  “There are many things in this world we don’t understand,” she said at last.

“Then you don’t think I’m daft?”

“No, I don’t.  You’re too sensible.  And remember your mum – the vicar thought that was impossible too, but you knew she was there.”  I nodded.  Mummy had pushed me under the stairs to safety when our house was bombed.  In the darkness, she held me, talked to me and sang to me until I fell asleep.  It was only after our neighbor, Mrs. Roe, cut open the door and pulled me out that I learned that Mummy had been killed in the first blast.

Auntie went on, her voice calm and comforting.  “It’s been said that at this time of year, the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead is the thinnest, so who’s to say that dogs can’t come through as well?  I don’t believe those so-called hell hounds ever harmed anyone, but – just like Molly – people feared them because of the legend.  You weren’t afraid of them because you love dogs, and you wanted to help.   Dogs – spectral or otherwise – know a friend when they see one.  Who knows?  Perhaps you brought them some measure of peace.  And they did lead Sam to you so you could help him and Susan.”

“I did want to keep him…but I’m glad Susan has him back.  I hope she’ll be able to walk again.  After hobbling around on crutches the last few days, I can’t imagine the thought of not being able to walk and run.”

Auntie Geillis put her arm around me.  “I’m awfully proud of you, Gilly.”

We sat for a while in silence.   A shooting star blazed across the night sky and I made a wish on it for a puppy of my own, a collie puppy with a white ruff, and soft golden brown fur shading to black around the ears.  Someday…

By Linda Monsees Stump © 2010

I seem to be running a little behind in my Celtic tree month articles and you will see why in a moment.  Even though I didn’t have time to write about it while I was dealing with some projects with tight deadlines and studying for a required regulatory exam, I was tapping into the energy of the Hazel moon.

Known to the Celts as Coll, which has been translated as “the life force inside you”, Hazel is often associated with sacred wells and magical springs containing the salmon of knowledge.  I certainly could use any sort of assistance to incorporate the new material I was learning and get it fixed in my head.

Hazelnuts were also associated with wisdom and protection.  Necklaces of hazelnuts were once worn for protection, a sort of natural amulet.  Magickally, hazelnuts were eaten prior to engaging in any divinatory activities, and were said to induce visions.  Consuming hazel nuts In Irish legend is said to increase knowledge and lead to heightened awareness.  The Irish champion Fionn MacCumhail was said to have gained his wisdom by coming into contact with the essence of the hazel nuts – because of the salmon that was known to eat the hazel nuts that dropped around a sacred pond encircled by hazel trees. In modern times, hazel nuts have been proven to be brain food – so while I was studying, if I was going to have a snack, I tried to find something in the cupboards that contained hazelnuts.  I certainly wasn’t going to cavil if that snack also contained chocolate!

The Hazel month was always considered a good one for creativity – for artists, writers or musicians to reclaim our muse and find inspiration.   By the time I passed my exam, I felt as though my brain was fried and my creativity was, quite frankly, sapped.  I hadn’t done anything really creative for a long time.  I was tired of not feeling like myself and I missed my creative side.  Still, I was just at the end of the month of Coll, so although I hadn’t taken full advantage of the month from the perspective of inspiration, I decided it wasn’t too late. I don’t have any hazel trees in my neighborhood, so I settled for looking at pictures and the Ogham symbol for Coll.  If you are creatively stuck, tap into the energy of the Hazel – and, as long as you don’t have tree nut allergies, eat some hazelnuts.

*Caution:  Individuals with tree nut allergies or even peanut allergies should exercise extreme caution before consuming hazelnuts.

By Linda Monsees Stump © 2010

Holly has long been associated with Christmas and Yuletide because of its spiked evergreen leaves and red berries.  So I was having a little bit of difficulty getting in synch with the Celtic tree month of Holly now – when the temperature is in the 90’s and the humidity makes it feel like I’m living in a steam bath!  Yet as so often happens, tuning in to the holly was exactly what I needed.

In the Celtic Ogham alphabet, holly is referred to as Tinne, and considered one of the “chieftain” trees.  It is written as follows:

In medieval lore, it is thought of as a male plant, and is associated with strength and energy.  When I discovered a holly in the back yard last winter, I realized it was also one of the woods considered the most resilient for use in making objects subject to stress.

Stress…like many of you in the modern world, stress is the story of my life!  Juggling multiple and constantly shifting priorities at work, tight deadlines, and the corporate buzzwords of “doing more with less”, coupled with family concerns had me waking up several times a night, unable to sleep for thinking about the stressors.  The thing that impacted me the most about the stress I was dealing with was that it seemed to sap my creativity.  My energy levels were low in the heat and when I would sit down to write I ended up staring at a blank screen, my mind too busy with all the things I had to do to think about who and what I am and allow myself to be that person.

The holly in my back yard isn’t big enough yet to make anything from the wood, so I had to content myself with going out every so often to just look at it.  But that wasn’t helping me write this piece.  While I was struggling to come up with a pertinent piece on Tinne, Spirit quite unexpectedly provided the answer.  I was taking my dog for his morning walk and it was cool enough to go the longer route.  Both of us and I were enjoying the breeze, and he was following bunny trails.  He stopped abruptly when something in the grass caught his attention.  Once I realized it was just a rock and not a toad (I have no objections to toads, but I was too used to the poisonous varieties we had in Arizona to want him to get sick) I glanced up, and there was a beautiful holly tree.  I’ve walked past that house several times in the course of our excursions, but I never really noticed that particular tree.  It was like a gift from Spirit.  The message was quite clear.  In spite of the stress, the strength to cope with it is within us.  Sometimes we just have to open our eyes to see it.

Wishing you all the blessings of Tinne and may you find your own strength within.

By Linda Monsees Stump © 2010

I was feeling a bit stressed personally and professionally, and much as I love taking my dog for walks, on that particular morning it was just one more thing on my to do list.  Max bounced excitedly beside me as I clipped on his leash and we headed out.  For the first half block, all I could think about was all the “stuff” I had to do:  study the latest work-related course I have to take for a professional designation, finish a project for work, do laundry, update my garden journal, oh, and write an article…the list seemed never-ending.

In spite of the warmer weather, there was a nice breeze blowing, and Max put his nose into the wind, sniffing eagerly.  His enjoyment was catching, and I started to relax.   There are a number of oak trees in my new neighborhood and for some reason I found myself paying them special attention that morning.  Perhaps it wasn’t surprising, as in the Celtic tree calendar, the Oak moon runs from June 10 – July 7.  It is at this time that the mighty Oak is at its peak.  In one sense it is paradoxical; in Celtic mythology, it is at Midsummer that the Oak King, at the peak of his power, is vanquished by the Holly King to turn the wheel of the year once again to the colder months.  It is not until the winter solstice that the Oak King in his turn, defeats the Holly King to bring the warmth back to the land.

Considered chief among the chieftain trees in Ireland, the Oak towers over its neighbors.  There is something regal and majestic about this beautiful tree, and it has always been one of my favorites.  The Oak tree was sacred to the Druids, and it is believed that the word “Druid” derives from the word Duir, which some scholars believe to mean “door”.  We face many “doors” or pathways in our lives, and sometimes “doing the right thing” leads us down a path fraught with uncertainty and turmoil.  Yet the Oak embodies an age-old wisdom of living in harmony with the circumstances in which we find ourselves.  This was a reminder I very much needed that morning.

Duir is is also believed to come from an Indo-European root meaning “men of Oak” or “Oak knowledge”.   Although many Druid sacred sites were situated in Oak or ash groves, it is interesting that many early Christian churches were located near Druid oaks.   In Ogham, duir is related to the Irish word for Oak, dair.  It is written as follows:

The town of Kildare, in Ireland, for example, takes its name from Cill Dara, cill meaning church, thus “Church of the Oak”.  Saint Brigid of Kildare is one of the patron saints of Ireland and founded the abbey at Kildare.  Bride, the alternate spelling of her name, was patron saint of the Scottish House of Douglas.

Magickally, the Oak is connected with protection and strength, fertility, prosperity and success, and good  fortune.  It is believed that carrying an acorn in your pocket to an interview or business meeting will bring you good luck.   Interestingly, I’ve noticed that vendors at the Spoutwood Farm Faerie Festival are gifted with acorns by the wandering “Green Men” to put in their cash boxes!  Catching a falling Oak leaf before it hits the ground in autumn is believed to keep you healthy in the following year.   In Celtic tradition, the Oak was sacred to the god Dagda.  The Oak was considered sacred in Norse and Greek tradition as well, and the Greeks believed that to consume an acorn was to imbibe wisdom.  The acorn can also symbolize the enormous potential in very small things, as in the saying, “Great oaks from tiny acorns grow.”

Acorns were a staple food among many Native American tribes.  They would dry the acorns before pounding them into ground meal or flour.  The tannin in acorns makes them very bitter and difficult to digest.  The Native Americans leached the tannin from the acorns by wrapping them in a cloth and placing the acorns in a flowing stream.

Medicinally a decoction of oak bark was taken for diarrhea, hemorrhoids and even for sore throats.  Externally it was used to stanch bleeding and heal wounds.  Nicholas Culpeper, the 17^th century English botanist and herbalist, felt that the water found in the hollow places of oaks was very effectual against any foul or spreading scabs.  Caution: Do not use any herbal remedies without consulting your physician.

I’ve always been fascinated by the qualities of various woods, perhaps because my father was a master cabinet maker.  The furniture he built combined beauty and functionality, and oak was considered some of the most resilient woods.  Oaken doors were considered a strong defense.  In the age of wooden sailing ships, British warships were traditionally made of Oak, leading to the song Heart of Oak, the official march of the British Navy.  In medieval times, in addition to shipbuilding, the wood was used for houses, churches, furniture, carved paneling, reliquaries and coffins.

The Oak is symbolic of both inner and outer strength, a symbolism I very much needed to take to heart right then.  As Max paused to sniff around the roots of one towering tree, I studied the gnarled roots and their firm, deep connection to the earth.  The breeze rustled the leaves and I glanced up to see sunlight shafting through the green canopy.

As Midsummer approaches, take the time to learn the lessons of the Oak.  Remain grounded in spite of present circumstances; stand tall and reach for the sky.

By Linda Monsees Stump © 2010

Continuing our group project of adapting information about the Celtic tree months or “moons” to our individual column topics, the Hawthorn moon runs from May 13 – June 9.

“Shed not a clout till May be out”…When I first heard this as little girl, I wasn’t sure what it meant.  My mother explained that it was an old folk saying from England and Scotland that meant you shouldn’t shed any of your outerwear until May was out.  Still puzzled – since we were living in Southern California and it could get quite hot by the end of May – I thought it was very silly that one should have to wait until June to put one’s winter coat away!  Mum laughed and said it didn’t mean the month of May, but referred to the time when the flowering May – or hawthorn – was in full bloom, signifying that summer had fully come.

In the Celtic lands, May Day or Beltane, was the official beginning of summer and the solstice – or Midsummer – referred to a time when the summer was at its peak.  The word hawthorn comes from the old English word “haw”, which means “hedge”; therefore hawthorn is a thorny hedge.  The hawthorn is considered an emblem of hope.

Medicinally, hawthorn berries were used for treating heart disease and lowering blood pressure.  Generally the berries were simmered in water or used in a tincture.  Hawthorn was considered effective for curing nervousness and insomnia and to prevent miscarriage.  You should always consult your doctor before using any herbal remedy.

In Celtic lore, the hawthorn was used commonly for rune inscriptions along with yew and apple.  In the Ogham, it is referred to as huath, and is inscribed as below.

Not surprisingly, given the origins of its name, hawthorn was considered a tree of protection; the leaves can be used in protection sachets and combined with other protective plants such as lavender, woodruff, elderflowers and cedar.  In Ireland, the red fruit has been called the Johnny MacGory, or Magory.  Perhaps because of its use in treating heart disease, hawthorn was said to be able to heal a broken heart.

Long ago the flowering branches were used for decorative purposes on the first of May, however only out of doors.  It was considered bad luck to bring the flowers into a house as it was supposed to portend death.  Hawthorn was known as a faerie tree and is commonly associated with May Day or Beltane.  When Hawthorn grows with Oak and Ash, it is considered an especially strong attraction for the Tylwyth Teg, as the fair folk are known in Wales.  Since the adoption of the Gregorian calendar in 1752, the hawthorn is rarely in full bloom in England before the second week of May.  And in the Scottish Highlands, the May blossoms have been seen as late as mid-June.

In Scotland the saying is “Ne’er cast a cloot till May be oot.”  Interestingly, a “clootie” or “cloot” in Scots (which is a form of English, not Scottish Gaelic, by the way) is a strip or piece of cloth, and can also refer to a rag or item of clothing.  “Clootie wells” are wells or springs in Celtic areas where pilgrims leave strips of cloth or rags tied to trees or bushes nearby, usually as part of a healing rituals.  Generally the cloths have washed a diseased, ill or disabled part of a body, and it is believed that when the cloths dry, the body part will heal.  There are other customs that say you should hang a rag at the clootie well on May Day to ward off evil spirits.  Known clootie wells are located in Munlochy in the Black Isles and at Culloden Moor.  Some believe that if you look into the water of a clootie well you will see your own reflection, your face as it will appear on your death, or the face of your life love.

A traditional Scottish dessert pudding is called Clootie Dumpling.  Recipes vary from region to region and sometimes include a golden syrup or treacle.

Clootie Dumpling

1 lb. self raising flour
1 teacup white breadcrumbs
1 teacup shredded suet
1 teacup sugar
1 packet mixed spice
half pound currants
three-quarters of a pound of raisins/sultanas
half pint of milk
1 grated apple
1 dessertspoonful treacle

Sift flour and spice together and mix with sugar, breadcrumbs and dried fruit.  Cut in the suet.  Dissolve the treacle in the milk and add this to the flour mixture.  Mix to a dough.  Scald a pudding cloth, dust with flour and turn mixture out onto cloth.  Tie securely, leaving room for the pudding to swell.  Place an upturned plate in a large pot with sufficient water to half cover the pudding. Allow the water to boil then place the pudding in the pan. Cover and boil gently for three and a half hours. The pudding must boil continuously. Top up frequently with boiling water. Remove from pan, unwrap cloth gently and dry off pudding in a warm oven for 20 minutes.  Pudding can be served with custard if desired.

By Linda Monsees Stump ©2010

As I was thinking about this month’s posting, a tune kept running through my head.  I realized it was one that my mother used to whistle while she was working or sewing.  The piece is called Down by the Sally Gardens,  (Irish Title: Gort na Saileán) and was originally an Irish poem, written by William Butler Yeats, published in The Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems in 1889.  “Sally” or “Salley” is an Anglicization of the Irish saileach, meaning willow.  Willows are known as “salleys”, “sallies” or “salley trees” in parts of Ireland.  Hmmm…it seems as though Mum is still sending me inspiration from Tir na n’Og – no surprise there, as we didn’t need to be together to communicate, even while she was on the Earth plane!

Willow, or Saille (pronounced sal-ye), as used in the Celtic tree calendar, is the white willow, a large tree that is native to Britain and Ireland.  This is not the more commonly known weeping willow in the United States.  Willows grew along the banks of rivers and streams and they were a source for withies used in making wattle and daub houses and binding the staves of a barrel.  They were also used in basket-making, in tanning, and produced a purple dye.

In folklore, willow was said to be associated with sorrow and lost love.  This is reflected in the lyrics of the song Down by the Sally Gardens:
It was down by the Sally Gardens, my love and I did meet.
She crossed the Sally Gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree,
But I was young and foolish, and with her did not agree.

In a field down by the river, my love and I did stand
And on my leaning shoulder, she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy , as the grass grows on the weirs
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

Down by the Sally Gardens, my love and I did meet.
She crossed the Sally Gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree,
But I was young and foolish, and with her did not agree.

Here is a version of the song performed live in 2008 by Clannad.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d02dI9jBz3A

In Ogham, the Celtic tree alphabet, the symbol looks like this:

Willow bark contains salicin, which is one of the main ingredients in painkillers such as aspirin.  Herbalists used to make willow bark tea to relieve pain and headaches and reduce fever.  Externally it could be applied for burns, sores, cuts and skin rashes.

Magickally, willow is associated with intuition, imagination and vision.  As the Beltane energies surround you, tune into Saille, the willow.   Listen to your intuition, spark your imagination, and enhance your vision of the world around you…and the world within.

Fearn – the Alder

By Linda Monsees Stump © 2010

Our Writers’ Night Out group decided to kick off spring with something a little different this year.  In the past, we have done a number of fictional group projects.  This time, we decided to turn the power of the group mind to a non-fiction project.  By tuning into the Celtic tree months, we would each look at the month from our own column’s perspective.

The alder month runs from March 18 to April 14.  Alder is known as Fearn (pronounced fyarn) and derives from the Irish word for alder, fearnóg. In Celtic mythology, Bran the Blessed is associated with the alder.  In Welsh, his name is Bendigeidfran, literally “Blessed Crow” or “Blessed Raven”.  The Mabinogion tells that Bran was the size of a giant, and it was impossible for him to fit in a house or boat.  When his sister, Branwen went to Ireland to marry Matholwch, king of the Irish but was cruelly treated.  Branwen trained a starling and sent it with a message to her brother, who came across the sea to avenge his sister.

Alder is associated with protection and healing.  My father built a china cabinet of alder for my mother, and I have this beautiful piece of furniture in my dining room.  Any time I touch a piece of furniture my dad made, it brings him close again, even though he crossed over many years ago.  My father was very protective of his only child, and being surrounded by the furniture he made does give me the sense that he still watches over me.

Because of the red sap that “bleeds” from a freshly cut alder, the trees were associated with blood and the soul.  I remember my godfather relating a story about having to cut a tree down on his property and being somewhat shaken when it seemed that the tree “bled”.  Alder is very water-resistant and so has often been used in poles for support under water.   The bark has been used for tanning.  Alder bark contains salicin, and Native Americans used the bark of the red alder to treat poison oak, insect bites and other skin irritations.  The Blackfeet even used an infusion from the bark of red alder to treat lymphatic disorders and tuberculosis.

The Ogham letter for Fearn is shown below.  Find an alder tree this spring – or use a pictorial or Ogham representation of the tree – to reacquaint yourself with the energies of Fearn.