In the Cold of Winter

After starting out with a flurry of activity, looks like DruidUU has settled into a once-a-month posting pattern this winter. I'm sure things will pick up around here as things change in the future, but that's just the way life is right now!

In case you haven't seen it yet, the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids recently published this video on their YouTube page that introduces viewers to their Order and its work. It's a high-quality production that is certainly worth checking out!

I held a small, but nice Alban Arthan ritual for the Winter Solstice at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship, but due to scheduling conflicts, my Imbolc ritual will just take place in a solitary fashion here at home. I've enjoyed sharing Druidry with those in our Ancient Shores Chapter of the Covenant of Unitarian Universalist Pagans and will miss the community aspect of the coming holiday!

Best wishes to all of you as the coldest days of winter settle in for a spell. May you find rest and inspiration in this quiet and beautiful time of the year. The cardinals have already started singing at my house as they reaffirm their life-long bond in preparation for spring!

-Skybranch /|\

Since Samhuinn

Well, it's been just about a month since my last post on this blog and so very much has happened.

First of all, my grandmother, June Grubbs passed away on November 9th. She was my last grandparent and a very kind and sweet woman. My middle name, William, is after her father and he was the only great-grandparent I ever knew, passing away in 1973. Will wrote a scrapbook for his family which included a great deal of family history in addition to the story of his own remarkable life, growing up on a small farm in Michigan's Thumb, going to college and earning a Master's Degree and becoming a teacher and superintendent of schools. My interest in history and genealogy grew very strong through these amazing relatives of mine. Grandma June, "Nana", will be missed by many very much.

Leaves have fallen, the calendar of the year is coming to a close and family life has been very busy this time of year. Unfortunately, that has left little time for further druidry studies, reading or daily meditation. This often seems to happen to me as the year goes on. While I continue to take walks in the woods nearly every day, teach others about nature and feel a strong spiritual connection to the Spirit-that-moves-in-all-things, my devotion to a course of study wanes. We'll see what happens as the year goes on. I believe that Druidry has much to offer me and the world and I feel grateful it's a part of my life.

The path is winding and long. So I'll grab my walking stick, open the door and step outside...

See you on the trail,

Skybranch /|\

Invocation of the Ancestors

A raft of tamarack needles floats on the Peshekee River
in Michigan's Upper Peninsula 

This Samhuinn, I led a Druid-based ritual for five other members of the CUUPS Group at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship where I've been a member since 1997. In case you're not familiar, CUUPS stands for the Covenant of Unitarian Universalist Pagans and a group of us formed a local chapter, called Ancient Shores CUUPS, about a year and a half ago. (I'll write more about CUUPS in later posts.)

While much of my ritual was based on suggestions from The Druidry Handbook, by John Michael Greer, I also felt something extra was needed to complete the ceremony under our little grove of pines. What I came up with is something I call the "Invocation of the Ancestors" and I thought I'd share it with you here.

"As we receive the gifts of the Earth Mother and the Goddess at Samhuinn, when the veil between the worlds is thin, so too can we feel our ever-present ancestors, who may be gone from this world, but are with us, always. Through their courage and sacrifice, joy, laughter and pain, this world has been shaped for us to live in.  Indeed, our lives are the very real result of their everlasting love.

Druids know there is power in the sound of the voice. The resonant tones that escape our lips are the very echoes of Awen within us and the energy of Nwyfre, the life force, which is present in all things.

At this time, I invite us all to remember our ancestors together. As you feel so moved, let us speak aloud the names of those who have passed beyond the veil. Let us draw them near us, here in our sacred grove, as we thank them for their many gifts and feel their everlasting love."

As we spoke the names of our ancestors in the evening air, a powerful feeling came over our Grove. I truly felt the love of those gone before in a very real and immediate way. My Grandparents, Great Grandparents, Uncles and other loved ones who have passed on are still guiding my steps every day. And what a wonderful moment to share such a bond with the rest of our group at this special time of Samhuinn. 

May each of you also see clear the guiding light of your ancestors.

Yours under the Whispering Pines,

Skybranch /|\

Samhuinn Eve

So far this Samhuinn, I've taken part in the first of two rituals to celebrate this special time of year. My whole life, long before I'd even heard the term Samhuinn, I've had a special affection for Autumn and Halloween. Clean, brisk air tinted with the smell of woodsmoke, brilliant colored leaves on nearly every tree and shrub and Jack o'lanterns on every doorstep. My love for this season runs deep.

As I've learned more about the roots of this traditional Celtic holiday, I've come to hold a deeper appreciation beyond trick-or-treat and playful costume parties. As a Boy Scout in the mid-1980s, I had my first brush with genealogy. Since that time, the understanding of my family tree has grown into a glorious web of life, stretching far back in time. My connection with the past, my ancestors, and the source of all life is a real and present part of my every day.

Recently, my connection to those gone before has grown even richer with the addition of myth and tales of eternal truths from various cultures around the world. Ceridwen and Pan, Cernunnos and Herne come to life just generations of my own grandparents before me. Lessons from all these sources link me to the whole of humanity, the earth beneath my feet, and the heavens above.

This Samhuinn, when the veil between the worlds is thin, I hope each of you relish this time of closeness with your ancestors, wherever and whenever they walked the Earth. The truth is, each of them live within us still.

-Skybranch /|\

Swinger of Trees

When I see birches bend to left and right 

Across the lines of straighter darker trees, 

I like to think some boy's been swinging them.

But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay.
                                   

From Birches by Robert Frost (1916)

In fifth grade, I learned where the sidewalk ends. All of us in Ms. Hartman’s class made the journey to that magical place together. We also sat on the carpet with bated breath as storks built their nest of sticks on a wagon wheel, perched on top of a schoolhouse, far away. I even read aloud to the class one rain-soaked afternoon.

Me as a Kid

Poems and stories filled the air as we turned pages, memorized lines, and shared them aloud with each other. I distinctly remember the warm fog of horse’s breath as we stopped by a wood on snowy evening. Teachers share gifts with their students in small ways every day. Some last a lifetime.

Richmond Middle School still sits at the edge of a small Michigan town, just as it did when I started attending in the autumn of 1981. Behind the playground was a woodlot of oaks and maples, crisscrossed with winding paths to entice the intrepid adventurer.

The wood was divided by a deep drainage ditch, bordered by a tall chain link fence. I have no idea who owned the property, but their fence was no match for boys. Wally and I roamed the place at will, crossing the ditch on a fallen tree. Our search for the mighty Excalibur lasted many moons, and scores of sticks were smashed to smithereens in the conquest.

One summer Saturday, I dragged Dwayne along for birdwatching behind the school. Blue jays and cardinals, chickadees and mourning doves were among the morning’s usual suspects. After birding we stopped on the playground and hopped on the swings, if only to get that much closer to our feathered friends. Soon after, an unusual sight pulled into the parking lot. Our swings came to a rest as we watched a man get out of his car and walk across the grass, headed in our direction.

The police officer told us that someone had been lighting off fireworks behind the school the night before and asked if we knew anything about it. Our resulting pleas of ignorance and claims of watching birds were initially met with some degree of skepticism. Clearly he thought the culprits had returned to the scene of the crime. The glint of victory sparkled through his glasses.

Until we uttered the words, “Yellow-shafted flicker.”

Even at my tender age I could instantly discern that while a badge and a gun provide some measure of authority, they do not impart one whit of knowledge about birds. “If you boys see anything suspicious, let us know,” he said as he smiled and drove away.

Now back to Mr. Frost. Reading his poem Birches had introduced me to quite a new idea. The concept of “swinging trees” was, I must admit, most intriguing. Climbing trees had already been a favorite pastime of mine for years, starting with the gnarled old apple trees in our backyard. But climbing a slender sapling to the very top, then flinging outward with a swish to the ground! What a grand and terrifying idea!

Poem in hand, it was time to search for a candidate. While I had no need to “fetch the cows” as the boy in Mr. Frost’s musings, it still seemed to me this line of work was a solitary calling. This would especially be true if things didn’t go quite as planned and I ended up breaking an arm or something. I certainly wouldn’t want anyone to witness such a spectacle. That kind of story would be whispered behind my back for years or maybe end up in the local paper.

So off to school I go, when no one is around. Except for the scolding jays, the woods sure are quiet and peaceful. It feels like the trees know I’m up to something...

There aren’t many birches around here, but I’m sure another kind will do. Maples are strong, don’t they make baseball bats out of those? Or maybe that’s hickory. There’s a hickory tree over by the high school where we race squirrels to collect nuts every autumn, but that sucker is huge. Maybe Paul Bunyan could swing it, but I weigh about 80 pounds.

Now concentrate…maple it is. Those helicopters sure make a mess of our yard, but that ice storm a few years ago was even worse. Giant branches were down everywhere and the neighbors were out on the street, surveying the damage. I wonder if any of these bent saplings got arched to the ground then and stayed that way. “Like girls on their hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun.” Robert Frost is so cool.

That one looks pretty good, but the branches sure are skinny. Oh well, might as well give it a whirl. My hands are kind of sweaty and it’s not even hot out. Holy crap, this thing is already swinging all over the place. I’ll never make it to the top. Back down. Try again.

This one looks better. Probably grew a bit slower under the shade of this big guy. Chickadees sure have small feet. They could cling to one of those tiny twigs way up there and barely make a leaf move. Mom sure loves those little guys. I bet they’re really soft.

This isn’t as easy as Mr. Frost makes it sound. “He always kept his poise to the top branches, climbing carefully with the same pains you use to fill a cup up to the brim, and even above the brim.” Well that doesn’t sound so easy after all.

I know, how about those low branches on that big tree over there. Now this is no problem, and I can just reach the top of this sapling. Holy cow, I must be twenty feet up here. It would really suck if this thing just snapped in two.

“Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, kicking his way down through the air to the ground.” Okay Robert, here we go.

It worked! And I became a swinger of trees. I clenched my sweaty hands into tight fists around the thin taper of the crown. Feet extended, I jumped from the larger tree, descending in a furious rustle of green leaves and invisible wind, smiling all the way to the ground.

Lightly stepping off, the tree sprung skyward, (mostly) returning to its upright position. For the next little while, I enjoyed the natural ride again and again. Saplings were at my mercy. “By riding them down over and over again until he took the stiffness out of them, and not one but hung limp, not one was left for him to conquer.”

Then it was time to go. This wood and I would meet again before my youth was done. As I turned to say goodbye, fresh memories swirled in my brain. But then I saw the trees. The jays were right to scold me as I arrived that day. After my thrills, a row of saplings bowed their heads to the ground. They looked sad, if leaves and branches somehow share our feelings. Their neighbors stood nearby, leafy arms reaching to the sky, soaking up the sun. At that moment, I sure hoped Mr. Frost was right and they wouldn’t stay that way.

Today, I cherish the day I became a swinger of trees. I had come to know the quiet sentinels of the little woodlot behind my school in a new way. Our arms were intertwined as swirling wind rushed through our hair. The trees brought me back to earth with the softest touch, stripping me of fear and worry, leaving nothing but joy.

Since that day, I have never again been a swinger of saplings. Now when I climb (and you better believe I still do) I only choose trunks strong enough to support me. Young trees have a more noble task than riding my somewhat-more-than 80 pounds to the ground. Slender leafy heads belong above us for chickadees to perch on.

But I must admit, when I see a sapling bent to the ground, it makes me wonder and have to smile. Let the children play. Let them know the trees.

Great Lakes Druidry

While Druidry existed in ancient Britain and its revival took place there in the 17th century, modern Druidry has grown to be a worldwide phenomenon. If people are able to use this spiritual path to help repair our connection to nature and heal our damaged world, then it must be extremely adaptable to each place where people feel the call of nature all over the planet.

An excellent introduction to this idea is articulated by John Michael Greer in his article "A Pacific Northwest Ogham", which can be found on the website of the Ancient Order of Druids in America. In his article, Greer writes:

The tree-Ogham as it has come down to us in modern Druid tradition is a creation of the British Isles, and draws on the trees of that region. The Puget Sound area of the Pacific Northwest, where I live and practice Druidry, is nearly a different planet in botanical terms...The process of creating a tree-Ogham appropriate to the Puget Sound country - or any other environment sufficiently different from northwestern Europe -- is not unlike that of translating poetry from one language to another. Inevitably, some meanings are lost, and others are gained which were not present in the original.... If Druidry is relevant to the whole world, though - and I believe that it is - it must be able to put down roots in forests very different from the ones where it originally grew. There must someday be a cactus-Ogham for the Arizona deserts and a jungle-Ogham for the rain forests of northern Australia. 

The concept of Druidry being adaptable to anyone is extremely important to me. While I respect and admire the ancient Celtic cultures of the British Isles (and even have ancestors who immigrated from Ireland, Scotland and England), I have little desire to simply reenact the spiritual traditions of a long-ago culture from a different place and time. It's also one of the (many) reasons I drifted away from the Christianity of my youth. 

Pines and Fir Trees along Clark Lake in
Michigan's Upper Peninsula

As I've begun to study the Celtic tree Ogham, I've had some trouble with the specificity of its connection with the trees and shrubs of the British Isles. I've spent my entire life immersing myself in the woodlands of Michigan and the surrounding Great Lakes region and simply have no personal connection with species like the Rowan, Gorse and Hawthorn. Others, like the Honeysuckle and Scots Pine are actually invasive exotic species in Michigan and the nature center where I work makes a considerable effort to eradicate them from our property.

Don't get me wrong. I'm happy to study Arthurian legends, learn the story of Einigen the Giant and contemplate the personality of Esus as he sits in the Sacred Oak. What I think we ALL need, however, is  personal experience with the plants, animals, soil and water around us. We need to hear the sound of the wind in the leaves of the Sacred Oaks in our own backyard and smell their leaves on the forest floor.

In that respect, I plan on working on adapting the tree Ogham for the woodlands of Michigan. I look forward to investigating the hidden hidden traits and characteristics of our trees and shrubs, celebrating their wonders and deepening my connection to their life-force spirits.

Skybranch /|\

Forest Voices

The trees are speaking to me again,

their willow branches windswept in the night.

Their mystic beauty, everlasting,

turning crimson,

golden, green-leafed faces,

shallow laughter.

Singing, sighing, screaming;

broken in storm-swept meadows,

lightning flashes.

I soak the rain into my bones

and hear the song of the endless life-force.

Flowing rootwise, breathing, growing.

I feel their shadow on ever-pine laden pathways

into the shelter of twisted faery places.

They welcome me to their shrouded haven

in the sun-dappled morning soaked with dew.

Look to the sun-rayed goddess

who turns green-clad mountains from lifeless greyness

to groves of laughter filled with beauty.

Fabled places, long forgotten, still feel the pull of the forest;

still hold the secrets of tomorrow,

in yesterday’s songs of colored autumn.

Don’t forget the quiet places,

hidden by the trees who are always singing.

Talking to me, once again,

I hear them breathing,

ground-beat throbbing in my bones.

This is a poem I wrote many years ago, long before I discovered the path of Druidry. I've always felt the call of the forest. Living in Michigan all my life has been an inspiration. We are the State of Trees and I've always felt most at home among my leafy woodland friends. 

-Skybranch  /|\