Winter Wonderland Dreams

As I meander about Wolfdancer Creek, land of magic, soil of the sacred, sleeping deeply in the embrace of her Lover, Winter, there are things I notice... I rarely ask myself the "why" of them. Why is that?

I make my way down to the pond, camera in hand, fresh batteries, new roll of film.. The sun is out, and it hovers above the 2' of standing snow which blankets our Sanctuary. I find myself carefully placing my returning steps in the footprint of any other preceding footstep.. It maximizes the pristine areas of untouched snow.. It magnifies the wee scratchings of bird tracks, of cat feet hopping daintily through the drifts. Of the paths of the snow ducks, as they trek to the frozen pond, there to lay yet more tracings of life, of survival. When I miss, or when I simply must forge into untouched snow, my feet sink into the first layer of snow, cotton snowfall, then check as they hit the 1" plus thickness of ice overlaying yet another, deeper foot of soft powder snow with a ...

(I'm not ADHD, it's just that.. OOOH! Look a bunny rabbit!)

AH Sunday I wish my camera'd had batteries! There was a sheen of ice languishing across the body of snow, possessive, enveloping. Like a cellophane dress on a Supermodel, upon every tree's twig, every individual needle of the big Grandfather fir, every strand of wire, every upright surface clung a sheath of ice. The trees moved in a slow, sensuous Dance of the Veils, amidst the castanet music of ice melting, and diving back to Earth's arms. The sun danced across the surfaces of the crystalline veils of ice and sparkled amidst the branches of the trees like festoons of diamonds. I grieve for the loss of these pictures, now I must attempt to draw upon each line and detail from the photobanks of my memory.



I still maintain a child's delight in the snow. I recognize the extra work involved, the loss of income, the nagging worry about how the bills will be paid, the terrible inconvenience, and in some cases, the dangerous beauty. I am pragmatic in my acceptance of all those things, and yet...

and yet...

I still feel the breath stop in my chest when I see these things, when I see snow falling, fat, luscious, sensuous in its' descent, in its' primal maleness of possession. I still feel that sudden gasp upon seeing free-ranging water frozen in its' free-falling state... The liquid sexuality of water captured by Medusa's Gaze.. I still see Fairy Goddesses and Great Elven Lords standing shoulder to shoulder in the Christmas tree fields, I still see Ice Queens perched dramatically upon their Elysium Thrones, I still see a Snowman Farm. There is something cellular in my appreciation of the sights and sounds of snow and deep winter storms, of Ocean storms, of water in whatever form She chooses to take.

What does it mean, these ponderings? Am I an Eternal Petra Pan? Am I the Grasshopper to others' too busy to see's Ant? Am I too ethereal to take seriously? Am I too serious to take ethereally?

I wish you a Merry Christmas, I wish you a Merry Christmas, I wish you a Merry Christmas, and a Blessed New Year!