Sunday, December 19, 2010

Submission
Saturday and Sunday December 18 and 19, 2010:
It just shows that humans aren’t in control” she says soothingly.
The urge to resist what is, must be hardwired into my Psyche I think, feeling a sense of objection rising. My friend is right of course. This heavy fall of snow is something I must just submit to, for no amount of railing against the injustice of it all will make a difference. After all, we live in a Northern European country and it *is* December.
As the earth rolls slowly towards the winter Solstice, for the second time in a month, we have had a significant fall of snow in London. But we’ve got off lightly down south, in Scotland; they are gripped by the icy hand of winter that rarely allows the temperature to rise above 0. I should appreciate my fortune instead of moaning about being imprisoned.
The taxi coming to take me to the London Reclaiming Yule ritual which I am supposed to be co priestessing is stuck behind an accident half a mile up the road on a hill. My street is covered with five inch deep snow. There’s no way I can possibly get to a bus stop. I am stuck!
I’m champing at the bit to get out. It doesn’t feel right now like there is in any way enough magic in my life. My fire exploration this year seems to have staggered to a halt. Because of the stupid snow, these circumstances beyond control, I’m stuck!
I glower at the Christmas tree, for want of another witness of my sulks.
“How old are you?” I ask myself as I begin to unpack my bag. I shove the festive food back in the fridge and slump down in an armchair discontentedly.
Outside, the world is peaceful. No traffic has passed along this road now for at least 4 hours. The skies are quiet except for the occasional crow, magpie or cross robin. Everyone has retreated behind their closed doors. Why can’t I be grateful for the tranquility?
Later, I walk under a clear dark sky just before going to bed. I tread carefully around the garden; feeling for solid ground under my feet, for the blanket of snow is so thick that I don’t know where the path is anymore.
The shrubs bend low under their burden of snow. I squeeze past them, doing a sort of sideways limbo to avoid brushing up against them. Slowly, almost flirtatiously, they slide their heavy offerings into any warm places their frozen leaves can reach. My warm neck shrinks from the icy droplets that have somehow made their way there. The heavy branches wipe their cold dampness against my thighs. Easily, they slip globules of ice inside my boots.
I range free in the space between the objects THAT FILL MY GARDEN. THE space has closed in and become different as the shrubs and trees stoop beneath the heavy iced snow. They create tunnels and new courtyards, novel spaces that demand to be explored.
Everything is covered with thick fluffy snow. It is beginning to crisp at the edges, hardening into a frosty rind as the temperature slides below 0. It crunches under my boots as I move cautiously around the garden. It squeaks protestingly as I tread carefully, mindful to step gently and respectfully lest the slippery surface now hardening into treachery snatches my feet from under neath me.
I stand with my steaming cup of tea in the still darkness. Far off in the distance I hear the hiss of tires upon icy slush. From behind warm glowing windows, music seeps out – someone is having a party. Nothing else moves.
At dawn I take my morning cuppa and walk again in the garden. I reach out and tentatively touch the loaded shrubs. Trembling beneath my light touch, they softly let go their icy burdens and I feel chill ice cool my legs.
The skies remain empty. The metal birds have been silenced by the cold. Absolutely nothing is moving today. Only a crow caws harshly. I imagine him, black against the graying dawn sky, stark and uncompromising as he circles searching for food.
I progress round the garden slowly. The dancing goat is caked in ice. Still he cavorts capriciously in front of the grumpy-looking Green Man. I reach down to examine the alter by the rowan tree. It is completely covered by a froth of snow. The snow crackles crisply as I walk carefully under the crouching snow-laden olive trees, beneath the frost glittering grape vine and back to the warmth of the house.
The gas fire hisses contentedly. I curl up on the sofa, sinking deeply into the sheepskins.
“There’s nothing to do but be.” I say to myself submissively.

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