Twice the Adventures!

Today, my two little adventurers are nine years old. It's hard to believe it's been this many years since I first held two tiny, bundled babies in the quiet of a cold, snowy December dawn. It would take volumes and volumes to recount the journey I've been on since that winter morning, but in short, it has been wonderful, and difficult, and constantly evolving, and I'm grateful for all of it.

 Here's to the year of adventures to come with twin nine-year-olds!

Over the River and Through the Woods...

Over the mighty Columbia River, through the pine woods, and over four mountain passes we travelled to Grandmother's house for the holidays. After driving all day long, we arrived in the snowy mountains of central Washington to the warm lights of my parents' house shining through the winter night.

Little white lights twinkled on birch trees through the snow, and one brightly lit pine tree stood out in the middle of the field.

All looked snug, warm and cheery through the windows. We went inside to a warm greeting by my parents and grandparents, with hot drinks and dinner for the weary travellers.

While sipping a hot buttered rum, I looked out the windows to see icicles hanging from all the eaves, just like in a winter storybook.

Thick drifts of snow covered everything, adorning pine trees with mantles of white and weighing willow branches down almost to the ground. This was a real live winter wonderland.

The kids wasted no time in getting out there to go sledding down the hills. The driveway was packed and frozen, and made an especially good sledding run.

My brother and his fiancee arrived and helped build a snowman family in the field. This was an ambitious bunch, making snowfolk taller than themselves!

This very expressive snowman puffed on his pine-stick pipe and contemplated the meaning of it all.

This wild snow person sported a fancy cedar boa and an icicle mohawk!

(A Snow-Hawk!)

We made a trip into the bustling little town of Leavenworth one afternoon, and I spied these lovely red berries hanging bright against the snowy landscape on European mountain ash trees.

After all those good meals we were eating, it was fun to go out for walks on the snowy trails through the willows and dogwoods down to the creek on my parents' property. Everything was silent with the blankets of snow absorbing all the sounds, except for the songs of winter birds on the branches overhead. With all the blue jays, quail and chickadees, it was quite the happening place.

Eagle Creek flowed through the snowy banks with laughing, gurgling sounds.

Exchanging gifts was a lot of fun with many handmade and thoughtful items. My brother and his fiancee put together these hot toddy kits in glasses with ingredients from the Pike Place Market in Seattle. There were honey sticks, dried lemon slices, tea bags, little vials of lemon juice, and small bottles of whisky inside along with a recipe. They also got a magic kit for my son and an origami kit for my daughter. My kids were very pleased to get the wool sweaters they asked their Great-Grandma for (isn't there some running joke about those sweaters your Grannie gives you that you never want...well, my kids ASKED for them!) and from their grandparents, some duck, hawk and crow calls for communicating with the birds around our house. There were lots of books, warm wool socks, and even a Smithsonian build-an-engine model kit. Many other thoughtful gifts came in packages from relatives far away. There was a lot of joy in all the giving and receiving.

Outside, the snow kept falling and the kids kept on sledding and romping around with our dogs.

At the end of the visit we went on a draft horse drawn sleigh ride at Eagle Creek Ranch up the road. We dashed through the valley with snowy forests all around, along the willow thickets by the creek and out through open fields. Little sleigh bells made a high ringing sound as we went along.

After a visit from some college friends passing through, we said our goodbyes, packed up and made the long drive back home over four mountain passes, pine forests and the Columbia River back to our farmhouse in green, rainy Oregon.

It was a mountain Christmas to remember.

Boughs of Holly

"The holly and the ivy

Now are both well grown

Of all the trees that are in the wood

The holly bears the crown"

Only recently have I come to appreciate holly. Since my background is in Horticulture with a focus on native plant restoration, I had a lot of negative feelings about this plant as an invasive species always popping up in the forests near houses where holly was planted. It was prickly, it was taking over native plant habitats in forests, and I just plain didn't like it. When I started decorating our home with greenery I gathered around town a few years ago, I started going for the neighborhood holly trees. I came to like the cheery colors and waxy leaves, and since it was a traditional holiday green, it seemed fitting. It still remains an invasive plant, and I would never put one on my property, but I started appreciating its beauty. Being the folklore enthusiast that I am, I looked into some history on this plant after hearing tales of a Holly King, and came up with some fascinating finds. This plant has quite a story! One website in particular, called Trees For Life, dedicated to preserving Caledonian forests, had this very comprehensive article that I would like to share:

Mythology and Folklore of the Holly

by Paul Kendall

"For most of us the sight of holly leaves and berries is inextricably linked with Christmas, whether we celebrate this as a secular or a religious festivity. Christmas brings with it many traditions and it is probably the one time when many of us still practice at least a few old folklore customs today. Indeed in some parts of Britain holly was formerly referred to merely as Christmas, and in pre-Victorian times 'Christmas trees' meant holly bushes.

Though holly doubtless was, and still is, brought into the house for its shiny green leaves and berries, which reflect the light and add colour to the dark days of Yule, it has another significance as well. Christian symbolism connected the prickly leaves with Jesus' crown of thorns and the berries with the drops of blood shed for humanity's salvation, as is related, for example, in the Christmas carol, 'The Holly and the Ivy'. Yet even here the reference to these two plants refers to a pre-Christian celebration, where a boy would be dressed in a suit of holly leaves and a girl similarly in ivy, to parade around the village, bringing Nature through the darkest part of the year to re-emerge for another year's fertility.

Holly was also brought into the house variously to protect the home from malevolent faeries or to allow faeries to shelter in the home without friction between them and the human occupants. Whichever of prickly-leaved or smooth-leaved holly was brought into the house first dictated whether the husband or wife respectively were to rule the household for the coming year.

In Celtic mythology the Holly King was said to rule over the half of the year from the summer to the winter solstice, at which time the Oak King defeated the Holly King to rule for the time until the summer solstice again. These two aspects of the Nature god were later incorporated into Mummers' plays traditionally performed around Yuletide. The Holly King was depicted as a powerful giant of a man covered in holly leaves and branches, and wielding a holly bush as a club. He may well have been the same archetype on which the Green Knight of Arthurian legend was based, and to whose challenge Gawain rose during the Round Table's Christmas celebrations.

However the folklore of the holly is not solely connected with Yuletide festivities. Like several other native trees it was felt to have protective properties, and there were taboos against cutting down a whole tree. Hollies were frequently left uncut in hedges when these were trimmed. A more arcane reason for this was to obstruct witches who were known to run along the tops of hedges, though more practically farmers used their distinctive evergreen shapes to establish lines of sight during winter ploughing. Apparently the Duke of Argyll even had a prospective road rerouted to avoid cutting down a distinctive old holly in 1861.

Although the felling of whole trees was said to bring bad luck, the taking of boughs for decoration, and the coppicing of trees to provide winter fodder, was allowed. Holly leaves proved to be particularly nutritious as winter feed for livestock, and some farmers even installed grinders to make the pricklier leaves more palatable. Coppicing also allowed the holly's hard, white, close-grained wood to be used for inlaid marquetry and to make chess pieces and tool handles. Folklore suggested that the wood had an affinity for control, especially of horses, and most whips for ploughmen and horse-drawn coaches were made from coppiced holly, which accounted for hundreds of thousands of stems during the eighteenth century.

In Scotland the Gaelic name for holly, Chuillin, appears across the country from Cruach-doire-cuilean on Mull, where the local McLean clan adopted holly as their clan badge, to Loch a' Chuillin in Ross-shire in the north; the town of Cullen in Banffshire may also have derived its name from a local holly wood.

Holly trees were traditionally known for protection from lightning strikes, to which end they were planted near a house. In European mythology, holly was associated with thunder gods such as Thor and Taranis. We now know that the spines on the distinctively-shaped holly leaves can act as miniature lightning conductors, thereby protecting the tree and other nearby objects. Modern science occasionally catches up with an explanation for what may previously have been dismissed as superstitious lore!"

Happy Holly-Days!



Thoreau's Winter Walk

On this first day of winter, I'll welcome in the new season by sharing a few of my favorite passages from "A Winter Walk" by Henry David Thoreau:


The wind has gently murmured through the blinds, or puffed with feathery softness against the windows, and occasionally sighed like a summer zephyr lifting the leaves along, the livelong night. The meadow mouse has slept in his snug gallery in the sod, the owl has sat in a hollow tree in the depth of the swamp, the rabbit, the squirrel, and the fox have all been housed. The watch-dog has lain quiet on the hearth, and the cattle have stood silent in their stalls. The earth itself has slept, as it were its first, not its last sleep, save when some street-sign or wood-house door has faintly creaked upon its hinge, cheering forlorn nature at her midnight work,—the only sound awake 'twixt Venus and Mars,—advertising us of a remote inward warmth, a divine cheer and fellowship, where gods are met together, but where it is very bleak for men to stand. But while the earth has slumbered, all the air has been alive with feathery flakes descending, as if some northern Ceres reigned, showering her silvery grain over all the fields.

Silently we unlatch the door, letting the drift fall in, and step abroad to face the cutting air. Already the stars have lost some of their sparkle, and a dull, leaden mist skirts the horizon. A lurid brazen light in the east proclaims the approach of day, while the western landscape is dim and spectral still, and clothed in a sombre Tartarean light, like the shadowy realms. They are Infernal sounds only that you hear,—the crowing of cocks, the barking of dogs, the chopping of wood, the lowing of kine, all seem to come from Pluto's barnyard and beyond the Styx,—not for any melancholy they suggest, but their twilight bustle is too solemn and mysterious for earth. The recent tracks of the fox or otter, in the yard, remind us that each hour of the night is crowded with events, and the primeval nature is still working and making tracks in the snow. Opening the gate, we tread briskly along the lone country road, crunching the dry and crisped snow under our feet, or aroused by the sharp, clear creak of the wood-shed, just starting for the distant market, from the early farmer's door, where it has lain the summer long, dreaming amid the chips and stubble; while far through the drifts and powdered windows we see the farmer's early candle, like a paled star, emitting a lonely beam, as if some severe virtue were at its matins there. And one by one the smokes begin to ascend from the chimneys amid the trees and snows.

The sluggish smoke curls up from some deep dell.

The stiffened air exploring in the dawn,

And making slow acquaintance with the day

Delaying now upon its heavenward course,

In wreathed loiterings dallying with itself,

With as uncertain purpose and slow deed

As its half-wakened master by the hearth,

Whose mind still slumbering and sluggish thoughts

Have not yet swept into the onward current

Of the new day;—and now it streams afar,

The while the chopper goes with step direct,

And mind intent to swing the early axe.

First in the dusky dawn he sends abroad

His early scout, his emissary, smoke,

The earliest, latest pilgrim from the roof,

To feel the frosty air, inform the day;

And while he crouches still beside the hearth,

Nor musters courage to unbar the door,

It has gone down the glen with the light wind,

And o'er the plain unfurled its venturous wreath,

Draped the tree-tops, loitered upon the hill,

And warmed the pinions of the early bird;

And now, perchance, high in the crispy air,

Has caught sight of the day o'er the earth's edge,

And greets its master's eye at his low door,

As some refulgent cloud in the upper sky.

Now our path begins to ascend gradually to the top of this high hill, from whose precipitous south side we can look over the broad country of forest and field and river, to the distant snowy mountains. See yonder thin column of smoke curling up through the woods from some invisible farmhouse, the standard raised over some rural homestead. There must be a warmer and more genial spot there below, as where we detect the vapor from a spring forming a cloud above the trees. What fine relations are established between the traveler who discovers this airy column from some eminence in the forest and him who sits below! Up goes the smoke as silently and naturally as the vapor exhales from the leaves, and as busy disposing itself in wreaths as the housewife on the hearth below. It is a hieroglyphic of man's life, and suggests more intimate and important things than the boiling of a pot. Where its fine column rises above the forest, like an ensign, some human life has planted itself,—and such is the beginning of Rome, the establishment of the arts, and the foundation of empires, whether on the prairies of America or the steppes of Asia.

There is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which never goes out, and which no cold can chill. It finally melts the great snow, and in January or July is only buried under a thicker or thinner covering. In the coldest day it flows somewhere, and the snow melts around every tree. This field of winter rye, which sprouted late in the fall, and now speedily dissolves the snow, is where the fire is very thinly covered. We feel warmed by it. In the winter, warmth stands for all virtue, and we resort in thought to a trickling rill, with its bare stones shining in the sun, and to warm springs in the woods, with as much eagerness as rabbits and robins. The steam which rises from swamps and pools is as dear and domestic as that of our own kettle. What fire could ever equal the sunshine of a winter's day, when the meadow mice come out by the wall-sides, and the chickadee lisps in the defiles of the wood? The warmth comes directly from the sun, and is not radiated from the earth, as in summer; and when we feel his beams on our backs as we are treading some snowy dell, we are grateful as for a special kindness, and bless the sun which has followed us into that by-place.

This subterranean fire has its altar in each man's breast; for in the coldest day, and on the bleakest hill, the traveler cherishes a warmer fire within the folds of his cloak than is kindled on any hearth. A healthy man, indeed, is the complement of the seasons, and in winter, summer is in his heart. There is the south. Thither have all birds and insects migrated, and around the warm springs in his breast are gathered the robin and the lark.

At length, having reached the edge of the woods, and shut out the gadding town, we enter within their covert as we go under the roof of a cottage, and cross its threshold, all ceiled and banked up with snow. They are glad and warm still, and as genial and cheery in winter as in summer. As we stand in the midst of the pines in the flickering and checkered light which straggles but little way into their maze, we wonder if the towns have ever heard their simple story. It seems to us that no traveler has ever explored them, and notwithstanding the wonders which science is elsewhere revealing every day, who would not like to hear their annals? Our humble villages in the plain are their contribution. We borrow from the forest the boards which shelter and the sticks which warm us. How important is their evergreen to the winter, that portion of the summer which does not fade, the permanent year, the unwithered grass! Thus simply, and with little expense of altitude, is the surface of the earth diversified. What would human life be without forests, those natural cities? From the tops of mountains they appear like smooth-shaven lawns, yet whither shall we walk but in this taller grass?

Though winter is represented in the almanac as an old man, facing the wind and sleet, and drawing his cloak about him, we rather think of him as a merry woodchopper, and warm-blooded youth, as blithe as summer. The unexplored grandeur of the storm keeps up the spirits of the traveler. It does not trifle with us, but has a sweet earnestness. In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends. The imprisoning drifts increase the sense of comfort which the house affords, and in the coldest days we are content to sit over the hearth and see the sky through the chimney-top, enjoying the quiet and serene life that may be had in a warm corner by the chimney-side, or feeling our pulse by listening to the low of cattle in the street, or the sound of the flail in distant barns all the long afternoon. No doubt a skillful physician could determine our health by observing how these simple and natural sounds affected us. We enjoy now, not an Oriental, but a Boreal leisure, around warm stoves and fireplaces, and watch the shadow of motes in the sunbeams.

Now commences the long winter evening around the farmer's hearth, when the thoughts of the indwellers travel far abroad, and men are by nature and necessity charitable and liberal to all creatures. Now is the happy resistance to cold, when the farmer reaps his reward, and thinks of his preparedness for winter, and, through the glittering panes, sees with equanimity "the mansion of the northern bear," for now the storm is over,—

"The full ethereal round,

Infinite worlds disclosing to the view,

Shines out intensely keen; and all one cope

Of starry glitter glows from pole to pole."

Raven Steals the Light

I love to spend the Winter Solstice curled up by the woodstove with a hot mug of mulled cider or wine, listening to stories, poems and folktales by candlelight. Of all the stories I have heard on the longest night of the year, the Pacific Northwest coastal creation myth of Raven Steals the Light is my absolute favorite. I have heard of its telling with a few variations in Tlingit, Inuit and Athabaskan traditions. I was inspired to create a wool wall hanging which I posted recently on my craft blog with a little about the story here: http://mountainhearthhandcrafts.blogspot.com/2010/12/raven-steals-light.html

I found a Haida version told by Bill Reid and Robert Bringhurst to share for this Solstice from ESubjects.com: Origami for the Mind.

THE RAVEN STEALS THE LIGHT

A Haida Myth

By Bill Reid and Robert Bringhurst

"Before there was anything, before the great flood had covered the earth and receded, before the animals walked the earth or the trees covered the land or the birds flew between the trees, even before the fish and the whales and seals swarm in the sea, an old man lived in a house on the bank of a river with his only child, a daughter. Whether she was as beautiful as hemlock fronds against the spring sky at sunrise or as ugly as a sea slug doesn’t really matter very much to this story, which takes place mainly in the dark.

Because at that time the world was dark. Inky, pitchy, all consuming dark, blacker than a thousand stormy winter midnights, blacker than anything anywhere has been since.

The reason for all this blackness has to do with the old man in the house by the river, who had a box which contained a box which contained a box which contained an infinite number of boxes which nestled in a box slightly larger than itself until finally there was a box so small all it could contain was all the light in the universe.

The Raven, who of course existed at that time, because he had always existed and always would, was somewhat less than satisfied with this state of affairs, since it led to an awful lot of blundering around and bumping into things. It slowed him down a good deal in his pursuit of food and other fleshly pleasures, and in his constant effort to interfere and to change things.

Eventually, his bumbling around in the dark took him close to the home of the old man. He first heard a little singsong voice muttering away. When he followed the voice, he soon came to the wall of the house, and there, placing his ear against the planking, he could just make out the words, “I have a box and inside the box is another box and inside it are many more boxes, and in the smallest box of all is all the light in the world, and it is all mine and I’ll never give any of it to anyone, not even to my daughter, because, who knows, she may be as homely as a sea slug, and neither she nor I would like to know that.”

It took only an instant for the Raven to decide to steal the light for himself, but it took a lot longer for him to invent a way to do so.

First he had to find a door into the house. But no matter how many times he circled it or how carefully he felt the planking, it remained a smooth, unbroken barrier. Sometimes he heard either the old man or his daughter leave the house to get water or for some other reason, but they always departed from the side of the house opposite to him, and when he ran around to the other side the wall seemed as unbroken as ever.

Finally, the Raven retired a little way upstream and thought and thought about how he could enter the house. As he did so, he began to think more and more of the young girl who lived there, and thinking of her began to stir more than just the Raven’s imagination.

“It’s probably that she’s as homely as a sea slug,” he said to himself, “but on the other hand, she may be as beautiful as the fronds of the hemlock would be against a bright spring sunrise, if only there were light enough to make one.” And in that idle speculation, he found the solution to this problem.

He waited until the young woman, whose footsteps he could distinguish by now from those of her father, came to the river to gather water. Then he changed himself into a single hemlock needle, dropped himself into the river and floated down just in time to be caught in the basket which the girl was dipping in the river.


Even in his much diminished form, the Raven was able to make at least a very small magic—enough to make the girl so thirsty she took a deep drink from the basket, and in doing so, swallowed the needle.

The Raven slithered down deep into her warm insides and found a soft, comfortable spot, where he transformed himself once more, this time into a very small human being, and sent to sleep for a long while. And as he slept he grew.

The young girl didn’t have any idea what was happening to her, and of course she didn’t tell her father, who noticed nothing unusual because it was so dark—until suddenly he became very aware indeed of a new presence in the house, as the Raven at last emerged triumphantly in the shape of a human boychild.

He was—or would have been, if anyone could have seen him—a strange-looking boy, with a long, beak-like nose and a few feathers here and there. In addition, he had the shining eyes of the Raven, which would have given his face a bright, inquisitive appearance—if anyone could have seen these features then.

And he was noisy. He had a cry that contained all the noises of a spoiled child and an angry raven—yet he could sometimes speak as softly as the wind in the hemlock boughs, with an echo of that beautiful other sound, like an organic bell, which is also part of every raven’s speech.

At times like that his grandfather grew to love this strange new member of his household and spent many hours playing with him, making him toys and inventing games for him.

As he gained more and more of the affection and confidence of the old man, the Raven felt more intently around the house, trying to find where the light was hidden. After much exploration, he was convinced it was kept in the big box that stood in the corner of the house. One day he cautiously lifted the lid, but of course could see nothing, and all he could feel was another box. His grandfather, however, heard his precious treasure chest being disturbed, and he dealt very harshly with the would-be thief, threatening dire punishment if the Ravenchild every touched the box again.

This triggered a tidal wave of noisy protests, followed by tender importuning, in which the Raven never mentioned the light, but only pleaded for the largest box. That box, said the Ravenchild, was the one thing he needed to make him completely happy.

As most if not all grandfathers have done since the beginning, the old man finally yielded and gave his grandchild the outermost box. This contented the boy for a short time—but as most if not all grandchildren have done since the beginning, the Raven soon demanded the next box.

It took many days and much cajoling, carefully balanced with well-planned tantrums, but one by one the boxes were removed. When only a few were left, a strange radiance, never before seen, began to infuse the darkness of the house, disclosing vague shapes and their shadows, still too dim to have definite form. The ravenchild then begged in his most pitiful voice to be allowed to hold the light for just a moment.

His request was instantly refused, but of course in time his grandfather yielded. The old man lifted the light, in the form of a beautiful incandescent ball, from the final box and tossed it to his grandson.

He had only a glimpse of the child on whom he had lavished such love and affection, for even as the light was traveling toward him the child changed from his human form to a huge, shining black shadow, wings spread and beak open, waiting. The Raven snapped up the light in his jaws, thrust his great wings downward and shot through the smokehole of the house into the huge darkness of the world.


That world was at once transformed. Mountains and valleys were starkly silhouetted, the river sparkled with broken reflections, and everywhere life began to stir. And from far away, another great winged shape launched itself into the air, as light struck the eyes of the Eagle for the first time and showed him his target.

The Raven flew on, rejoicing in his wonderful new possession, admiring the effect it had on the world below, reveling in the experience of being able to see where he was going, instead of flying blind and hoping for the best. He was having such a good time that he never saw the Eagle until the Eagle was almost upon him. In a panic he swerved to escape the savage outstretched claws, and in doing so he dropped a good half of the light he was carrying. It fell to the rocky ground below and there broke into pieces—one large piece and too many small ones to count. They bounced back into the sky and remain there even today as the moon and the stars that glorify the night.

The Eagle pursued the Raven beyond the rim of the world, and there, exhausted by the long chase, the Raven finally let go of his last piece of light. Out beyond the rim of the world, it floated gently on the clouds and started up over the mountains lying to the east.

Its first rays caught the smokehole of the house by the river, where the old man sat weeping bitterly over the loss of his precious light and the treachery of his grandchild. But as the light reached in, he looked up and for the first time saw his daughter, who had been quietly sitting during all this time, completely bewildered by the rush of events.

The old man saw that she was as beautiful as the fronds of a hemlock against a spring sky at sunrise, and he began to feel a little better."

Gluten-Free Celestial Solstice Cookies

Our favorite Holiday cookies to sweeten the palate on the longest night of the year are these gluten-free shortbread cookies half coated in dark chocolate.

Pure deliciousness.

There isn't much of a recipe to share. They're very simple, and with everything else to do this time of year, simple is key! I use Bob's Redmill Gluten-Free Shortbread Cookie Mix, cut out with moon and star shaped cookie cutters. Then after they're cooled, we spoon on some melted dark organic chocolate (the darker the better) over half of each cookie to represent the darkness and returning light, and let it harden. If you end up with leftover melted chocolate, you will find yourself coating all kinds of things in it. I've coated hazelnuts, candied ginger, dried fruit...the possibilities are endless!

Last year I baked a variety, including another traditional recipe of ours where you make dark chocolate cookies in a cookie press and mix up icing in every color of the rainbow. Then, after baking, let the children paint rainbows of color over the top of each cookie to represent the returning light on the longest night of the year.

Oh, what fun is Holiday cookie baking!

Window Stars

Paper window stars are one of my favorite winter projects. They look beautiful and bright with the light shining through them, and they make great holiday gifts! The last couple of years, I called on my origami skills, and the kids and I just winged it by folding up squares of wax coated kite paper from our Waldorf school store into different shapes with points on the end and glued the center points together in a circle with some overlap. We came up with all kinds of beautiful, cheery creations.

This year we are going to try using this book, Magical Window Stars by Frederique Gueret. It has a lot of fancy shapes and designs, and I'm excited to see what we come up with.

This is the kite paper we used, but the book says you can use regular tissue paper from the store and watercolor it first. It sounds lovely.

I cut up some of the paper squares in quarters and made a bunch of these tiny ones for each pane of glass on the windows in our front and back door. It looks like a little flurry of snowflakes.

This one is in my kitchen window to brighten up those rainy Oregon days.

Beneath the Mistletoe

Many of us have a little sprig of mistletoe hanging in our doorways this time of year, and perhaps have shared or stolen a kiss beneath this plant. It's a powerful little plant indeed to draw people together in this way. I have also heard that it is a good plant to have in your home for good fortune this time of year and for keeping away negative energy. If you live near oak trees, you will recognize it as a parasite that grows high up in the branches, staying green long after the oak leaves have fallen. Our local mistletoe (Phoradendron) are actually hemiparasitical (partial parasites) because they cannot photosynthesize on their own. They send a root system into the bark of their host, drawing out nutrients. While a few are not terribly harmful to the trees, I understand understand they can be in large quantities, but they do provide important wildlife habitat for a variety of creatures, including spotted owls. We have several enormous ones up in the crowns of our old oaks. This year I was lucky to have some fall down in a big windstorm. Although most of it was accidentally composted by my husband, I managed to save just enough to hang above the doorway with a little red ribbon. 

Like evergreen boughs and holly, this is another plant with a long, rich history found in folklore and mythology. If we look to ancient Norse myths, we find mistletoe is a plant of peace, fertility, and healing. I found this summary of the legend at http://www.mistletoesprigs.com/:

"In Norse mythology, mistletoe is rooted in the myth of Balder, the god of the summer sun.

Balder dreamed he was going to die. His mother, Frigga, became distraught when she heard this and asked the air, fire, water and all the plants and animals to spare her son.

But Loki, the god of evil, found one plant Frigga had overlooked - mistletoe - because it grew neither in the ground nor underground. He made a poison arrow of mistletoe and tricked Balder's blind brother into shooting Balder.

For three days the earth grew dark. It rained constantly. Frigga cried tears that turned into white berries on the mistletoe plant. When she kissed her dead son, her kiss reversed the mistletoe's poison, and he came back to life.

She declared that anyone who walked under a tree where mistletoe grew should receive a kiss. Thus mistletoe became a symbol of love."

Tree of Light

On a clear weekend afternoon in December, we set out to find a tree. I wanted to write this story all about how we went out to our favorite sustainable tree farm on this woman's land way out Lynx Hollow road, where she lets the trees grow up like a magical forest, and the ground is carpeted in moss and toadstools. Now, we probably sound like the sort of folks who would go out in the forest service with a permit and cut our own wild tree, which we have done in the past, but all we have close by are Doug-firs and cedars, which don't always make for the best indoor tree. Since December is the month of the year I get out in the wilds the least, I like to keep the tree up as long as possible to remind me of the woods, and the longevity, smell and texture of true firs is hard to beat.

So, we had visited this particular tree farm for the past few years, and since we are folks who like to have traditions, intended on visiting again this year. The thing about life, is that it is always changing, and we did set off in that direction, but ended up changing course. We drove along a winding, country back road past fields of grazing sheep and cows and came to a patch of wild roses along the road with sprays of bright red rosehips. Of course, I had to stop and prune some for my wreath making efforts. Then we stopped in at this little farm-store cottage I had always wanted to visit called Willow Springs Farm, and spent a good deal of time looking over all the handcrafts and soaps while my husband talked heritage turkeys with the farmer. By that time, it was later in the day, and we noticed a sign that said, "Trees, up to 20 feet, U-Pick, We Cut." It was a very tiny patch of noble firs next to a hazelnut orchard, and the folks at Willow Springs Farm said the tree farmer wasn't into chemical sprays, so we decided to break away from tradition and go check it out. The price was decent, and we didn't have too far to travel home from there.

The kids picked out their favorite tree right away, and the old tree farmer cut it down. I know there are a lot of feelings out there against the practice of harvesting live trees for the holidays, but I have seen many tree farmers run sustainable practices with a lot of hard work and sweat of their brows, and it is my belief that a properly managed tree farm can be an excellent wildlife habitat and preservation of open space and farmland. After all, crops that nourish our spirit and well-being can be just as important as crops we grow for food. When it is so cold and dark so early in the wintertime, bringing nature indoors can be a great help, and the tree can always be recycled as woodchips or woody debris for stream habitat restoration.

Finally, we beheld our tree all lit up and glowing with twinkling white lights.  It's always fun getting out all the old, favorite ornaments and making some new ones each year.

Two years ago I made this fairy tree topper from glittery silk flower petals and wool. We love to see her peering down at us from the heights of the treetop.

I got this mushroom ornament a while back, entirely coated in little strips of bark.

How could we not have a chicken somewhere on our tree?

Two of my handmade faeries peek into this birds nest I made out of beach grass roots. If you stand in just the right spot, one of the twinkling lights seems to be shining right out of the nest. I recall something about a birds nest in the tree being an old tradition, so this seemed like a fitting decoration.

Santa riding the enchanted black bear.

This ornament was inspired by my favorite story of this season, a Tlingit legend about Raven returning the light to the people earth by stealing it from the Sky Chief.

One of my snow faeries.

To our family, it's a Solstice Tree, and a great source of light and tribute to the natural world in the center of our living room for the darkest month of the year. We decorate with a lot of little animals like squirrels, bears and birds, along with faeries, elves and different santas with long white beards. There are a few seed pods strung on thread and sprigs of lavender tied to the end of branches. Lately I've been tucking a lot of the kids little wool toys into the branches. The overall goal is to evoke the feeling of a magical forest.

For those of you who have ever wanted to know more about the history of this tradition, I found this summary of its origins on the Christmas Tree Farm Network website written by David Robson, Extension Educator, Horticulture; Springfield Extension Center:

"King Tut never saw a Christmas tree, but he would have understood the tradition which traces back long before the first Christmas, says David Robson, Extension Educator, Horticulture with the Springfield Extension Center.

The Egyptians were part of a long line of cultures that treasured and worshipped evergreens. When the winter solstice arrive, they brought green date palm leaves into their homes to symbolize life's triumph over death.

The Romans celebrated the winter solstice with a fest called Saturnalia in honor of Saturnus, the god of agriculture. They decorated their houses with greens and lights and exchanged gifts. They gave coins for prosperity, pastries for happiness, and lamps to light one's journey through life.

Centuries ago in Great Britain, woods priests called Druids used evergreens during mysterious winter solstice rituals. The Druids used holly and mistletoe as symbols of eternal life, and place evergreen branches over doors to keep away evil spirits.

Late in the Middle Ages, Germans and Scandinavians placed evergreen trees inside their homes or just outside their doors to show their hope in the forthcoming spring. Our modern Christmas tree evolved from these early traditions.

Legend has it that Martin Luther began the tradition of decorating trees to celebrate Christmas. One crisp Christmas Eve, about the year 1500, he was walking through snow-covered woods and was struck by the beauty of a group of small evergreens. Their branches, dusted with snow, shimmered in the moonlight. When he got home, he set up a little fir tree indoors so he could share this story with his children. He decorated it with candles, which he lighted in honor of Christ's birth.

The Christmas tree tradition most likely came to the United States with Hessian troops during the American Revolution, or with German immigrants to Pennsylvania and Ohio, adds Robson.

But the custom spread slowly. The Puritans banned Christmas in New England. Even as late as 1851, a Cleveland minister nearly lost his job because he allowed a tree in his church. Schools in Boston stayed open on Christmas Day through 1870, and sometimes expelled students who stayed home.

The Christmas tree market was born in 1851 when Catskill farmer Mark Carr hauled two ox sleds of evergreens into New York City and sold them all. By 1900, one in five American families had a Christmas
tree, and 20 years later, the custom was nearly universal.

Christmas tree farms sprang up during the depression. Nurserymen couldn't sell their evergreens for landscaping, so they cut them for Christmas trees. Cultivated trees were preferred because they have a more symmetrical shape then wild ones.

Six species account for about 90 percent of the nation's Christmas tree trade. Scotch pine ranks first, comprising about 40 percent of the market, followed by Douglas fir which accounts for about 35 percent. The other big sellers are noble fir, white pine, balsam fir and white spruce."

Holiday Market

(Image from the Holiday Market website)

We are very fortunate to have an amazing holiday market in our community. Every weekend from late November until Christmas, artisans, crafters, musicians, farmers and darn good cooks gather in the exhibit hall of the Lane County Fairgrounds to create a whole little village dedicated to local arts. Our family goes every year to do a little shopping for the holidays and support our local artists.

Raven Moon's Shape Shifters is always an important stop. He makes these amazing rattles out of natural fiber pulp encrusted with little gemstone chips and crystals. My son has been saving up his piggy bank money for this giant frog rattle for three years now. We always make sure to visit, check out the latest one, and say hello. I will never forget one year when my son wanted to get his twin sister a "forest spirit" for a Solstice gift. Not being quite sure what sort of forest spirit he was imagining, I walked around with him until he stopped at this booth. He held up this little white bird with a crystal for a beak and triumphantly cried, "It's a forest spirit!" Raven Moon just as excitedly exclaimed, "Yes, it is!" He totally got it. I could tell he saw my son's artistic vision, and the two have had this special connection ever since.

Here are my dear friends Jeff, Taryn and Bracken at their Mystic Orb booth. Jeff makes the most amazing jewelry out of wood, bone, recycled ivory and even some earrings out of real vine maple leaves. They live a simple life very close to the earth, and Jeff's love and respect for nature shows in each piece he creates. I am honored to know these folks. You can find his work year-round at http://mysticorb.etsy.com/, and read their inspiring blogs at http://mysticorbtalismans.blogspot.com/ and http://woolymossroots.blogspot.com/.

Here, I am sorry to say my picture taking stopped because I was so caught up in visiting with vendors and taking the kids around to get secret gifts for one another, but there are many more artists you should know about.

Fiona McAuliffe is an artist and illustrator who's work I love, and many of you may recognize from greeting cards and bumper stickers across the country, Forest Service signs and publications, and many other places. Her website is: http://www.fiona-art.net/index.htm


Dirty Paw Designs is a batik clothing company run by a batik artist and her husband. Brooke hand-paints each batik shirt with incredible designs and rich colors. They are my son's favorite thing to wear. Her website is http://dirtypawdesigns.com/

Here he is a couple years ago in his favorite Orca shirt by Brooke.

Since you can tell I am a fan of batik, I'll share another amazing artist, Victoria Dresdner of Batikwalla. Her batik clothing is so intricate with little swirls and stars and moons that I consider them wearable art pieces. Her website is: http://www.batikwalla.com/.

Another clothing designer, my friend Serene Dussell, of Blessed Lotus Tribal Wear, creates beautiful clothing out of hemp and organic fibers. Her website is http://www.blessedlotusclothing.com/.

There are so many more artists who you just need to come to the market to meet. Wonderful basket weavers like Donna Sakamoto-Crispin make all sizes and shapes of baskets, artful containers and adirondack backpacks. Marlene Townsend's metal leaf earrings are delightful. Denise Davis of Karmadilo Kreations, makes wonderful Goddess tiles, wall art, serenity stones, leaves, and garden stones.

Daniel Conan Young makes amazing ceramic wall plaques like the "Remove your shoes" one by my door. I could go on and on.

Everywhere you go, amazing local artists can be found. I you have a local farmers market or holiday market, go on down and check it out. Those folks are working hard to make a living and supporting them is supporting your local economy. It's a sustainable way to give gifts that's good for all!

Here are a few other favorite artists of mine who are less local for me nowadays with where I've settled, but are wonderful regardless.

Gael Nagle is a batik print artists residing at Breitenbush Hotsprings. I would fill my house up with her prints if I only had more wall space. Her landscapes are incredible. You can see her work at: http://www.batiksbygael.com/

Margaret Owens, my favorite ceramics artist, has Tidepool Tile on the Olympic Peninsula. Her tidepool wall tiles are amazing, and I once saw a tidepool bowl she made for a wedding. I have a soap dish she made that looks just like a Dungeness crab. Her website is:

http://www.tidepooltile.com/

My favorite nature photographer, Keith Lazelle, does amazing work that really captures the profound beauty of the natural world. He puts out a calender every year called "Journal of the Seasons" that is a very affordable way to put some of his work in your home. His website is:

http://www.keithlazelle.com/index.html

I met Firewoman, a talented native woodcarving artist at a festival this summer and her story of overcoming many challenges to do the artwork that she does really inspired me. Her carvings can be seen around the Seattle area at Ivar's Salmon House on Lake Union, as well as Smithsonian Institute, Issaquah District Library, Seattle Art Museum and Ye Olde Curiosity Shop. She makes an incredible multi-sided story cube carving of the Tlingit "Box of Daylight" story about Raven returning the sun to the people of earth. Her work can be found at:

http://www.firewomanstudio.com/

Michael Wendt is a pottery artist in Lewiston Idaho, and his name plates have been baby gifts in my family for a couple of generations now. My son broke his a couple of years ago, and Michael replaced it for a very modest fee. His clay and glazes are created from local materials and his pottery pieces depicting landscapes of the Snake River and mountains of Idaho and Washington are beautiful. Sometimes I'm fortunate to find his pieces at our local thrift shops. I know they have travelled a ways to get here, so I always take it as a gift of good luck. I have acquired a vase and some wine glasses in this roundabout way. His website is:

http://www.wendtpottery.com/