Dia daoibh a chairde. September is over. That means there is only one more month of the season Fómhar before we get to settle in for winter. In the very sensible Irish calendar based on the agricultural cycle, we have moved into Deireadh Fómhair or the “end of Fómhar.”
Harvest is always a busy season around here, but we also added a big construction/reorg project on top of all the other things I am not used to doing. Add a corrupt webhosting database and the last couple months have been a little bit of a blur. (But doesn’t my new website look nice?)
Not so much though, that I haven’t noticed that people are struggling. Due to the current public health crisis, we are all kind of cooped up in our own secluded hermitages. It seems to be getting to people.
This is an exercise I usually ask students to do, but you might also find it diverting if you are feeling especially cooped up. I was thinking that now would be a good time for me to start a new exploration, just because things are so different with the ash trees gone.
It’s really simple. Just find a spot you can sit every day and start to observe this spot as it changes through the seasons. You might journal about it, photograph it, or even sketch it. Try to notice as many details as you can.
This poem has always seemed to me to be the work of someone who was keenly aware of their ecosystem and I like to read it to as a reminder to appreciate the very simple things in my surroundings that make me happy. It’s an Irish poem (shocking I know) written sometime in the 10th century and this is Kuno Meyer’s translation:
I have a hut in the wood,
None knows it save my God:
An ash tree on the hither side, a hazel bush beyond,
A huge old tree encompasses it.
Two heath-clad doorposts for support,
And a lintel of honeysuckle:
The forest around its narrowness sheds
Its mast upon fat swine.
The size of my pasture is tiny, not too tiny,
Many are its familiar paths:
From its gable a sweet strain sings
My lady in her cloak of the thrush’s hue.
The stags of Oakridge leap
Into the river of clear banks:
Thence red Roigne can be seen,
Glorious Mucraime and Maenmag.
Hidden, lowly little abode,
Which has possession of … ,
To behold it will not be granted me,
Yet I shall be able to find its …
A hiding mane of a green-barked yew-tree
Which supports the sky:
Beautiful spot! the large green of an oak
Fronting the storm.
A tree of apples – great its bounty!
Like a hostel, vast:
A pretty bush, thick as a fist, of tiny hazelnuts,
A choice pure spring and princely water
There spring watercress, yew-berries,
Ivy-bushes of a man’s thickness.
Around it tame swine lie down,
Wild swine, grazing deer,
A badger’s brood.
A peaceful troop, a heavy host of denizens of the soil,
Atrysting at my house:
To meet them foxes come,
Fairest princes come to my house,
A ready gathering!
Pure water, perennial bushes,
A bush of rowan, black sloes,
Plenty of food, acorns, pure berries,
A clutch of eggs, honey, delicious mast,
God has sent it:
Sweet apples, red whortleberries,
Berries of the heath.
Ale with herbs, a dish of strawberries,
Of good taste and color,
Haws, berries of the yew,
A cup with mead of hazelnut, bluebells,
Dun oaklets, manes of briar,
Goodly sweet tangle.
When pleasant summertime spreads its colored mantle,
pignuts, wild marjoram, green leeks,
The music of the bright redbreasted men,
A lovely movement!
The strain of the thrush, familiar cuckoos
Above my house.
Swarms of bees and chafers, the little musicians of the world,
A gentle chorus:
Wild geese and ducks, shortly before summer’s end,
The music of the dark torrent.
An active songster, a lively wren
From the hazel bough,
Beautiful hooded birds, woodpeckers,
A vast multitude!
Fair white birds come, herons, seagulls,
The cuckoo sings in between, —
No mournful music! — dun heath poults
Out of the russet heath.
The lowing of heifers in summer,
Brightest of seasons!
Not bitter, toilsome over the fertile plain,
The voice of the wind against the branchy wood
Upon the deep-blue sky:
Cascades of the river, the note of the swan,
The bravest band makes music to me,
Who have not been hired:
In the eyes of Christ the ever-young I am no worse off
Than thou art.
Though thou rejoicest in thy own pleasures,
Greater than any wealth,
I am grateful for what is given me
From my good Christ.
Without an hour of fighting, without the din of strife
In my house,
Grateful to the Prince who giveth every good
To me in my bower.
I would give my glorious kingship
With my share of Colman’s heritage,
To the hour of my death let me forfeit it
So that I may be in thy company, O Marban!
Hermit and King: A Colloquy between King Guaire of Aidne and His Brother Marban; Being an Irish Poem of the Tenth Century, edited and translated by Kuno Meyer. London: David Nutt, 1901.