by Wendy Hawkin | Dec 21, 2016 | journal, mythology
Winter is here. We, in the northern hemisphere, feel her enfold us. She is the Ice Queen. Cloaked in black frost, exhaling snowflakes in a great rush of crystal, she ushers us inside and bids us remember who we are. We, humans, are vulnerable to her whims; cannot control her, though, in our technological frenzy we arrogantly believe we can–right up until she pulls the plug.
Today we begin winter here on the Pacific coast. This is the shortest day and the longest night of the year. This morning, the sun did not rise until 8:05 am, and too soon will set at 4:16pm, leaving us with a mere 8 hours and 11 minutes of daylight.
But like the yin and yang, this darkling queen brings more to us than inclement weather. She brings the promise of lighter days. For solstice is a turning point. The climactic dark night ends with the birth of a new dawn, and from this time forward, days grow longer.
Winter Solstice is a Festival of Light, which many of us celebrate by decking our halls with lights and greenery, connecting with our spiritual selves through meditation, or gathering outside at sacred sites.
In the Valley of the Kings at Brú na Bóinne in Ancient Ireland, our Neolithic ancestors also celebrated the new dawn of Winter Solstice.
newgrange.com
Brú na Bóinne translates to something like abode or palace of the river Boyne. It is the mythical home of the god, Dagda, his wife, Boann, and their son Oengus, the love god. They are of the faerie tribes, the Tuatha de Danaan. The stone walls are engraved with symbols we now consider Celtic, though this tomb was built well before the arrival of the Celts to Ireland.
Five thousand years ago, these ancient indigenous tribes built passage tombs from rock. One has been excavated and restored. Built with keen intelligence and divine insight, this stone temple, consists of a roof-box above a portal and leads down a nineteen-metre passageway into a cruciform chamber. It is capped with a corbel roof that seems to defy gravity. As the sun rises on Winter Solstice, its beams enter the roof-box, creep down the passageway, and finally illuminate the chamber.
Her builders were Neolithic farmers who understood the cycle of birth and death. And so, the tomb is much like the womb of the mother earth. For seventeen minutes on Winter Solstice, an elemental union occurs as the beaming light of the sun enters and impregnates the Earth. Gestation follows over the darkling winter months, and if all is well, new life bursts forth again in spring.This is the sacred dance of death and rebirth.
The Boyne Valley really is spectacular. I stood inside the stone chamber, while the guide simulated the experience. It’s one for your bucket list. But, if you can’t travel there, you can still read about Newgrange in detail and tour the tomb via virtual reality via Voices From the Dawn.
standing between the entrance stone and roof box
by Wendy Hawkin | Dec 18, 2016 | journal, writing and publishing
Witches in Scotland? Methinks I’ve heard that somewhere before…
What are these,
So wither’d and so wild in their attire,
That look not like th’ inhabitants o’ th’ earth,
And yet are on’t? Live you? or are you aught
That man may question? . . .
Macbeth (1.3.39-41).
First, religion was interwoven with the land and the people. Winter Solstice was a time to celebrate a return to light from the frosty dark of winter.
Then, there were killings prompted by greed and a surge of Christianity.
Now, we see a resurgence of pagans in Scotland.
via How Scotland’s witches will be celebrating their own version of Christmas this Wednesday night (From HeraldScotland)
How do you celebrate this festival of light?
by Wendy Hawkin | Dec 16, 2016 | journal, writing and publishing
A few words from one of my favourite urban fantasy authors:
When he came to a second-hand bookshop and cafe, he hesitated outside. Human meeting places made him uneasy. It was an old building, of worn red brick, with high arched windows that overlooked the river. Inside was the scent of books. The musty solitude was reminiscent of a quiet forest glade. Winding wooden stairs brought him to the third floor and there she was, as he knew she would be, seated at a table by the window. She was reading a letter. Lit up by sunlight, the golden-brown hair fell over her face like a veil. A young girl, almost a woman, she was dressed in the fashion of urban youth: black sweater, black skirt, black stockings and shoes. Her slender shoulders shook with laughter as she read.
“The Hunter’s Moon” by O.R. Melling (1993)
Faerie stories are ageless and timeless.
The Chronicles of Faerie is a collection of three of OR Melling’s faerie tales: The Hunter’s Moon, The Summer King, and The Light-Bearer’s Daughter. YA+
From the back cover: “Caught between Ireland and Canada, this world and another, three heroines search for life and love in an incredible and enchanting saga that dares to pose one of the great questions of life: Are we mortal or immortal?”
by Wendy Hawkin | Dec 9, 2016 | journal, mythology, writing and publishing
“Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.” GK Chesterton
by Wendy Hawkin | Dec 2, 2016 | journal, wildcrafting, writing and publishing
I love this Neil Gaiman quote. You can tell children dark stories “as long as you tell them that you can be smart, and you can be brave, and you can be tricky, and you can be plucky, and you can keep going.” Read Maria Popova’s commentary on Neil Gaiman’s Reimagined Hansel and Gretel:
via Neil Gaiman Reimagines Hansel and Gretel, with Stunning Illustrations by Italian Graphic Artist Lorenzo Mattotti – Brain Pickings
by Wendy Hawkin | Nov 13, 2016 | Ireland, journal, mythology, writing and publishing
As I paint the finishing gloss on To Charm a Killer, my mind drifts back to its creation. I can’t remember how the whole story came together–there were many edits, revisions, and transformations along the way. But, I do know some things.
In the beginning, a girl was abducted by a priest.
Hollystone Coven emerged as the hook for the series: a coven of witches who solve murders using magic. Not the blink and it’s done stuff, but by manipulating energy through ritual concentration and manifestation. For example, through focussed chanting, they raise power and bend and shape the forces of nature; something, we all have the capability of doing, if only we believed.
One day while hiking at Buntzen Lake, we came upon a large circle of people hidden in the woods. They were chanting “El Diablo” — whether conjuring or banishing the devil, I do not know. But that was the moment, the witches of Hollystone Coven began meeting there for Sabbat rituals.
I fell in love with Estrada, the High Priest of Hollystone Coven–everyone does–and he fell in love with the woods and with faeries.
“I’m serious, Sara. This forest reeks of life, especially after the September rains. Can’t you smell it?” He loved the primordial odour of wet earth; imagined his beginnings in the first fecund ooze…a microscopic amoebic creature, not yet conscious of the magical transformation that would one day occur.
Then I began scouting locations–walking in the footsteps of my characters.
Old Alexandra Bridge in Yale, BC is a real place, though the intuitive path Estrada follows to meet the killer is purely his own.
Drawn toward the killer by some unfathomable force, Estrada took his first steps across the Old Alexandra Bridge with trepidation. He couldn’t help but look down through the open u-shaped steel decking that stretched like rusty metal waves beneath his boots. Resting a leather-gloved hand on the orange railing, he stared, mesmerized by the roiling green-brown river. Beneath him, the Fraser, rife with sediment and autumn rain, funnelled through a canyon of colossal grey rocks into spiralling white-capped eddies. It was deep, cold, and forbidding.
And, when it was decided that the girl must travel to Ireland to escape the priest, I went with her to co-create her experiences. On Shop Street in Galway, I watched a woman performing street art, and she became an inspiration for Primrose, the Irish fey witch.
Draped and hooded in a forest green cloak that dragged upon the stones in folds, Primrose stood serenely, her hands hidden beneath gaping sleeves. Clustered branches of appliquéd emerald and silver oak leaves meandered over the cloak like a shimmering forest. The tiny elfish face beneath the hood was painted bright green, except for the area around her eyes, which was etched in dark spirals to resemble the knots of a tree. Her ever-changing irises glowed with golden iridescence as she smiled.
“You look like a nature goddess.”
“She’s Danu, Matriarch of the Irish gods,” said Estrada.
Primrose leads the girl on a mystical adventure in Ireland.
And when Estrada arrives, he experiences Primrose in a wholly different way.
That is as much as I can say; to say more would divulge too many secrets. This is, after all, a mystery.
Ireland is a magical land, and I hope to see you there one day. If this book is your inspiration, I will be smiling.
The Sligo Road
Dolmens at Carrowmore
Communing with the Faeries at Tara, seat of the High Kings of Celtic Ireland
