The Voices of My Mothers

One of my 2006 goals is establishing the foundation for a thorough family tree. The Native American and Eastern ideas that my life affects and is effected by seven generations back and seven generations forward gives me another reason beyond simple curiosity and fascination to learn about my physical lineage. Fascinating it is, and curious I am, however there is a part of my past that defines my present and predicts my future. So I've finally gotten some written documents about my family lineage from my closest branches: my parents.

I spent an enjoyable several hours the other evening reading stories written by distant relatives that I have either never met, or not seen in years, recalling their memories of their parents or grandparents; recalling stories of lives lived during times of war, struggle and change. Listening to their voices on the paper, I felt a connection with past, differently than I have while reading history texts in college, or biographies of historic persons. There are historic persons in my lineage, and there are stories set in times I've read about in history texts. However, in the everyday language of my own family, I see a personal side of "history": the side that is "his story" and "her story". Because while the events in those books we study are important to know, so too are the events in our ancestors' lives. Crossing oceans and continents, settling and moving, building and tearing down, establishing order and rebelling against it; with out pomp and no mind to prestige, the words of my family communicate the essence of another time and of a spirit that is mine as well - that past that is a part of me and my present.

I see the patterns in my life that reflect the patterns of history. Why study history? "Not to repeat our mistakes" they say. "To learn from the past" we are told. And so too is it with our own history. 50% my mother and 50% my father. A quarter of each of my grandparents, and eighth of each of my great grandparents. And thus is my deck dealt. The tools I come with, the knowledge I start with, the foundation my first foot falls upon. Now it is up to me to choose how to play those cards, and when to add new ones to the deck.

At 2:30am, I finally put away the files. I turned off my bedside lamp, and curled up on my side. I adjusted my pillows, and closed my eyes. And there in the darkness, I heard their voices. Whispers of their lives, like wind in the woods. Softly floating through my mind, I heard their songs. Norse, Celtic, Gaelic, American, young, aged, new, old. Like the voices of the Huldre calling from within the mountain of the past.

~Maren

Groundhog Sees

When in the new chill of Imbolc morning, the creatures wake and wander,
or stagger towards their morning's rest
a long night of prowling behind them,
we see the groundhog.

Sun shining rainbows on the icy threshold she comes. Peeking out and venturing forth, she comes.

Imbolc morning, Groundhog's Day, the sun shines on your face of fur and sleepy eyes, you turn.

In a panic you are taken, shaken, a shadow passes and it moves. Could it be eagle scouting breakfast? Could it be fox?

What does it matter?!

Groundhog sees and darts back beneath the snow encrusted den. She will not come again, until Equinox has claimed the morning, lengthened the days to equal, and assured dear Groundhog of her saftey in the mid-spring sun!

Winter's grip holds fast. Huldre waits with Groundhog.