The Oneness

The Oneness

I am adrift and grounded on ethereal filaments
connecting Elemental energies to seasonal energies,
my thoughts and emotions and state of being
free flowing along conductors never created but
composed of every color ever imagined and unimaginable.
There was no making involved.
No maker.
Just the organic act of being that has been present
from this beginning.
All thought, emotion, spirit, word, scent, touch, taste,
dream, hope, perception, impression, darkness and light
that ever was or will be is slip-sliding along these
liminal ley lines in every dimension of time and space
in the same moment.
We are immense in our collective individuality.
We are infinitesimal in our oneness.

Sheri Barker
April 12, 2024

                                                               Golden Ragwort

Ostara Blessings - The Unfolding

Tuesday, March 19, 2024
Noon.43 degrees. Wind gusts up to 19 mph.

The Unfolding

Spring is unfolding
in her own way and time.
Daffodils, cold winds, and sunshine. 
Snowfall and tornadoes.
In some places, the snow melt
will bring flooding.

The patterns are shifting. 
We all know this. 
But as Earth's reclaiming unfolds
with this new season,
She still invites us to join her,
to help her, to grow and bloom with her.
To notice beauty. To heal. To love.

~~~

The Vernal Equinox is here. It is time to sow new seeds, and to feel and see the awakening of that which the earth has held safe over the cold days of winter. That which you have held safe within you is also ready to reach toward the light and grow. 

May this day bring balance to you, rebirth to your hopes and dreams, and abundance to the harvest in times ahead. 

Blessed Ostara!

With love from the Bear Path,

Sheri

The fairie roses are coming in strong and healthy this year, with new green growth already climbing the arch. I am eager, but patiently waiting the gorgeous pink and white blooms! 

Beauty and My Mother

 My mother left this world behind 16 years ago, but I began this day solidly in her presence. She was here with me while I sat and talked with my husband about the day ahead of us and about our children. Her smiling, enraptured presence stayed by my side as we enjoyed Patricia Ballentine’s presentation, “The History and Magical Practice of Beauty.”

In the last months of her life, mom seemed to open herself to seeking beauty and expressing her interest in it as she never had before. Of course, I must acknowledge that she may have been like that at other times in her life that I didn’t recognize or see. When I was a small child she loved purple, and she loved cranberry glass. I remember her pastel pink jewelry box and the lipstick she wore when she was going to meetings or a party. Later, she loved oil lamps and making crafts with my dad. But towards the end, the search for beauty was more personal and more of what she wanted for herself.

I first noticed this with her deep interest in the television show “How I Met Your Mother.”
What really held her attention were the wardrobe choices for Alyson Hannigan’s character. Mom spent all of her life buying inexpensive clothes, most of which could double as work clothes. She chose tee-shirt style tops; casual, loose-fitting elastic waist pants with pockets; and simple jersey dresses with pockets as well. But all of a sudden, she was interested in fashion, and commented about how she would like this or that piece that “Lily” was wearing, and didn’t Alyson look beautiful in that outfit?

While I recognized that I was seeing something different in my mother, it took me years to understand that she had been expressing pieces of her own healing journey even as she knew she was moving closer to dying. Perhaps it was that knowledge of imminent freedom that released her from the childhood and lifetime hurts that caused her to stifle her sense of self-expression and her longing for beauty.

I would give nearly anything to have more time with her, and I am grateful for the effort she makes to share herself with me now.

There were not enough yesterdays held dearly in the there and then. Jean Marie Hill Barker, b. December 25, 1938, d. March 9, 2008.

At various times during my life, I thought my mother didn't love me; I couldn't stand her; she was my best friend; she was annoying, funny, cute, and horrible, but I needed her, and she needed me.

For most of our lives together, we did not understand each other because we did not know how to communicate. We never really fixed the communication part, but during the last 27 weeks of her life, we somehow began to understand each other. What a gift.

Hey Bean. I see you now with my heart instead of my eyes, and these years later, oh how you shine with true beauty! I miss you as much as ever, more than ever, and not at all because I carry you with me.

Photo: my mom with her mother in a photo booth at Sylvan Beach, mid-to-late 1950s. Jeannie and June. 

The Fourth of March

 It is currently 63 degrees with clear blue skies here at Bear Path Cottage. I just spent a few minutes outside, taking pictures in the gardens and making plans for working this afternoon. Sometime in the last three days, the forsythias all went from buds to blooms, and that little hedge of yellow is a cheery sight!

In early April of 2019, we were waiting to close on the purchase of the Cottage. I was still recovering from my knee replacement surgeries, and Rhodes and my eldest daughter, Katie, constructed a little greenhouse on the deck at the Mountain. She took clippings from the humongous forsythia growing on the Mountain for 20 years and then started 30 forsythia slips for me. To my surprise and great happiness, those survived my care in the greenhouse and have thrived growing on the northeast corner of the Cottage proper, where my father-in-law helped me plant them. Every bright yellow blooming branch will always be a reminder that it is okay to ask for help when you need it and okay to accept help when it is offered. 

The other early yellow bloom in the garden has been shining bright for a few days. In 2022, my sweet friend Wendy sent me a box of daffodil bulbs she had dug up from her gardens. I planted them between the Juneberry trees near the road edge, and for the last two years, they have been bright lights of love and happiness, and some of the earliest blooms of Spring. 

I love having this garden reminder of my dear friend. I think of them as "Wendy's daffs". They stir memories of happy times, good conversations, and hopes of seeing each other again. Wendy's love of her home, gardens, cooking, and family is nothing short of phenomenal and helped me believe that my own dreams of home could come true. (If you read this, dear ladybug, that hippy you're married to ain't so bad either! So much love to you both!)

Spring always wakes the extra deep layers of hope within me. New growth and life are stirring, and old growth is stronger for having come through the winter. Over the next couple of weeks I'll be spending a lot of time outside, talking with the land spirits and observing the way water, air, and light are moving over the land. I don't have any new projects planned for this year, but I need to stay in tune with this tiny ecosystem so I can continue to support it. 

We lift each other up every day. And on the most challenging days, through the darkest times, we offer each other safe space and understanding. This is how love wins. 

This is how we save the world. 

The sweetest thing I saw in the garden this morning was a pair of Mourning Doves. They were walking around together, probably looking for nesting sites. They didn't pay much attention to my presence, other than to walk in the opposite direction from me once they saw me. One had the biggest coral pink blaze on its shoulder that I've ever seen on a dove. So beautiful. I love that they feel safe here. 

I love that I feel safe here, and that I have the opportunity to share portions of this magic with my friends. 

Peace, and much love from Bearpath Cottage.

The Wild Hunt - What Time is it, Mr. Fox?

 https://wildhunt.org/2024/02/what-time-is-it-mr-fox.html

On Love and Compassion

 I believe my mother tried to be a kind and compassionate person her whole life. Perhaps it was an attempt to heal the wounds she suffered from the cruelty and abuse she endured as a child, a young woman, and a young mother. Much of that trauma was inflicted by her own family and the family she eventually married into. I could recite some of the stories here, but a few of the villains are still alive and Jeannie the Loving would not want me to publicly shame them. In fact, she probably forgave them long ago.

Toward the end of her life, she seemed to double her efforts to see the good in people, even if she had to work extra hard to make that happen. It didn’t matter what was going on in someone’s life, she always had something kind or encouraging to say about them or to them.

One of her last public appearances happened on Valentines night in 2008. There was a heavy lake-effect snow falling, but she insisted that I drive her to the hospital where she worked so she could take special holiday treats to her 2nd and 3rd shift coworkers. They were accustomed to her deliberately thoughtful and silly little gifts and she wanted them to remember her that way. More than one person cried when they hugged her that night, but everyone of them smiled when they saw her.

Jeannie Barker February 2008

I have often wondered about her increased need or desire to show love and compassion in her final moments in this realm. Was it prompted by fear of not being accepted on the other side as she had so many times felt rejected, unloved, and unlovable in this one? Or there, so close to the next place, sometimes crossing over and coming back, had she learned a marvelous Truth? Had fear and judgment been dissolved by the promise of a new beginning?

My mother left this realm literally surrounded by the love of her family, her fear and sadness soothed by love and compassion. What a gift. What a blessing. What a revelation of possibilities for the ways her life might have been different if those gifts had been freely given all along.

Much love to you from Bear Path Cottage this morning, and from Jeannie Beannie as well. Her light shines on.

Mid-February: Finding Hope and Beauty

8:00 a.m.
25 degrees, sunny, cold wind

There are 22 chickens in the flock at Bear Path Cottage, and 20 of those are laying hens. The two oldest, Jazz and Pearl, have reached their retirement years, although Pearlie still likes to sit in the nest box every once in a while. The chicken run is adequately sized, and most days, the girls spend at least part of the afternoon enjoying a version of free-range access in the fenced backyard. Nothing guarantees the total safety of chickens who live outdoors, but the set-up here keeps these birds as safe as possible from predators.  Add to their safe environment that they have a healthy diet and plenty of enrichment foods and activities, and I think these birds have a pretty good life. 

                                                                              Jazz

There's an understanding of sorts between chickens and chicken tenders; an unspoken agreement, a psychological or social contract that the tender will provide a good life for the chickens, and the chickens will provide the tender with eggs. Last year, we had a few good egg weeks, but overall, the chickens were not holding up their end of the bargain. I began to consider whether I had made a mistake by increasing the size of the flock and whether I should rehome some of my feathered darlings to a like-minded homesteader. 

When I started growing the flock, it was with the intention and hope that I could sell enough eggs to at least break even on the cost of feed and supplies and hopefully have a little extra money. Last year's lack of egg production and one very expensive chicken vet bill kept the tally column for chickens firmly in the red. I considered downsizing with the hope of being able to cover some expenses with intake from selling eggs. Keeping a flock this size costs somewhere between $120 - $150 a month, including feed, scratch, supplements, and supplies. As much as I love them, my fixed income needs them to help support us all. 

Of course, there is no point in even thinking about egg production levels (that sounds so funny, like we're in the movie Chicken Run, when really we are starring in our own live production about happy co-existence!) during the cold, dark months of winter, when most chickens stop laying or lay less frequently. Some chicken tenders use lights to trick chicken bodies into thinking they still have long days and short nights so that they will lay more frequently. In my opinion, that is poor stewardship, as their bodies are obviously designed for and need time to rest. Feeding and caring for them through their quiet time is part of the care agreement. 

Starting about mid-January, these chickens have surprised me with a slight but steady increase in the number of eggs they are laying. I do not expect a regular output from any of them until April or May. To be honest, I don't expect a regular output for anything from anyone who lives here! As I've been emerging from my own quiet time, rather than being goal-oriented, my focus has been on seeing the beauty in the world around me and looking for hope in unexpected places. 

The everyday beauty and happiness at the Cottage include the chickens and their sweet, funny personalities and behavior. And I don't think I will ever stop being amazed and delighted by the beautiful colors in the nest box and egg basket; white, blue, olive green, and three different shades of brown. Over the last few weeks, I gathered 2-3 dozen eggs per week, which gives me some to sell, some to share with friends, and some to use for baking or breakfast here at home. 

In my morning walks around the gardens, I have been gathering bits of spring green to share with the chickens. When I am doing the morning chores that provide their care, I talk with them about the weather, the dog, the world, and, lately, about the coming spring. They seem to be excited about it, and they are more eager than ever to have their free range time in the afternoon. I don't know if their tiny bodies are just ready to be solid producers or if they are responding to the TLC and warmer days, but in the last 10 days, these 20 laying hens have produced 7 dozen eggs. 

They might not continue this wild burst of energy. But...they might. 

Planting a new variety of apple tree in the tiny orchard this spring might not mean an apple harvest this year or next. But...it might. 

Supporting loved ones making big, brave life changes might not change their world. But...it might.

Sharing with friends and making community connections might not save this world. But...it might. 

Taking time every day to look for beauty might not change MY world. But...it does. 

So much to think about. So much to look forward to. 

Much love to you from Bear Path Cottage. 

Here's a rundown of the Bear Path Cottage resident chickens

Icelandic Vikings - white eggs - these girls were named after my grandmother and her sisters

Mae (Mae Mae)

Gussie (Augusta)

Marg

Edith

Dark Brahma - brown eggs

Jazz - this lady has aged out of laying, but still lives a nice life

White Ameracauna - blue eggs

Pearl - also aged out of laying, and still has a nice life; Pearl has a scissor beak

Smokey Pearl - The F Troop - brown eggs

French Broad

Miss Frizz

Welsummer - terracotta eggs

Hawkeye

Cream Legbar - blue eggs

Elke Summer

Demi (Demeter)

Ursula Andres

Dwen (Cerridwen)

Blue Copper Marans - The Mystery or Murder Crew - dark brown eggs

Agatha Christie

Jane Marple

Ariadne

Barnevelder - brown eggs

Raquel Welch - she is a mahogany barnevelder

Dame Diana Rigg - is a silver-laced barnevelder

Easter Eggers, blue or green eggs, but one is an olive egger

Artie (Artemis)

Bree (Brighid)A Cinnamon Queens - dark brown eggs Gloria Gaynor Loretta Lynn These two birds came to us as rescues last year, having survived a dog attack that killed their flockmates. The person who rehomed them wasn't sure if they were Rhode Island Reds or Cinnamon Queens, but as their sweet, friendly, affectionate personalities and temperaments continue to emerge, it is obvious that they are Cinnamon Queens.

The First of February - Imbolc 2024

This day dawned clear, bright, and cold, and I was surrounded by fire and ice as I walked around the orchard and the Cottage garden, with the rising sunlight dancing on frost-kissed plants. I felt a little ripple of excitement in the earth beneath my feet, as if it, too, wanted to rise up to celebrate the growing light on this day halfway between the Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox. This was the first day I have allowed myself to begin looking at the work I will need to do to ready the gardens for Spring, and there is much to do. The priority and (hopefully) only expense will be adding another variety of apple tree, and I think I will need to purchase a 3-year old tree and have a nursery install it. That will likely happen in May or June. Time to start saving the egg money. And just like that, I am transported from frosty morning to thinking of new growth and new buds, and hoping for an apple crop to harvest. 

This morning's harvest was a simple one; I plucked the tall, whispery remains of last year's pink muhly grass. I thought I might make a Brigid's cross with them, but it did not take long for Mojo, Hamish, and Lily to find the stalks on my desk and remind me why I don't keep dried florals anywhere the cats can reach them. They are far too tempting to play with and nibble on. I used them on my altar for my solitary Imbolc ritual and later tonight will burn them in the firepit outside in a small closing ritual for the day. Yes, it is true. Witches like to burn stuff. 

Black bears have started stirring from their dens in this area, and on this day I welcome their return while honoring the Great Bear Mother. History has twisted the strands of her storyline, but I feel no need to sort them out. She and I know each other in this here and now, and that is enough. 

In this region, sows started giving birth in January. Appalachian Bear Rescue has already received four tiny neonate cubs which breaks their record by three. One of those fellows has already passed; they are delicate little beings. The first two cubs were abandoned when their mother was frightened away by the noise from a chainsaw. Some folks were clearing up a downed tree in their yard and had no idea that the sow had denned in the tree. They waited as long as possible to see if the sow would return, but it was getting dangerously cold for the cubs, so they were taken in to rescue. The second two cubs were found by firemen whose firefighting equipment had disturbed their den, and were also taken in to rescue when the mother did not return. If it is at all possible to place these cubs back with their own mothers or with a foster mother, Appalachian Bear Rescue will make sure that happens. 

Here is a link of a video clip published by BearSmart that shows bear activity inside a den: https://fb.watch/pXVjKVJVKT/ and a link to the related article on their page https://www.bearsmart.com/about-bears/north-americas-bears/

There are more frequent stories of bear conflict with humans and in human neighborhoods. More disturbing to me is the increase of internet posts containing false information about bears, often intended to provoke a malicious response by community members. Please use discernment when reading posts, comments, or articles online, and contact your local wildlife agency if you have concerns about bears in your area. It is possible to coexist peacefully with bears and other wildlife, but humans have to make an effort to make that happen. 
Information is available on the BearSmart website, and also at https://bearwise.org/

Mmmhmmmm. Mama Bear channeling Great Bear Mother, perhaps. 

The rest of my day passed quietly, speaking with loved ones and doing chores. I went out before dark to check for eggs, and found a broody Raquel in the nest box sitting on this perfect, light-brown treasure. It seems a fitting end to my hearth and home focused day, and I am grateful for the gift. 

Blessed Imbolc, friends. Keep moving toward the light.

With love from Bear Path Cottage,

Sheri

Seven Years - A Journey Through Grief

 Seven Years – A Journey Through Grief

We’ve all seen the faces in newsprint and on the television screen,
Empty, hollow, tear and mud-streaked,
Defiant, angry, hungry baby-bird beaked mouths,
Bodies bent, shuffling, picking their way
through the muddy remains after a flood
the likes of which no one has ever seen before.

It is the same with tornadoes, fires, hurricanes, and earthquakes.
Every storm that nature hurls against the fragile structures of human life
Leaves somebody sifting through ash and mud, bones and blood,
Looking for some tangible something to hold onto;
Some touchstone, some key we believe we need to unlock truth and memories.

Your life and death brought storms bigger than anything nature has ever wrought,
and oh, baby girl, there was nothing natural about it.
I spent a long time moving through the broken, messy, shattered pieces
of your being, your existence, of myself
With that same defiance, the emptiness, and hunger,
looking for the touchstone that would bring you back to me.
I wallowed in mud baths of truth.
I built a temple of ash and made mosaics from scraps, but they were as empty as
Vision boards made from magazine cutouts run through a shredder,
Memories clouded by smoke from the fires of my anger
And held at bay by floods of rage.

I cannot tell you how it happened, but
something finally shifted on this dirty road to healing.
I don’t care what they say, there is nothing pure or holy or
 light-filled about grieving a life when terrible truths tarnish its memories.
But somehow, the light comes if the rage burns away
before it nukes the seeker's soul.

And so, it did, and so it is, and
so here I am, finally and clearly seeing
the light of her love brightening the darkness.

Mid-January: Deep Winter Visits

Sometime in the early morning hours during our first deep freeze of the year, the pipes for the chicken watering system exploded with enough force that it knocked the whole thing askew. The crack and boom sound roused the dog, who in turn roused the Cottage Engineer, who in turn determined that with an outdoor temperature that felt like -3 degrees, an investigation into whatever caused the noise could wait until daylight. So it did, and the photo below shows what that investigation revealed on a cold morning last week.

Ouch. Best estimates: the shut-off valve from the rain barrel was frozen partially open, and although it seemed like the water supply had been turned off, it was not. Ouch again, and oops. These things happen, and we just move forward. Fortunately, the heated waterer in use inside the coop can serve as a temporary backup with the minimal additional cost of labor (mine) to fill that water source every day. Since the staff here at BPC are elbow deep in the kitchen redo, I'm grateful to have the time that gives us to re-think and re-engineer before we rebuild the watering system. 

This photo was taken when the coop and barn were first built. It shows the Engineer in deep thought about some project design. I am holding space for this forward for the water redo. 

I just came back inside from tending the chickens. It is currently 8 degrees and feels like -6 with the wind chill. Most of the girls were still in the coop; nobody was in a hurry to go out in this cold. Hank stopped at the back door and looked up at me as if to measure my sanity. Sorry, pup. If you want out, this is the only way to go. Two nights ago Hamish scooted through the back door when Rhodes and Hank were coming in. I spent 30 minutes tracking him all around the neighborhood before he finally allowed me to pick him up and carry him home. This morning, he looked toward the door with absolutely zero interest in traveling through it. 

It snowed all day yesterday, resulting in a sparse dusting on the ground here at the Cottage. This land is tucked into a sweet little geographical bowl, and weather systems are often funneled around us by the mountain ranges to the north and south. I would love to experience a good, heavy snowfall; it has been two years since a measurable amount fell here. Goodness knows we need the precipitation, but She also knows the many ways in which people and domestic animals suffer in wet, cold weather. Perhaps she is doing a kindness here. (note: silly, ridiculous, hopeful wishing on the part of this writer.)

No surprise that I am choosing to spend the remainder of this cold spell emulating the black bear by denning in. I will consume and produce words, do some hearth magic, and periodically fall into a state of torpor. I do not know for certain whether bears are grateful for their dens, but I am for mine. I'm going to go refill my tea cup and create a flexible map for the balance of this day.

With love from Bear Path Cottage,

Sheri