A dear friend of mine has suffered far more than anyone should recently. I wrote this in her honor.  And then, because this is who we are, one friend turned it into some beautiful art, and many of us surrounded our beloved, hurting friend in the oak grove in my front garden and sang to her and spoke these words to her, all in attempt to help her remember that we will do our best to shield her from pain.  It seems a particularly apt thing to post on Valentine’s Day, which I choose to see as a celebration of all kinds of love.

Shelter, Sister

Shelter, Sister, in the arms of your tribe.
Let us drive off all those who harm you.
Let us hold you within our entwined embrace
And evermore shelter and guard you.

Heal, Sister, in the arms of your tribe.
Let us hold you and offer you succor.
Let us bandage your wounds with sacred salve
And evermore heal and protect you.

Rest, Sister, in the arms of your tribe.
Let us cover you and sing to you softly.
Let us sit by your bedside to ward off bad dreams
And evermore rest here beside you.

© 2016 Amy Ripton

I know I haven’t been posting, but oh have I been living.  We got a puppy, and we’ve done tons of work on our new old house, and I’ve been teaching and writing and making some things.  We are gearing up for our annual trip to Mississippi and a number of other fun events, and I am excited for what is in store.  I think, if I can stay motivated, this site will become more and more dedicated to a broader view of my research and writing and other pursuits and less about knitting.  It’s not that I knit any less–it’s just that I passed some sort of milestone a while back and most projects feel more comforting and less exciting.  I guess I’ve learned a lot of skills.  I know I have become more confident about my ability to teach knitting.  And since I adore teaching, that has been a boon.

This Friday, I go to closing on this charming little place.

It was build in 1895, and it’s on 3/4 of an acre. It’s also around the corner from a train station and outside one of the niftiest old neighborhoods in the greater DC area, so I’m very excited for the community I’ll be joining and the garden I’ll be building.  And the dogs I’ll be adopting.  Spending so long without a dog of my own has been difficult.

Years ago, a friend decided he wanted to change some things about his interactions in the world, and about his role in our tribe.  We jokingly came up with an idea to kill the old him and raise a new one.  And then things got serious.  I had a hand in it and needed to tell our stories of the event.  This is one of those stories.

Alherin

On the Eoghanachta’s sacred Hill
We called out to the Fetter-God,
And our dauntless kin offered himself
To the Wanderer in sacrifice.

Amadeo died the triple death
Lashed between unblighted trees.
I cut his throat, stopped his breath,
And spilled his entrails at our feet.

Grave Chieftain on his sunward side,
Fore-mother beckoning from the West,
He bore the cut, the noose, the bonds
As though he lay at a lover’s breast.

Tir Thalor stood–bold sentinels
As Goldmund scattered sacred leaves;
We muttered prayers with gasping breath
And called the ravens to their feast.

Sacrifice for Odin’s furor
Blood-helmed man, crow-clan warrior.

Twin trees held him in their breadth
And where he fell Alherin rose.

Iron-brow, one night quickened.
Blood-helmed man, crow-clan warrior.

Red he came with knuckles white
Groping free of clutching night.

Bold he came all fury seething
With flashing eyes and sharp teeth gnashing.

Strong he came with sinews straining
Blessed by wolf-cry and black wings beating.

Swift he came, slick with blood,
Our grasping hands to raise him up.

Sacrifice for Odin’s furor
Blood-helmed man, crow-clan warrior.

Iron-brow, one night quickened.
Blood-helmed man, crow-clan warrior.

© 2013 Amy Ripton

I  let this blog fall by the wayside while I became enmeshed in real world things.  I’ve gotten divorced–it was amicable but it was still hard.  I sold my house, watched my beloved dog reach the end of his days, helped care for my Aunt through the last months of her life, moved into my Aunt’s condo, found a new old house to buy, started a new relationship, made things, planted things, wrote things, traveled, danced, and on and on.  I’m happy.  I’m enmeshed in a loving community and family.  I’m well and healthier than I had been for a long time.  Life is for living, and I’ve been doing a lot of that. I’ll try to come back and visit here if possible.

While I’ve been slacking as a blogger, I’ve been trying to play some catch-up with photography.  These are some of the things I’ve been working on.

Our dear friends Scott and Vivian had their first baby a couple of months ago, and I was very happy to have an excuse to make this for them.  The pattern is the Zig Zag Pram Blanket

I’ve been looking at this pattern for a while, and I love that it has great texture but no holes for a newborn to get digits stuck in or for an older baby to worry to the breaking point.  I used leftover sock yarns from my own projects and from friend’s stashes.  I love the way the blanket turned out.  I made it significantly larger than the pattern called for, figuring this size was more versatile for a growing baby.  Scott and Vivian loved it.  Baby Robbie hasn’t weighed in yet, but I’m hoping he’ll snuggle it to pieces.

I made these hedgerow knee socks months ago but had the hardest time photographing them.  The yarn is custom-dyed Spunky Eclectic  sock yarn.  I originally ordered to use as an edging on Chesapeake, but then couldn’t bear to consign it to a boring i-cord fate.  It’s perfect for these socks.  This is the second pair of knee-socks I’ve made to match the monumental calves that clogging built, and they’re excellent under boots or for camping.  I have more knee socks queued up for future projects and am basking in an excuse to buy even more sock yarn in large quantities.

I had this bracelet made last fall by a great Etsy seller called HauteKeys, and I adore it.  It makes me miss my typewriter.

We had an incredibly rainy, cool spring.  That combined with preparations for the trip to France kept me out of the garden the first few months of the year, so as soon as we got back I spent as much time as possible gardening.  The typical sweltering DC summer is in full swing now, so I’m stuck inside for a while.  It is good to see some of my efforts paying off, though. I particularly like some of the new lillies I’m growing, and I love to see the variety of butterflies I’m luring into our gardens.

That bedraggled tail on this swallowtail seems representative of me these days.  Still working away, a little worse for the wear, but well enough and safe enough.  I’ve been writing and caring for a relative and trying to remember to check on my own needs occasionally.  I hope you’re all well.  I’m looking forward to our camping vacation, and I’m sad to have had to skip the first week of it.  Counting the days to vacation, and then possibly Rhinebeck, and then the KR retreat . . . . Really, everything that doesn’t revolve around cancer is a relief.  I hate cancer.  I hate it like I hate poison.

So we went to France for the Battle of Nations in May, and it was an amazing experience.  The US team members and support staff were absolutely wonderful.  The people of France were wonderful.  The other teams were wonderful.  I didn’t want to come back.  I did take thousands of pictures, of course.  And then I told you not a damn thing about it, friends.  Let’s catch up a bit before I head off on another adventure.

The competition itself was in Aigues-Mortes, a small Medieval walled city in the Camargue. We had some time in the run-up to the competition to explore the region a bit and loved all of that part of France.

An adorable cat in the Necropolis in Arles, and the door into a chapel.

The statue of Mary on top of the Papal Palace in Avignon

Gordes, the most beautiful town I’ve ever seen.

A gargoyle in Carcassone

Scott

More pictures of France here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lanea/sets/72157633512313274/

And of the Battle of the Nations here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lanea/sets/72157633495916754/

I went to Mississippi again.  I had an excellent time teaching and promised to repeat the early period embroidery class this summer.  I adored camping and cooking with my friends.  I had a blast singing in the long hall and by the fireside, and finally performing a pair of companion pieces together, the way I should have been doing it for the last several years.

And then I got to watch my dear friend Cailleach receive her laurel–an award for excellence in scholarship and arts–and listen to a wonderful group of people speak words I’d written for her ceremony.  It was one of the finest, proudest moments of my life.  I wept openly, surrounded by friends who understood how touched I was.  They laughed at me for being a sap, but they held my hands and patted my back all the while.

And then my friend Gwen twisted my arm and made me participate in a performing arts contest.  I knew my friends would come along to cheer me.  I was not prepared for the amazing reception my work received from folks who didn’t know me.  I really, really wasn’t prepared for a couple of true luminaries to come to our camp to request a command performance and present me with an award in front of my people under the roof of our hall.  I’m gobsmacked, and humbled, and shocked.

Where’s my pen?  My voice is shredded, but oh, how I want to sing.

I’m getting ready to head to Mississippi, and then I’ll be getting ready to head to Aigues Mortes, because my husband’s hobbies are even weirder than mine.  That’s saying something.  Also, I need to learn to speak French.  I can do that in a couple of months, right?  Errr.  Yeah.

Apparently I’ll also need some 12th C. costuming.  I am opposed to four-digit years.  Frinking journalism–I’m a historian, people!  Excuse me while I cry under the desk for a minute.

Here’s a recap of my last month or two: I did the research and wrote the class notes to teach a couple of classes at Gulf Wars, one on early period embroidery and one about the Bardic Arts from an academic perspective.  I hope both classes go well.  I’m excited to teach them, and feel the burden of my recent laziness about teaching lifting itself as I review the notes.  I miss teaching.  I missed research.

I also wrote a laurel ceremony for my friend Cailleach.  That was an adventure because, as a bit of an outsider in the SCA, I’ve never been to any sort of elevation ceremony. But why should that stop me?!  It didn’t.  So far, the people who’ve seen the ceremony love it.  My heart is full to bursting from their kindness.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time weaving in between all of that writing and research.  Here’s the piece I can show you.

I adore it.  I hope to have about seven yards once it’s done, but it’s not very wide.  I hope it will be enough to make something great.  I predict that I’ll be terrified to full it.  The brighter green was a gift from my friend Kendra, and the hand-dyed grey brown goodness is a Briar Rose yarn from the KR stash lounge from several years ago.  I love weaving with yarns with such happy memories.

Oh, and knitting.  I keep ripping out all of my knitting.  I have project ennui.  I must find an antidote before we make a 16 hour drive.

I slack on posting and taking pictures, but oh, how I succeed at reading–and particularly reading and loving poetry.  Lest this tradition fall by the wayside, the most apt poem for Imbolc, this day, February first.  It’s my beloved Mom’s birthday, and we have a light dusting of snow, and I can’t get my mind off this piece in the Book of Leinster.  The book is in Trinity College Dublin, and I used to moon over its pages every few days.  This is on one of them. I’ve included Kuno Meyer’s classic translation  below.

Slán seiss a Brigit co mbuaid
for gruaid Lifi lir co tráig;
is tu banflaith buidnib sluaig
fil for clannaib Cathair Máir.

Ba móu epert in cach ré
airle Dé fri Herind uill.
indiu cid latt Liphe líg.
ropo thír caich ar n-uair.

O doréccu Cuirrech caín
assa tháeb na torc
[…]
tír;
dobeir macdath for cach meild
in cor foceird for cach ríg.

Ba rí Loegaire. co ler
Ailill Áne adbol cor
marid Currech cona lí
ní mair nach rí ro boí for.
Ni mair Labraid Longsech lán

iar tundsem a thríchait cáem.
i nDind Ríg ba hadba gnath.
o thuc bráth do Chobthach Cael.
Gabais Herind hua Luirc.
Oengus Roirend réim co sairc.

rolá flathi dara feirt
Maistiu munbrecc Moga Airt.
Ailend aurdairc álaind fál fuis.
fail mór flathi foa cnius .
ba mó foscnad tan atchess

Crimthan Coscrach ina crius.
Gáir a ínaig iar cech mbuaid.
im chúail claideb cumtaig drend
bríg a fían fri indna ngorm.
gloim a corn for cétaib cend.

Gles a hindeón comdad cúar.
clúas a duan do thengthaib bard;
bruth a fer fri comlund nglan.
cruth a ban fri óenach n-ard.
A hól meda for cech mbruig.

a graig allmar ilar tuath;
a seinm rond do rígaib fer
fo duilnib sleg cóicrind cruach.
A ceóil binni in cach thrath.
a fínbárc for tondgur fland;

a fross argait orddain máir.
a tuirc óir a tírib Gall.
Co muir nAlban amal chair
raith a orddan la cech ríg.
ru fer amaill im cech cain.

Alend alaind cona bríg.
Bressal ba rí for Eilgg.
Fiachra Fobrecc fein co ngairg.
Fergus Fairgge. Find mac Roith
carsat boith i nAlind aird.

Adrad lithu ni fiu clúas
solud na sén siabras bás.
is bréc uile iarna thur
indid Alend is dún fás.
Foglass a ngein tibes duit

a maigreid l tuaith cricha Cuirc.
di cech lín ro n-alt a húair
doringne luaith Liphi Luirc.
Currech Lifi lir co hor.
Currech Sétnai síth co ler.

is mor ríg fris rala cor.
Currech Corpri Nio Fer.
Cathair Már ba forgu delb.
reraig Herind ilar ndolb.
ce chutgáre oca ráith

ro scáich a ngal ilar fodb.
Fiachna Fomnae Bresal ran.
rerid sál co snigib sleg.
trichait ruirech réin cu cor
gabsat tír im Themair Breg.

Benna Iuchna álaind port
imma ndessid ilar fert.
fega latt i nAlmain aird
adba Thaidg meic Nuadat Necht.
Fodbae Feradaig fo mind.

immu nd-aigtís buidne bend.
a barr breglass a brat líg
is mór ríg rala dar cend.
Dunlang Fornacta ba fíal.
flaith fri Niall ro chathu cloí

ce adfeissed scel do neoch.
ni hé in bith ceta boi.
Brigaiss Illand im thuaith
tríchait catha fri cech ríg;
hua Ennai. ald fri nath.

nibu sluag cen rian ríg.
Ba rí Ailill ernad rath.
resi ndressed cath crodond cruaid.
Cormac mac Corpri. Colmán Mór
Brandub barc i mbatar sluaig.

Ba slicht flatha Faelan find.
Fiannamail fri forbud fland.
Bran mac Conaill co llín glond
ba si in tond dar cach n-ald.
A Brigit ‘s a tír atchiu.

is cach a úair immudrí
ro gab do chlú fora chlú
ind ríg is tu fordatá
Tathut bithlaith lasin Ríg
cen a tír i fail do rúaim.
a ue Bresail meic Déin.
i slan seiss a Brigit co mbuaid.

Kuno Meyer’s translation: 1912

Sit thou safely enthroned, triumphant Brigit, upon the side of Liffey far as the strand of the ebbing sea!

Thou art the sovereign lady with banded hosts that presides over the Children of Catháir the Great.

God’s counsel at every time concerning Virgin Erin is greater than can be told: though glittering Liffey is thine today, it has been the land of others in their turn.

When from its side I gaze upon the fair Curragh….The lot that has fallen to every king causes awe at each wreck

Logaire was king as far as the sea,–Ailill Áne, a mighty fate: the Curragh with its glitter remains–none of the kings remains that lived thereon.

Perfect Labraid Longsech lives no more, having trodden under foot his fair thirty years: since in Dinn Rig–`twas a wonted abode–he dealt doom to Cobthach the Slender.

Lore’s grandson, Oengus of Róiriu, seized the rule of Erin,….sway; Maistiu of the freckled neck, son of Mug Airt, through princes across their graves.

Fair-famed Alenn! Delightful knowledge! Many a prince is under its girth: it is greater than can be fathomed when Crimthan the Victorious was seen in its bosom.

The shout of triumph heard there after each victory around a shock of swords, a mettlesome mass; the strength of its warrior-bands against the dark blue battle-array; the sound of its horns above hundreds of heads.

The tuneful ring of its even-colored bent anvils, the sound of songs heard there from the tongues of bards; the ardour of its men at the glorious contest; the beauty of its women at the stately gathering.

Drinking of mead there in every home-stead; its noble steeds, many tribes; the jingle of chains unto kings of men under blades of five-edged bloody spears.

The sweet strains heard there at every hour, its wine-barque upon the purple flood; its shower of silver of great splendor; its torques of gold from the lands of the Gaul.

Far as the sea of Britain the high renown of each king has sped like a meteor: delightful Alenn with its might has made sport of every law.

Bresal Bree was king over Elg, Fiachra Fobree with a fierce band of warriors; Ferus of the Sea, Finn son of Roth they loved to dwell in lofty Alenn.

Worship of auguries is not worth listening to, nor of spells and auspices that betoken death; all is vain when it is probed, since Alenn is a deserted doom.

Brigit is the smile that smiles on you from the plain…of Core’s land; of each generation which it reared in turn Liffey of Lore has made ashes.

The Currah of Liffey to the brink of the main, the Curragh of Sétna, a land of peace as far as the sea,–many is the king whom the Curragh of Carbre Nia-fer has overthrown.

Catháir the Great– he was the choicest of shapes –ruled Erin of many hues: though you cry upon him at his rath, his prowess of many weapons has vanished.

Fiachna of Fomuin, glorious Bresal ruled the sea with showers of spears: thirty great kings to the edge of the sea seized land around Tara of Bregia.

The Peaks of Iuchna, delightful place, around which many graves have settled behold in lofty Allen the abode of Tadg, son of Nuada Necht!

The apparel of Feradach–a goodly diadem–around whom crested bands would move; his blue-speckled helmet, his shining mantle,–many a king he overthrew.

Dunlang of Fornochta, he was generous, a prince who routed battles against the sons of Niall: though one were to tell the tale to all, this is not the world that was once.

Illann with his tribe launched thirty battles against every king, Enna’s grandson, a rock against terror, it was not a host without a king’s rule.

Ailill was a king that would bestow favour, against whom a fierce blood-dark battle-host would rise: Cormac, Carbre, Colman the Great, Brandub, a barque in which were hosts.

Faelan the Fair was a track of princeship, Fianamail with….; Braiin, son of Conall with many deeds, he was the wave over every cliff.

Oh Brigit whose land I behold, on which each one in turn has moved about, thy fame has outshone the fame of the king–thou art over them all.

Thou hast everlasting rule with the king apart from the land wherein is thy cemetery. Grand-child of Bresal son of Dian, sit thou safely enthroned, triumphant Brigit!

Tags: celtic studies, imbolc, poetry

I keep promising myself that I’ll cut back on unnecessary projects.  I mean, really, doesn’t everyone who wants a knitting wristlet already have one?  Why do I need to make hundreds more?  I don’t, do I?  But then I think of the eventual move, and how it would be best if I had less fabric to pack, and how making bags  uses up fabric.

And then things get blurry for a while, and I’ve suddenly cut out the pieces for 42 bags.  I even cut fabric that had previously been considered sacred and was sequestered away from the regular bag food.  I’ve gone mad, I tell you!  That bright turquoise on top is a Tula Pink print that’s out of production, and several other members of that line are in the pile too.  Now, to see if I can complete these all in time for Rhinebeck.

(yes, yes I can.  I already did.  Yay me.)

Before the head-swimming rotary-cut-athon, I made this.  I liked the string-pieced bags I made last autumn, but I felt like they were a bit too chaotic, and possibly not quite big enough for a big sweater project.  This is the new take on the same concept.  I love all of the orange, and that teal and orange batik–that was one of the first sacred pieces that would up on the cutting mat.  It opened the flood-gates, as it were.

I even took pictures of the outside. They’re . . . coming. Lightroom still feels foreign to me.

Also, our friends Anna and Sean had a beautiful baby girl this summer. I made her this:

I’m really enjoying the concept of a baby quilt preceding a full-sized bed quilt out of my studio. It’s a great way to test sashing, and it makes me want to finish the larger quilt, and it just keeps making space in the stash.  I quilted the bejeesus out of this one, and encouraged Anna and Sean to use it and wash it with abandon and just drag it back to me if it develops any holes.  We’ll see if they do.

This is the finished trim I made for Adon’s wedding:

I hope I’ll keep seeing it around for years and years, and I think I will. He did a beautiful job adding it to the tunic.

Back to the needles . . .