Happy Equinox, my plaid-wearing torc-heads.  (Um, if you’re not a plaid-wearing torc-head, could you at least pretend to be one for a minute?  Exxxxxxxcellent.)

Right, let’s reminisce about how cool Loughcrew is, mmmkay.  Yeah, I know the frames on that page are messed up something fierce.  Look at the loveliness!  And the carvings! Think how hard the megalith builders had to work to celebrate solstices and equinoxes: four points in the solar year, which they learned to date effectively enough that their giant geegaws still stand working thousands of years later.  And Knowth–it works for both Equinoxes.  Lookit.  Those crazy cats knew their astronomy.  Woot!

Ok, now try to stand an egg on its end, but only after you read how silly it is.  And here, and here.  Damn, that makes me smile.  The fact that so many people are so interested and keep studying it–yay eggheads!   

Buy some pumpkins, get ready for apple-picking, carve some gourds, make some soup, knit something warm.  And read this dindsenchas–a myth that explains how a place was named.  It’s good for you, even though it is no help in Scrabble. 

Cnogba (Knowth)
translated by Edward Gwynn in 1925

Bua, daughter of Ruadri Ruad,
wife of Lug mac Cein of the redspears,
it is there her body was hidden:
over her was a great hill built up.

A hill had Bua in the midst of Bregia,
where the noble woman was laid,
in that spot yonder-–
the name of that hill is Cnogba.

But though easiest to utter
of its names be perfect Cnogba,
yet its more proper style is Cnocc Bui
down from Bua daughter of Ruadri.

Elcmar’s daughter dwelt there:
Mider was the woman’s darling:
a darling of her own was the prince,
the man from great and noble Sidhe Midir.

Englec, noble Elcmar’s daughter,
was the darling of perfect Oengus;
Oengus, son of the loved Dagda,
was not the maiden’s darling.

The illustrious Mac in Oc came
southward to Ceru Cermna
on the blazing hurrying Samhain
to play with his fellow-warriors.

Mider came – alas the day!
he came upon her after they had gone,
he carries off with him Englec from her home
thence to the Sidhe of the men of Femen.

When noble Oengus heard
of the pursuit of his darling,
he went in search of her (I say sooth)
to the famous hill whence she was borne off.

This was the food of his band – bright feast –
blood-red nuts of the wood:
he casts the food from him on the ground;
he makes lamentation around the hillock.

Though it be called the Hill of Bua of combats,
this is the equal-valid counter-tale:
we have found that hence
from that ‘nut-wailing’ Cnogba is named.

By us is preserved together
the memory of the lay,
and whichever [of these tales] ye shall prefer
from it is named the region of surpassing worth.

There is another tale–’tis known to me–
of that hill, which Dubthach possesses:
it was made, though great the exploit,
by Bressal Bodibad.

In his time there fell a murrain on kine
in every place in Ireland,
except for seven cows and a bull that increased strength
for every farmer in his time.

By him is built the solid hill
in the likeness of Nimrod’s tower,
so that from it he might pass to heaven,
–that is the cause why it was undertaken.

The men of all Erin came to make for him
that hill–all on one day:
the wight exacted from them hostages
for the work of that day.

His own sister said to him,
she would not let the sun run his course;
there should be no night but bright day
till the work reached completion.

His sister stretches forth her hands . . .
strongly she makes her druid spell:
the sun was motionless above her head;
she checked him on one spot.

Bresal came (lust seized him)
from the hill unto his sister:
the host made of it a marvel:
he found her at Ferta Cuile.

He went in unto her, though it was a crime,
though it was a violation of his sister:
on this wise the hill here
is called Ferta Cuile.

When it was no longer day for them thereafter
(it is likely that it was night),
the hill was not brought to the top,
the men of Erin depart homeward.

From that day forth the hill remains
without addition to its height:
it shall not grow greater from this time onward
till the Doom of destruction and judgment.

It is Fland here –bright his art–
who tells this tale–no deceptive speech:
a choice story–spread it abroad, men and women!
lips, make mention of it among excellences!

Psssst–hey you–come here.  I’ve got something. . .

First, I got a box full of these: Cheaper Than Therapy.  They apparently came to our house after the wonderdog and I had retreated into the wilderness.  But the mighty Scott brought them to us, and there was much rejoicing.  And then I found some typos and I was all sad, but then I found a pen–there in the wilds!–and the rejoicing began anew.  See here on page 84?  That first paragraph?  That "noisy" needs to say "loud."  And at the end of that third paragraph?  That "Can’t" is, of course, a "can."  Thanks for helping. 

Some of the grooviest women I know now have copies, and some others will have copies quite soon.  Forgive me if I’ve written in your copy–it’s the editor in me.  You understand.  I got to read about half of the book this weekend and I am so impressed by the ladies who contributed.  I’m in good company. 

Second, be really careful if you go to Loudoun County, VA.   I went there last night for what should have been a normal, cheerful, safe little board meeting for the Potomac Celtic Festival.  I expected to pat some friends on the back once we elected them as our officers.  Instead, someone clubbed me over the head and when I woke up they were calling me "Madame President."  I don’t know how they did it.  I’m pretty sure I cussed a lot and I know I tried to run away.  I thought they liked me–clearly they want me dead.  I’m very confused, and there’s a lump on my head.  All I know is a dozen folks have some a’splaining to do, and they better do it quick like.  In the meantime, send help. 

The Celtic year-wheel/fruit bowl says it’s time to go camping.  We’d better do what it says boys and girls!  Get in the car.  Don’t forget the dog.

For those of you who are not nuts (“Hiya!  Welcome.  Hope it’s not too kooky here.”) Mabon is the name of a harvest God from Welsh mythology.  And it’s a name for the Autumnal Equinox, aka Alban Elfed.  I’m a bit Equinox obsessed.  I guess lots of people are.  Equinoxes are all about balance.  Balance matters.  Without balance in the small sense, I fall down a lot more than I already do.  Without balance in the truly cosmic sense, a huge part of Earth would be amazingly freaking hot, and the other part would be c-c-c-cuh-hold.  So we Equinox fans, since pretty much the time when we humans developed calendars, have made a habit of saying a bit hearty “Woah, thanks!” to the Sun and the Earth and the Moon for collectively keeping the orbits the way they are and not killing all of us.  Some of our ancestors were so happy about Equinoxes they built these.  That’s a big old “Yay universe!  Woot!” if ever I saw one.

Anyway, every year I use the Equinox as an excuse to drag some of my pals out to the woods to sing, maybe toss some atlatls around, eat some lovely food, play with our dogs, spin some linen using our incongruous linen-spinning bowls courtesy of Virginia:

(Fill bowl half-way with water, put bast on the big side, run a leader under to the small side, wet-spin lovely linen, jump up and down with glee), watch some of the boys and girls hit each other with sticks (in the nicest way, of course), reminisce about Celtic summer camp.  You know–revel in community and celebrate the beginning of autumn.  This is the weekend.  Celt Wars Nine-ish (Swinish!) is upon us.  I heart us.

This is the first time I’ve been really cheery since the water turned mean on the Gulf Coast. I feel like I’ve exercised my civic duty by telling the folks who represent me what to do about a few things through some nice little letters.  And I feel like I’ve exercised my humanitarian duty by donating to the folks who can help folks in need.  And by complaining again to the Red Cross that it’s downright silly to refuse my blood because I am quite sure I don’t have Mad Cow Disease or any of its forms even though I lived in the UK for a while back when some folks still thought it was a good idea to feed cows, um, cows.

So, in the spirit of giving and balance, I’m giving the following through Give a Little to another person who donated money to help the hurricane victims:

That’s three 300-yard skeins of lace-weight silk and some bone and sterling stitch markers I made.  I have no idea who will get them, but I really hope they’re a hit, as-yet-unnamed mystery recipient.  And if you are so in love with the silk that you must have more, well, I’m a softie and can be convinced to sacrifice more from my stash if you make a good “I’m making my Gramma a lace shawl” kind of argument.

Also in the interest of balance, I’m going to back-fill the last few entries with some photos.  I got camera-lazy–I should say lazier.

Ooh, and does anyone know what’s on our little oak’s leaves?  Is it a form of oak gall?  I’m worried.  It’s a young pin-oak tree, and I really love it.  I know oak gall supposedly only causes cosmetic damage, but if it’s something else I want to protect the tree as best I can.

I’ve been slowly trying to make decisions about redecorating around here.  Part of what is slowing me down is that I’m so freaking fascinated by the archaeological remains of Celtic culture that I get image hunting and then lose all interest in my poor little blog.  These are the kind of things that eat my time: The Met’s Year One Exhibition. 

Seriously–what are you still doing here?  You should be looking at this 3000 year old lovely lunette spear.  And this 2000 year old sword.  And this terret.  And who wouldn’t want this brooch?  And then I get a bit distracted by the pretties in other sections and find things like this Mesopotamian necklace from about 4000 years ago, and this Thracian beaker.  And then this helmet caught my eye, and then this Greek horse.  And then I go to the birds.  So while I’m working at working on making the site more beautiful, I’m not working to a deadline.  And incorporating any of the stylistic elements I’m drooling over is going to take some fu I haven’t mastered yet.  Which is going to keep me out of my studio and my garden.  So you see my dilemma. 

After seeing your responses about books, a trip to Heather’s new old house trumped all my good intentions to read whatever you told me to read right now.  I picked up my own copy of Louise Erdrich’s Love Medicine after I noticed that Heather had a pile of Erdrich’s books artfully sitting on a shelf–that’s a ringing endorsement from someone who is just moving in and has three kids in diapers.  It will go quickly and I’ll gladly chat away with her about what a good book it is, and then I’ll read what all y’all said I should, starting with Wayland Barber, and then probably Gabaldon (which one am I supposed to start with?), and then maybe Middlemarch.  I was trying to give some time for folks to answer but I needed a novel to read but quick.  The old Michael Chabon short stories I’ve been pecking at aren’t measuring up to his more accomplished, later work.  A girl’s mind needs sustenance in trying times, you know?

While I was in beautiful Catonsville, I got to circle up with the girls and eat delicious sushi and cake and fruit and such; and finish up my lovely Bearfoot sock; and sing the songs we sing, and then teach Heather some knitting basics.  Max, all of three years old, wants to learn too.  Except when he wants to jump up and down on the couch and watch a documentary on fire-fighters.  Caitlin and Alyssa just want their mean Auntie to let them walk up the stairs by themselves, now that they’re capable of saying several words and walking without having to grab onto anything for several steps at a time.  I’m demanding that the walking and the talking be simultaneous before I sign off on any solo stair-climbing on my watch.  Or maybe just some tandem "Aaaamyyyy"-ing.

I’m now halfway through this second pair of Bearfoot socks, and I’m having a hard time trying to remember why I ever planned to make socks out of any other yarn.  I’m also a little more than one full repeat through the Kimono shawl.  I think I’ll block it on the needles to convince myself that it will have the stitch definition I desire.  And I’m starting to doubt that I’ll ever see the book in tangible form. 

What the heck should I read now?  I re-read all of the Harry Potter books, I finished Lidie Newton, and I have just poetry and fiber-arts history on my plate at the moment.  I need something, you know, lighter.  Not stuff-I-don’t-bother-with light, but not Chaos theory heavy.  Especially not now.  I have a shelf full of stuff to read but am apparently incapable of making up my mind at the moment. 

In the interim, I’m listening to lots of Scandinavian music again.  Is Finland part of Scandinavia today?  Anyway–Swedes and Finns all up in my ears with the tight harmonies.  Check ’em out.  Vartinna, Garmarna, Hedningarna.  Why do I like them so much, you ask?  I’ll show you why. . . Finnish songs are the awesome, and you can legally have this awesome Finnish song FOR FREE:
Oi Dai
Kuin oisin omilla mailla
oman pellon pientarilla,
oi dai oman pellon
oman pellon pientarilla.

Toisin lintu laulelisin,
toisin kukkusin käkönen,
oi dai toisin…

Omat kuuset kuuntelisi,
omat oppisi petäjät,
oi dai omat…

Nyt oon mailla vierahilla,
tuiki tuntemattomila,
oi dai tuiki…

Miss ei lennä meien linnut,
eikä vaaku mein varikset,
oi dai eikä…

Mihin jouvun mie polonen,
jouvu in joutsen-joukostani,
oi dai jouvuin…

Haihuin hanhiparvestani,
haihuin hanhiparvestani
oi dai haihuin…

Tok mie lintu laulelisin,
sekä kukkusin käkönen,
oi dai sekä…

Which apparently means:

I wish I was back home.
I, the cuckoo,
would sing in a different way.
The spruces would listen to me.
The pine trees would learn from me
Now I’m in a foreign land
and can no longer hear my crows.
I left from my flock of swans,
I vanished from my flock of geese.

Some Crazy someone suddenly feels the need to learn a whole bunch of Finnish. 

Catherine Byron’s The Getting of Vellum is a narrow book of verse.  I’ve read it over and over again over the last few months.  The poems contained in the book were written largely in the late 1990s, and several of them circle around the poet’s collaboration with calligrapher and artist Denis Brown, for which Byron received an Arts Council of England Writer’s Award in 1997.  Byron becomes hide-obsessed somewhere before the book begins, and returns to the idea throughout.  It’s unsettling to some readers, I guess, but as a long-time leather-worker, I was fascinated to read another’s reaction to learning about skinning and preparing animal hides for use. 

I am, of course, frustrated that I missed the exhibitions of the Byron/Brown works.  Thankfully, there is some of Byron’s mixed media work available online and also here.  I’m a bit addicted to projects like these, and have been since Triur Ban and later An Leabhar Mor.  It wakes something up in me to see poetry meet visual media and craft in such a way. 

Like many contemporary writers, Byron also turns to intimate subjects.   I don’t feel any shock for shock’s sake in her work, though.  Her writings on sex and conception depart so clearly from the hashed-over pap I keep finding in university poetry magazines.  I hope they find her.  I hope they get it. 

I hope you read this.

Jane Smiley’s The All-True Trials and Adventures of Lidie Newton is historical fiction done pretty darn well.  Set in pre-Civil War Illinois, Missouri, and Kansas Territory, the novel follows Lydia Newton through her marriage to an abolitionist; their homesteading in Lawrence, Kansas and its environs; and her subsequent travels around Missouri.  Lidie is a thoroughly sympathetic character: a bright, honest woman who dislikes rules for rule’s sake, pretension, cruelty, and inaction.  Throughout the novel, I found myself rooting for Lidie and her friends.  I’d be shocked to find someone who didn’t do the same. 

My only gripes surround pacing.  Smiley’s reliance on period-style writing leaves the novel lagging in a few sections.  But it’s all forgivable, considering just how well Smiley handles her own version of period prose.  As usual, the author did her homework well.  This is, overall, a well-researched book with engaging characters and an unusually honest view of the west’s roll in the Civil War

Hideous Kinky was based on Esther Freud’s semi-autobiographical novel of the same name.  The film is beautifully shot and scored and well acted, but was a bit too languorous for my taste.  I don’t think the pace or meager plot would have bothered me so much had I not wanted to shake Julia all through the film.  I’m a spiritual seeker if ever there was one, but it was tough to watch a woman neglect her kids’ education and health while she searches for her own enlightenment.  I probably would have found Julia a more sympathetic character had I read the book rather that watched the film.  Winslet’s Julia is so spacey and disconnected that it’s hard to support her decisions throughout the film.  I think that was intentional, and it does raise an appreciable tension in the film.  Overall, it was a nice way to spend an evening, but I’m much more likely to buy the book than watch the film again.

Knitters floor me.  I found Give a Little this morning and was so glad to see that so many people had donated so much to help the victims of Katrina.  Thank you.  All y’all rock. 

Our Wednesday knitting group met last night, and it seems like everyone was still pretty shaken up by what’s been happening along the Gulf Coast.  I got a little further along on the Kimono shawl–and I do mean little.  I’m about 22 rows in, and the double-stranding is slowing me down.  I’m working on new rosewood circular needles, and they’re not slick.  I may switch needles again if some wonder-needle steps into my path, but it’s tough to find natural needles that are slick enough and pointy enough.  I’ve also decided to knit the wrong-side rows, in deference to those fine Shetland knitters.  I figure they know best.  And there’s also the whole can’t-leave-well-enough-alone reason too.

I’m nearly done with the first sock in another pair of nice plain bearfoot socks.  I think the colorway is Evergreen, but mine seems more blue than their standard version.  I have left the sock-hugging stage of the knitting and crossed over to the sock-trying-on stage of the knitting.  Which includes complaining about how boring it is to knit the plain unshaped bit of sock between the post-heel decreases and the toe.  But I should be careful not to offend the sock, because I love her and want to spend my life with her.  She is a fine, upstanding sock, who also manages to be soft and seemingly quite strong.

We’re a little over a week away from our next camping trip, and I don’t think I know where all of our gear is.  I’m really looking forward to this one: I have no idea how many of our pals are going to join us, but it looks like big fun from here. 

Note to self: listening to lots of hardanger fiddle to distract yourself from natural disasters is a bad idea.  It will not cheer you up, because while the music is beautiful, it is not cheery.  It is decidedly un-cheery.  Particularly when you’re thinking about water-related tragedies.  You should know this by now, self.

On Sunday I purposefully took the gorgeously sad Norwegian CDs out of the CD player and selected some significantly cheerier Welsh, Irish, and Appalachian music to listen to.  Because I didn’t want to scare the gals away.  A few of us spun, knitted, wove, sewed, and chatted for a while that afternoon.  Jayme and Jill now believe that Scott exists.  At least I think they do.  And they got to meet Simone and Monika, so at least two of my Wednesday knitting pals will have faces to attach to stories of my spin-weave-knitty-Celty friends, and vice versa.  Jill is busily earning her leather-working merit badge, Jayme has had a chance to wheel-spin for a bit, Monika has most of the work done on a fetching soon-to-be-vest and some pants for a tall friend, and Simone is almost done spinning up the gorgeous variegated green merino for Rowan.  All of my accomplishments were baking and cleaning related, but that’s all good.  Poor Scott had no choice but to eat a lot of Irish Cream Cake and banana bread between stints working on the garage.  The cruelties he endures are legion: countless slices of homemade baked-goods washed down by countless cups of fresh coffee with nothing but Baliey’s for creamer.  I should learn how to hold onto that guy one of these days.

Monday was Mother-Daughter day, and I finally got to collect the lovely presents my folks brought back from Nova Scotia.  The mystery yarn my Mom got me is gorgeous in its blue/silver/pink twisty goodness.  It seems to be a wool-silk blend, and it’s definately hand-spun and hand-dyed.  There may be as much as 200 yards.  I have no idea what to make with it.  And the lovely measuring spoons of leafy-silvery-beauty!  Aiding and abetting the baking–that’s what that is.

Mom and I wandered around Occoquan and did some shopping.  I got a lovely new knitting basket, a spurtle, and a fan-fricking-tastic piece of Lucy pottery.  When I got home, I cast on for the Kimono shawl from Folk Shawls, which I will be making out of two strands Knit Picks Alpaca Cloud in Tide Pool.  I don’t think I have enough yarn to make one as large as the example in the book, but I’ll see if I can score some more in the same dye lot.  If not, then maybe it will grow a contrasting border.  Or it will just be a scarf, darn it.