My Regular Pagan Holiday Post: Samhain, November 1
When does winter begin?
Is it October, when we pick the last tomatoes to let them ripen indoors? November 1, Samhain, when daylight thins and the world folds in on itself? December 1, when the record-keepers say it does? Or December 21, when the Earth leans furthest from the sun?
There are many ways to mark the turning.
In Northern California winter starts when the moss wakes up and fungus emerges
The Astronomers’ Winter
Astronomical winter begins with the solstice, that celestial pause when the sun halts its slow descent and begins its long climb back toward spring.
It happens around December 21, though never on exactly the same day— Earth wobbles a little in its orbit, as if uncertain.
The oak’s witchy branches show themselves
The Meteorologists’ Winter
The meteorologists keep tidier books. For them, winter starts on December 1 and ends with February— three even months of cold data, meant for graphs and records.
The forest breathes a sigh of relief as rainy season begins
The Ecologists’ Winter
Ecologists, meanwhile, listen to the ground. They call this time hibernal—the season of rest.
Their calendar has six seasons, each following the pulse of life itself:
Prevernal – the first stirring, buds swelling, birds returning Vernal – full spring, leafing and nesting Estival – the height of summer Serotinal – late summer’s slow ripening Autumnal – the fall of leaves and the long migration Hibernal – the stillness of sleep
The Gardener’s Winter
Gardeners go by the Persephone Period. It starts when there are less than ten hours of daylight in a day, causing plant growth to slow down or stop. Employed to plan crops, insuring plants have time to get a head start before winter harvesting or overwintering.
Mushrooms fruit after the first rains. (My first this season. Satan’s bolete I think)
Other Ways of Knowing
Elsewhere, the world names winter differently.
In the Hindu and Bengali calendars, there is Hemanta, the cooling air, and Shishira, the deep chill that follows.
The Noongar people of Western Australia read their six seasons in wind, rain, and blooming trees— a rhythm that moves with the land, not the clock.
The Cree of the far north know six seasons as well: the breaking and freezing of ice, the coming and going of warmth.
And pagans, watchers of the sun’s dance, divide the year into eight— by solstices, equinoxes, and the cross quarter days between.
Rain revives forest streams
The Truest Beginning
So when does winter begin? Perhaps it starts in a feeling— the first evening you reach for a blanket and feel the world grow still.
Winter begins when the Earth draws inward— and so do we.
We once found it in an ally in the JC neighborhood
Santa Rosa, famed for its roses and annual rose parade, is also known as the home of Luther Burbank, the legendary plant wizard. Why did Burbank choose Sonoma County? Simple—because plants here live their best lives. He famously said, “I firmly believe…that this is the chosen spot of all this earth, as far as nature is concerned.”
Before Holly and I tied the knot and set up camp in Santa Rosa, I lived in San Francisco. Every week I’d take the Golden Gate Transit bus to visit Holly. We had this delightful hobby of cycling through various neighborhoods, ogling the stunning gardens and secretly judging people’s landscaping choices.
The ally between Nason and Spencer
On one particularly memorable ride—it must have been April or May in 2010—we spotted a man toiling away in his garden. Naturally, we screeched to a halt, intrigued by his green-thumb magic. As we marveled at his work, the man asked us a curious question, “Have you heard about the oldest rose in Santa Rosa?”
With a sense of mystery, he directed us to an alley between Nason and Spencer in the JC neighborhood. Our mission was clear. We pedaled like detectives on a hot lead until we found the rose. It was a gigantic bush, but, believe it or not, I can’t recall its color. This was pre-cell-phone-camera days, so no pics for proof. Did I smell it? I don’t remember, but I must have, considering I make it a habit to stop and smell the roses around town.
The color? Your guess is as good as mine. I later fantasized it was yellow, like a rose from a century-old house my family moved into back in 1959 in Yakima, Washington. But after diving into rose lore, I’m pretty sure it was pink, which is the go-to hue for ancient roses.
Fast forward to my discovery that roses, despite their ageless beauty, don’t live for a century. The Methuselahs among them might clock in at 35 to 50 years, while the newer hybrids are lucky to hit double digits.
I concur
Roses have a traceable origin. They likely sprouted in Central Asia and migrated to northern Europe over centuries. Rose cultivation kicked off in Central Asia around 5000 years ago. Today’s garden-variety roses are the glam descendants of plants from the Oligocene epoch (33 million to 23 million years ago), with fossils found across Europe, Asia, and western North America.
Recently, I went back to search for the oldest rose. I asked a friend who grew up in the JC neighborhood if she had heard of it. She had, but she didn’t remember seeing it—the stuff of urban legend.
The alley between Nason and Spencer stretches from King St. to Mendocino, morphing into Ridgway. I paced up and down that alley more times than I care to admit, but alas, I didn’t find it. Now I know, roses don’t do immortality.
Maybe someone took a cutting and gave it a fresh start. Perhaps the rose’s spirit lives on in the rural cemetery or the JC rose garden, which boasts some elderly blooms.
Rose or no rose, the alley had its charms. I met some interesting folks and stumbled upon quirky artwork on weathered walls. And so, the hunt for the oldest rose may be thorny, but it’s always blooming with stories.
When I learned about the quarterly circumambulation of Mt. Tamalpais, I pledged to complete it for the summer solstice. A sister hiker, Dolores, agreed to join me.
The practice was begun in 1965 by poets Gary Snyder, Allen Ginsberg and Philip Whalen–a ritualized walking meditation around Mt. Tam. Following the traditional clockwise direction, they selected notable natural features along the way, performing Buddhist and Hindu chants, spells, sutras, and vows at each stop.
There are two walks, the longer one is 17 miles, the shorter 6.2 miles. At 89, Dolores was the oldest hiker, and I at 74 was likely the second oldest. We chose the shorter walk.
We met up at Rock Spring with about 40 long hikers, who had started earlier in the morning at Muir Woods. The temperature was a warm 74 degrees. Fog was coming in from the ocean down below us.
The short walkers join the long walkers for three of the nine stations. Our first stop was the serpentine rocks overlooking the ocean and the Golden Gate, where participants joined in ceremonial readings.
Ascending the serpentine hill; Leader Gifford Hartman reads a Gary Snyder poem to the group
In a poem, Gary Snyder advises us to learn the flowers. On this walk we did our best, focusing especially on native plants.
Few plants can grow in serpentine soil because of its high levels of toxic heavy metals, and low levels of water and nutrients. But a few plants have adapted to serpentine. Some grow right out of the rock.
Native buckwheat (Eriogonum luteolum), native cobweb thistle (Cirsium occidentale) and fog
Next we hiked on to Potrero Meadows for lunch and more readings. One hiker composed limericks just for us. Snyder envisioned the circumambulation as a joyful, creative endeavor, encouraging participants to be imaginative. He emphasized the importance of paying attention to the surroundings and oneself: “The main thing is to pay your regards, to play, to engage, to stop and pay attention. It’s just a way of stopping and looking — at yourself too.”
Walkers gathering at Potrero Meadow. In this area is mostly a Douglas fir, live oak and Bay laurel forest
Hiking through the Bay laurel leaves gave off a wonderful pungent menthol-like fragrance.
Watching for ticks in the meadow; native Mariposa lilies (Calochortus) and Ithuriel’s spear (Triteleia laxa) peeking out of the tall grass
Our next station was the serpentine cairn. We circumambulated the cairn, each tossing a stone upon it and chanting Women Life Freedom. Zan, Zendigi, Azadi.
The chant was led by an Iranian-American woman. The spark for this chant and an uprising of Iranian women was the death of Mahsa Amini, a young Kurdish woman who died after being detained by Iran’s morality police for “improper hijab.”
For me this was the highlight of our trip. I was delighted to be led in this chant, joining Iranian women who have been risking their lives to protest for women’s rights and equality.
Dolores and the cairn (L); a closer look at the green serpentine rock
After that Dolores and I and three others went our own way, leaving the large group behind. We headed along the International trail toward the West Point Inn where I hoped to score a cold drink and maybe a popsicle.
California hedge nettle (Stachys bullata); Tanoak (Notholithocarpus densiflorus)
We saw lots of tan oak, the tree that has been devastated by sudden oak death (SOD). This species seems to be recovering. Soon the younger hikers walked on ahead of us. No problem we said. We have maps! Dolores and I continued together.
Me on the trail to the east slope; native chamise (Adenostoma fasciculatum) in bloom
We entered a plant community of chaparral, characterized by manzanita and scrub oak. Many of the native wildflowers had bloomed, but we found a few late bloomers.
Coming around to the east side of Tam we were treated to spectacular views of the Bay Area.
Looking toward Mt. Diablo (L) we could see smoke from north bay fires blowing into the Napa Valley. The city of Oakland on the far right.
More blooming plants greeted us.
Toyon (Heteromeles arbutifolia), mountain coyote mint (Monardella odoratissima)
I couldn’t stop taking pictures of the view.
The skyscapers of San Francisco appear above the fog right of center.
We’d been so looking forward to a rest stop at the West Point Inn but it was closed for a huge renovation. Some bikers and hikers hung around and we were able to refill water bottles from a spigot.
Built in 1904, it was once a stop on the Mill Valley and Mt. Tamalpais Scenic Railway.
From Old Railroad Grade we headed down the Rock Spring Trail to our starting point at Rock Spring, the final leg of our journey.
California aralia, the only member of the ginseng family native to California; Yerba Santa (Eriodictyon)
We were happy not to have to compete with bikes or horses on this trail.
Sign on the Rock Spring trail, Coast silk tassel (Garrya elliptica)
We knew we were close to the end of our circumTambulation when we came to the Mountain amphitheater, the 4,000-seat open air theater opened in 1913. This is the venue for the annual Mountain Play. Structures for this year’s play, Kinky Boots, were being struck. We were beat!
The Mountain Theater seats, taking a break near the end
Back on the road we got a bit lost. Which way to Rock Spring? We flagged down a passing car. Take that trail right there said the occupants. They were two of the young 17-mile circumabulators, already finished with their long walk!
I forgot to post my regular pagan holiday greeting and here it is almost spring equinox! Since I wrote this, buds have broken in Santa Rosa. Our mini fruit orchard is at the end of its bloom and we’re seeing a few pollinators buzzing the yard. Goldfinches are chattering melodiously and a few other birds visit as well. Nature touches us with a tinge of hope. Sending virtual hugs (because, Coronavirus pandemic. Sigh.) –Molly
Imbolc 2020
If you celebrate the Lunar new year, happy new year! It just occurred to me that I first learned about Tet from the Vietnam War. The Tet Offensive, launched in the wee hours of Jan. 30, 1968, against the American invaders is what I think of when I think of Tet. How sad. Forever associating the Vietnamese new year holiday with war is a curse of my generation.
Here in Santa Rosa Holly and I are celebrating the pagan holiday of Imbolc on February 1. To me Imbolc marks the start of spring (even though it’s technically still winter) and the most beautiful season here. Hillsides have turned a hallucinogenic green, like the artist had only one color left in her palette. Today is sunny and 60 degrees. I can see that the sweet peas I planted in December are sprouting and the greens are producing tender new leaves. The artichokes have spread their giant gray-green leaves out into the garden and a black-eyed susan planted last spring still flowers. Poppies and bulbs are sprouting up all over. The neighbor’s lemon is full of bright yellow fruit but our orange has a smaller crop this year. I’m continually amazed that these citrus trees can thrive in this climate. But it’s only gotten down below freezing a couple of times this winter, and not for long. We’ve had plenty of rain this season but only one atmospheric river.
On Imbolc we shall ceremoniously mount the bird house on its pole (we took it down last fall after rats started nesting there). Last year we watched titmice (they are little gray birds) fledge from the house and we hope the parent pair will return again. We love watching birds though our picture window but this winter there are many fewer birds than last year.
This is very disturbing to us. What has caused the drastic decrease in bird activity? Are there more bird-killing cats in the neighborhood? (friends, please keep your cats indoors. They are the number one enemy of wild bird populations). No doubt climate change plays a role. Another factor might be the death of the mature sycamore tree in our neighbor’s yard. The backyard house, which had a reputation as a drug house, was condemned, remodeled and sold to a new owner who promptly cut down the huge tree. We thought perhaps the insurance company required it, a frequent demand now in fire country. But we learned that wasn’t the reason. According to neighbors the tree was in bad shape (although it looked good from our yard). The drug-addled previous owner had used it for target practice. Yikes! The removal of the tree, along with all the living things on and in it, saddened us. The Western Sycamore, Platanus racemosa is native to California and we felt it belonged here in our neighborhood.
January saw us down at Courthouse Square for the Women’s March (smaller this year) and the impeachment rally. Plenty of people in Sonoma County have political anger issues. I’ve been writing postcards to voters all over the country at local postcard writing parties hosted by a few activist women. This at least makes us feel better and provides a sense of community with like-minded folks. We resist the onset of fascism any way we can. If there is an Imbolc goddess I implore her to help us now.
tradeswomn musings 