Slush and Pollo

The deep rush resembled a groan. The sound grew as it gathered speed, overhead growls hit the ground with sharp thuds. The dogs stood with sharp ears; let loose with occasional midnight barks. It rained all night. It's raining now. Rain on top of old snow. Rain on the metal roof. Sliding piles mush ice. In this chrysalis time 'tween solstice and 2012, the world is reduced to inbetween states.

So it was I stepped into the dim kitchen this morn, ready to bone the chicken I'd simmered with fresh ginger, jalapeno, garlic and onion. Except Wood Tick had pulled the plug sometime in the night. A cold-flesh white blob bobbed  in the middle of floating onions. Half cooked. Slush and pollo. It's as if the Goddess Herself is caught in a matrix of indecision. Neither here nor there on the cusp of 2012.

I will don a raincoat today on my walk to the mailbox. Rain in northern Montana in late December. At least my snow boots are waterproof. What do the beavers think? Does the nursing griz sow wonder if she's gotten the season wrong as a suckling cub nudges into her fur? Seasons meld and shift with alarm; we are left with the one true compass: the hours of dark and light.

Slush slides down the roof with death rattle vibes; I, rapt in dark.

Swallowing Solstice

Last week in Costco I bought a half gallon of heavy whipping cream. I'd never purchased more than a pint at one time in my life. Winter in Montana was hitting me hard. The shortest days had just arrived, two weeks earlier than the official start of winter. The landscape was as flat as could be. No shadows. The sun hung in the sky like a 20-watt bulb under a veil. And there I was, buying whipping cream by the half gallon.

A teaspoon of cream was wonderful in my espresso. But how many teaspoons are in a half gallon? I wasn't gonna freeze it. I've tried that before to uecky results. And so yesterday I scoured the internet for recipes that use whipping cream. I settled on a chocolate cream pie, something I'd never made. But I couldn't find a recipe that zinged. After a half day of pondering I opened the 1950 Betty Crocker's cookbook that Aunt Clara had given me when I was first married at age 19. Of course there was a recipe for a chocolate cream pie. It could have appeared on any farm counter back in Iowa where Aunt Clara lived. I started to work on making it my own: dark chocolate powder instead of squares or chips; whipping cream instead of milk; a half cup of espresso. But the process was all Betty's.

I cooked up the cauldron of midnight-dark pudding. It was thick and rich, unlike any concoction I had ever tasted. Once cool, I poured it into the pastry shell and covered with a high coat of whipped cream. I cut the first two pieces and Wood Tick and I drove several miles over two-track, snow-packed dirt roads to deliver them to friends nestled into a lonely cabin in a mountain meadow surrounded by thick forest. They could not believe their eyes to see headlights in the night; pie at their door. "It's Doug's favorite!" said Roni. A scream of delight broke the silence of the woods as I walked back to the truck.

I later served up a slice and sat by the fire. It was as if I was tasting solstice. Swallowing the creamy dark. Tis the season, is it not? To gestate, cocoon within the womb-void. To place the eternal green life of pine on the hearth; savor the darkness as we re-member the sun. Follow the impulses that make no sense. They just might lead to undreamed places. Darkness re-defined.

~~~

A Taste of Solstice
Mix in saucepan:
1 1/2 c sugar
1/2 t salt
4 T cornstarch
9 T Hershey's dark chocolate powder

Stir in gradually:
2 1/2 c whipping cream
1/2 c coffee or espresso

Cook over moderate heat, stirring constantly until mixture thickens and boils. Boil 1 miniute. Remove from heat. Slowly stir half mixture into 3 egg yolks, slightly beaten.

Blend into hot mixture in saucepan. Boil 1 minute more, stirring constantly. Remove from heat.

Cool; stir occasionally. Pour into coled baked pie shell. Chill thoroughly (2 hrs). Top with whipped cream.
blend in: 1 T butter and 1 1/2 t vanilla.

Our Lady of Guadalupe ~~ From Mazatlan to Montana

I headed for the ancient Basilica in old Mazatlan on December 12^th, just as the celebrations in honor of Our Lady of Guadalupe were gearing up. The Virgen of Guadalupe’s birthday was a long-standing tradition for me. I’d attended masses in Colorado and journeyed with girlfriends to Tortuga Mountain in Las Cruces, New Mexico, where I joined several hundred others in reverent pilgrimage to the summit. Guadalupe was the dark-skinned Goddess of Mexico, and mother to all Mexicans. I’d adopted her as well; had read every book I could find on of this Mother Goddess who stood upon a crescent moon.

The Basilica brimmed with statues and pictures of Our Lady, the ultimate Mother-love of All. Vases of long-stemmed red roses and votive candles of every size and color covered the altar. The air was sweet with perfume. The pews were full, even though there was no Mass. I stared up at the statue of Guadalupe as tears filled my eyes. I squeezed them shut and folded my hands in prayer. “Here I am,” I imparted. “Welcome me into your arms, Mi Madre.” I gave thanks for my life, rich in possibility; and for my health. I asked for blessings on my daughter, Hope.Then I sat and breathed in holy, reverent moment.

Exit was slow, the line was long. In front of me was a mother holding her brown-eyed baby boy. His thick lashes slowly opened and closed as he peered over her shoulder let loose with an angelic smile. I smiled back and did a double take as I saw a black mustache painted above his lip. A glance around revealed dozens of little Juan Diegos, the peasant man to whom Our Lady of Guadalupe first appeared in the mountains.The story goes that She presented Juan with fresh roses in the middle of December in order for him to prove her existence to the church officials. Boy babes and toddlers wore white cotton peasant clothes and donned ‘Juan’ mustaches. A hilarious, heart rendering scene!

The little girls, on the other hand, wore kerchiefs on their heads and strutted in their multicolored peasant skirts. On their backs, positioned between their shoulder blades, hung intriguing little cages about ten inches wide and eight inches tall. Later that day, in the packed, bustling market, I saw these cages for sale, bought one and hung it above my writing space. 

The cage was called a java (pronounced hă-ba). It replicated the items one carried for spiritual pilgrimage. Affixed to this little wood and wire crate were miniature replicas of necessities for a sacred journey: a sombrero to protect one from the sun, a tortilla press, a clay water jug, a straw basket and a lava stone molcajete to cook stews over a fire. A plate and various pieces of cookware dangled from the bottom. A rolled up lime green sleeping mat stretched across the top. A turquoise and pink striped serape adorned the side, next to a tiny picture of - who else? - Our Lady. The java was a symbol of one who rids herself of possessions and embarks on a spiritual pilgrimage.

That java is the centerpiece of my day up here in snowy Montana. A reminder that no matter where I am, sitting still or moving down the road, I continue my journey. “Is there anything you need?” Our Lady invokes. Yes. To come upon a blood red rose in the freshly fallen snow.

Eclipse

Moon
scraped by a layer of fog
ever slowly
shadow cuts across her brow
deepening darkness
obliteration of the
pearl in the sky.

I know she is still there
but I must cross milleniums
to conjure the power that is
and was
return to the time when
women ovulated as One
as she rolled and waxed through the stars
rendered Venus and Jupiter dull
faint in the swell of tides and eggs

Damn, it's dark out here.
I sit cross-legged on the womb-silent earth
a purring cat snuggles tween my breasts
nibbles my chin
I await her return
a brilliant Luna sliver
to slice the eons
that I might re-member

follow the winter night light
into streaks of dawn.

Turvy Topsy

Up at 5:00, I open the slider door and step onto the deck. The moon has long set; the sky is the ebony dark of new birth. Pleiades, the Seven Doves, hangs in the west. The Goddess' kite, I have long depended on her for a  keen word or two to make my mind's eye blink. The seven degree morn pushes me around as I notice the Big Dipper straight above, upside down. As if he's pouring, showering my soul with ... ?  I spread my arms, open to the rain of that-I-can-not-name.

I return to the ember-red wood stove where an bare wood book case with rusty nail heads is set to dry. Several weeks ago, in the midst of autumn's peak, Wood Tick and I discovered an old growth larch and ponderosa (they call them yellow pine up here) sanctuary.  Remnants of an old hunting camp were strewn about, and in the middle of the camp was a weathered, two-shelf bookcase. A strange thing to find near a meat pole. It could have stored beans, knives and dish soap. Or perhaps it held tablets from the likes of a Montana-Thoreau. I'd been thinking about that book case ever since; finally realized it wasn't going to sprout legs and walk several miles to my door. A few days ago we drove along icy two-tracks to pick it up. By then it was frozen to the ground and layered with snow. We nudged it loose and awkwardly carried it to the truck across slick, chunky snow. Once thawed, it will begin to tell tales. The great gray owl that perched on a larch limb; the wolf that loped towards a snowshoe hare.

My soul responds to the isolation, beauty, wild and cocoon of winter as it did many years ago at "Dancing Raven" in Colorado's San Luis Valley; my solo five year mountain retreat. (Living on the Spine: A Woman's Life in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. I have copies of that. My other book, NM Sanctuaries, Retreats and Sacred Places is sold out. I had to order one used from Amazon a couple of weeks ago. How do you spell irony?) I unfold my writing life in Wood Tick's extra room. He has gifted me the space, yet I feel more strung out than ever. La Perla is covered with a sheet of plastic. My few worldly possessions are stowed away in Colorado where a girlfriend (read: savior) recently boxed and sent my snowshoes and gators cuz here I sit with my snorkel gear, evidence of earlier plans for winter south of the border.

Plans knocked askew. I am not alone. I take the pulse of the world, as well as that of friends far and near, and the word metamorphosis comes to mind. No matter how settled one is, we are called in this spiral time to receive. To ferret and hold dear the few things essential to the soul. This is what I know. It feels right to stand still and dip my hands in warm dishwater. It is essential to walk to the beaver pond at nightfall, take note of the progression of wood chips and slides, the ever-changing coat of ice on the dam. Today I will write an article on wildlife watching. In days to come I will organize my Africa photos and post them onto Flickr. When that bookcase dries of dampness I will carry it into my study.

Winter's dictate: be worthy of the holy moment; step into the stony darkness and raise my face to the Big Dipper's effervescent shower.



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Heart, Christina