My spin on an old Washington Irving classic.   Text; Mea culpa     Images; Mine + AI

I love these mountains. And their majestic sister, the Hudson River, forever pushing her dark way southward against the changing tides. The Hudson Valley and the Catskill Range. Home.

The mountains will soon explode into a million vivid colors. Rutting season is coming. The deer will be active, as will other critters of a furry persuasion. Water birds–mergansers, gannets, wood ducks, mallards, geese and other marine avians will be migrating through. Female bears will be surveying the area in search of safe shelter in which to birth and nurse their cubs. This is a place where nature thrives and feels at home.

It’s also a place of mystery and myth. Where dwell gods and goddesses’, elves, ogres, dwarfs, the Fae people. People and things that might or might not happen. Or didn’t happen. Strange things. Spooky things. Woodsy things. Other things.

And it’s a place of legend, rumor, nuance, the foggy remnants of things undone, unsaid.

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It’s in this strange place that the legend of Rip Van Winkle resides.

Rip, we’re told, lived with his wife and children in a small village on the lower slopes of the Catskill Mountains. He was, by all accounts, an amiable man, but also known to avoid work of any kind. Children loved him and he loved them. This merely worsened the situation and Dame Van Winkle chided him repeatedly for spending more time playing with children than tending to his responsibilities.

So one fateful day, to escape Dame Van Winkle’s “constant harping”, Rip took a walk in the forest. As he approached the uphill slope of the mountain, he encountered a strange silent man carrying a very large keg. Curiosity having overcome his aversion to work, Rip offered to help carry the keg. Not saying a word, the man politely refused the offer and pointed uphill, indicating that Rip should follow him.

After a strenuous four-hour climb, the two men reached a hazy clearing in the woods. There in the haze he saw a group of men dressed in colonial sailing garb playing ninepins. He couldn’t help noticing that every time a man rolled a strike, a bolt of lightning shot out of the ball, followed by a loud clap of thunder that rattled through the mountains and into the valleys below.

His silent escort called his attention to a very large nearby tree. There hung the name board of “THE HALVE MAEN” (HALF MOON). The very ship in which Henry Hudson had explored the river, later given his name, and his crew. This crew. The ghosts of “THE HALVE MAEN”. Years after Hudson explored his river, the HALF MOON was sunk by the British in a battle near Jakarta. This, its ghostly crew and its nameboard, were all that was left of THE HALVE MAEN.

The crew briefly interrupted their game and tapped the keg, Each one then quietly filled a large mug from the keg. The men then turned in unison to face the nameboard, raised their mugs in song and drank a toast, the old Dutch sea chanty Het Zeemansilied, to THE HALVE MAEN. (The instrumental version of which accompanies this story.)

The crew then returned to their game and Rip, feeling unusually dizzy, lay down to take a nap.

Leaves, snow, rain and hot sunshine fell upon him for twenty years. Spiders spun a blanket of webs across his body and nested in his hair. Mice chewed his clothing to rags and his beard to shreds.

When Rip finally awoke, the name board was gone. As were his silent escort and the mute crew of THE HALVE MAEN. He cleared his eyes, nose  and ears, as well as he could, of bugs, worms and woods dirt. He then rose very slowly and painfully to his feet and took the first few halting steps since he had lain down twenty years ago.

The sun was beginning to rise. So Rip decided to descend the mountain and return to his old village. Though on a descending slope, the ten hour trek down the mountain seemed much longer to Rip, given his decrepit condition.

His heavy leather purse had fortunately preserved a few damp pound notes. However, when he arrived at the bottom of the mountain and tried to purchase a room for the night, the innkeeper called for the constable and had him thrown out on the basis of his appearance, alone. “Not to mention a certain ambiance”, his wife added “which might disturb the guests”.

The constable had no choice but to place Rip in a cell for the night. The next morning, after the constable had opened his cell, Rip went the local tavern to purchase some breakfast. Following breakfast, Rip found that there had been a revolution during his slumber. He was now in a new country and his pound notes were useless. The tavern owner called for the constable and had him thrown into jail where he spent the next two days for petty larceny.

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Rip was returned to the streets slightly better fed but no better looking. Passersby stared with disapproval at his dirty, shoddy appearance. When he gently put his hand on a frightened young boy’s shoulder to assure him that he meant no harm, the child screamed, lurched away and fell to the ground in hysterical tears.

Several nearby adults witnessed this and immediately sought out the constable. This time, Rip was jailed for a week on charges of what we would today call suspected pedophilia. There being no such sophisticated medical term in Rip’s Day, the constable booked him as an aged deviant and let it stand.

When Rip was released, records show that he was taken in by the local church as a service to the community. He was commandeered by the parish’s two nuns who trimmed his hair, beard and scrubbed him head to toe with lie soap and very hot water.

He was given a set of clean clothes. His old clothes went into the trash. He was then shown to a small cabin behind the church. It had recently been occupied by his predecessor, a young man who had harkened to Horace Greeley’s words and “gone west to seek his fortune.”

The cabin contained a cot, table and a large bowl for washing. A hand pump was the church’s only water source. He shared an outdoor facility with the priest. The nuns had their own. He received meals, prepared by a parishioner, from the church kitchen. For all of this, he was expected to dust the sanctuary and alter areas, keep the holy water fonts full, spittoons emptied, the outdoor facilities clean and neat and do odd jobs.

Other than that, he had the run of the place. Which proved his eventual undoing. Or his emancipation, as Rip might have put it. Having access to the entire property, he eventually located the cabinet where wine was stored for celebration of the Holy Eucharist. And he drank half of that reserved for the next day’s service.

The kindly old priest forgave him but required that he attend the next day’s confessional.

However, the next morning before daylight, the nuns found Rip gone, his new clothes in a pile on his cot, his old clothes gone from the trash. Apparently, he had found that the constraints of the church and society were too much for him to bear. Some thought that perhaps he had moved on to another town or moved into the woods and become a hermit– or just died. A dirty pesky old man, well out of the way. At any rate he was gone, and soon faded from local memory.

Still, there were rumors of people having seen a ragged old man, visible only in a flash of lightning, struggling uphill in the forest. “A dead tree snag or someone’s imagination.” the villagers said. Thunder boomed and rumbled across the sky. Some people said that it was the sound of giants bowling ninepins. “It’s the weather. A childhood superstition”, they said. Some swore that they had heard the faint strains of male voices singing Het Zeemansilied. “The wind”, they said. “A wolf howling at the moon.”

As years, decades and centuries have passed by, “facts”, as they’re called, have become the only reality in the sadly constrained minds of mankind.

And things not based on fact, like ogres, elves, the Fae people and the story of Rip Van Winkle have become purely fictitious “bedtime stories”, chaff for the idle minded or are dismissed as being merely laughable.

But those of us who know and love these enchanted mountains–know their spell–know that they’re all wrong. All of them.

Don’t we.

Blog: HideawayPond   hideawaypond.com                                          August 14, 2024

• Danebury Hillfort (Hampshire, England):

Aine

Druids: Guardians of Wisdom and Mystery

The druids were a fascinating class of individuals within Celtic cultures. They held a multifaceted role, serving as intermediaries between the natural world and the people. Here’s what we know about them:

1. Who Were the Druids?
   • The druids were members of the learned class among the ancient Celts. They weren’t just priests; their responsibilities extended far beyond religious rituals.
   • Their name possibly originated from a Celtic word meaning “knower of the oak tree.” The oak tree held great significance for them, symbolizing wisdom and strength.
   • Unfortunately, very little is known for certain about the druids because they kept no written records of their own. Most of our knowledge comes from external sources.
2. Roles and Functions:
   • Priests: The druids acted as priests, conducting religious ceremonies and rituals. They were deeply connected to the spiritual realm and revered for their insights.
   • Legal Authorities: Beyond religious matters, druids served as judges. They settled disputes, decreed penalties, and maintained order within their communities.
   • Educators: Druids were also teachers. They passed down ancient knowledge, including natural philosophy, astronomy, and the lore of the gods.
   • Custodians of Cultural Wisdom: Their wisdom extended to matters of culture, history, and tradition. They safeguarded the collective memory of their people.
3. Druidic Practices:
   • Sacrifices: Roman writers, including Julius Caesar, mentioned that druids offered sacrifices. These could be human sacrifices, although they preferred criminals. In dire situations, they might even choose innocent victims.
   • Annual Assemblies: Once a year, the druids gathered at a sacred place (often believed to be the center of all Gaul) to settle legal disputes and make important decisions.
   • Immortality of the Soul: Druids believed in the immortality of the soul. They thought that at death, the soul passed from one person into another—a fascinating perspective.
4. Resistance Against Roman Rule:
   • Leading up to the Gallic Wars (58-50 BCE), the druids were vocal opponents of Roman rule. Their resistance made them a thorn in the side of the Roman Empire.

So, imagine ancient groves, mist-shrouded stone circles, and wise druids communing with nature and the divine. Their legacy continues to captivate our imaginations, even today.

And now, so have we. To anyone who may have listened to my little blog, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did putting it together. Thanks for listening 🙂

Spring!  It must be spring. The calendar confirms that spring arrived over a week ago. Daffodils blossom brightly in the rock garden. Forsythia buds squirm into the sunlight and tiny red leaves burst from crimson maples with their promise of warm weather. The aroma of fresh lilacs. The hum of bees in the rhododendron.  A busy flock of this year’s robins has arrived and bluebirds have moved into the bluebird house. Mallards have been dropping by, many en route to points north. And geese, some with their eyes on the island as a summer home. (Much to my lovely bride’s chagrin, the geese being very messy housekeepers.) And goslings, the brattiest of juvenile avian species. Surely it’s spring!

Silly me. Even I knew, as a callow youth, that spring doesn’t arrive until the first day of baseball season. The first pitch. The satisfying smack of a ball into a catcher’s mitt. The crack of a bat on “horsehide”. The loud bang of a ball off an outfield wall. Dust. Sweat. Grass burns. Trash talk. 90 degree days in wool unforms. The noise of the crowd. 7th inning stretch. Popcorn, peanuts and beer. Victory and defeat. Cheers and tears! Hold your breath!!

It’s spring! Opening Day!

And what better hallmark than Casey!?

At the bat!

In Mudville!!

Ostara and the Vernal Equinox

Spring. Ostara, goddess of the dawn and the symbol of the season’s fertile energy arrives. She comes with her totem spirit, Rabbit, to bring light and renewal to our inner and outer worlds. The spring or vernal equinox is a point of perfect balance on the Wheel of the Year – when the Sun crosses the equator, and night and day are of equal length. This equality reminds us of the natural balance between darkness and light and masculine and feminine energies.

Apropos of the season and to waken my idle mind, I recently enlisted AI tools to help write a short story about winter fairies. Meet the fairy queen, Lysandra. She appears above in all of her radiant beauty. Her little friend, Neva appears below.

Once upon a time, in the heart of the coldest winter, there was a hidden glen where the winter fairies lived. Their wings shimmered like delicate ice crystals, and their laughter sounded like the soft tinkling of frozen bells. The fairies were the guardians of winter’s beauty, the caretakers of snowflakes, and the painters of frost patterns on windows.
The queen of the winter fairies was a radiant being named Lysandra. Her crown was woven from the purest ice, and her gown sparkled with a thousand frozen diamonds. Lysandra had a special task for her fairies every year: to spread the winter’s chill gently across the land, ensuring that every creature could experience the season’s quiet slumber and the joy of the first snow.
One fairy, however, stood out among the rest. Her name was Neva, and she had the unique gift of bringing warmth to the coldest places. Neva’s touch could melt the iciest heart, and her presence brought comfort to those who feared the winter’s bite. While her sisters painted the world in silvery white, Neva followed behind, weaving a subtle warmth into the tapestry of winter.
As the longest night of the year approached, the fairies prepared for the Winter Solstice celebration. It was a time when the veil between the human world and the realm of fairies grew thin, and if one listened closely, they might hear the whisper of fairy wings on the wind.
On the eve of the Solstice, a great storm swept across the land, burying everything under a thick blanket of snow. The fairies worked tirelessly, flitting from place to place, ensuring that no creature was left in the cold. But amidst their duties, they noticed something unusual—a warm glow emanating from a small cottage in the woods.
Neva, curious and ever compassionate, ventured closer and saw a family huddled together, their fireplace extinguished, their spirits low. Moved by their plight, Neva called upon her fellow fairies, and together, they performed a dance of warmth and light around the cottage. As they danced, the fire in the hearth reignited, casting a cozy glow on the family’s grateful faces.
From that day on, the winter fairies were not only the bringers of winter’s beauty but also the unseen guardians who ensured that within the cold, there was always a spark of warmth to be found. And Neva, the fairy of warmth, became a legend, a reminder that even in the depths of winter, there is hope and kindness to be shared.
And so, the winter fairies continued their work, unseen but ever-present, a magical force that balanced the chill of winter with the warmth of the heart. And if you ever feel a sudden warmth on a cold winter’s day, remember—it might just be Neva and her sisters, watching over you with a smile.

2024. A brand new year. A magic time of music, joy, celebration and love. Fireworks! And happy memories.

The old year is limping off stage, bruised and bleeding, one of the most difficult years in recent history. A trail of destruction and sorrow in his wake. The legacy of 2023.

Ironically, that legacy also includes some very important discoveries and innovations which still bear his imprimatur. And which bode well for the future. For example:

• Powerful lasers were developed which can veer dangerous lightning strikes off path.
• Return of rocks and dust from an asteroid to Earth revealed that they contained carbon and water, building blocks of life.
• Mouse embryos grown in space were unaffected by low gravity or solar radiation. Positive indicators for eventual making the human race a spacefaring species. (don’t laugh)
• An international landmark treaty was signed to protect the seas.
• In aother landmark case, Brazil’s top court ruled in favor of indigenous race rights to their land.
• Solar, wind and geothermal energy became less expensive while fossil fuels became more expensive, thus reaching a tipping point in favor of green energy resources.
• A trial drug program yielded very positive indicators regarding avoidance of and remission from cervical cancer.
• And more

 So it seems that 2023, in spite of its dents and scratches, had its good points as well as its bad points. 

Hey, you might ask. Isn’t this blog supposed to be about Hideaway Pond and its neighborhood critters? Why are you writing about all of this stuff? 

Well, to begin, how does one avoid it? But point taken. That’s for another blog post.

First, I find it to be interesting and fun to do. Sort of my own little conversation with myself. Not the most silver tongued or witty chat pal, I suppose. But as long as nobody has put me in jail or a straight jacket yet, che sera’. I’d be very pleased if a few others were to find it interesting. But if not, it’s instantly deleteable. No hard feelings. More or less.

Second, we’re all a small part in the spectrum of life, from the lowest most basic one celled critter to the highest, most intelligent and complex. Including the folks who suffered through 2023. And the critters who live at or around Hideaway Pond. Even the bugs. Except mosquitos, may they burn in hell. Though not to put too fine a point on it, if Hell had mosquitos, it wouldn’t need fire, would it? Another argument against fossil fuels.

Scientists contemplate complex phenomena such as lightspeed, Interstellar gases, gravity, pressure and the birth of stars. The “depth” of mysterious ‘black holes:” A curve in the time space continuum. “Worm holes”. “Black holes” in the fabric of that continuum–leading to–what? And to where? Another dimension? Perhaps. “Warp speed” in the fertile minds of sci-fi writers.

Yet, with all of our research and scientific assets, we’re mere insects in comparison with the vastness of the universe.

One wonders–I do–if the critters of Hideaway Pond have the perception and curiosity to look up at the night sky that shines and spins overhead. And wonder too. I’d like to think that they do. After all, they’re part of all of this. The same wild abandonment of rules that exist in all natural things.

So we come full circle. Wonder. And curiosity. That’s why I write about this stuff. And I guess you could toss ignorance (one of my superpowers, by the way) in there too. Paradoxically that’s one of the human traits which, for better or worse, has brought us to where we are today.

Our ancestors, without our limited knowledge of the universe, feared many of its wonders. They invented and worshipped gods to fill that void. Space, time, the moon, stars and the rest of the cosmos were part of that void. And its mystery. 

With ample curiosity and no shortage of wonder, the modern human race has since filled that void and solved many of its mysteries with new and amazing creations:

• Antibiotics–Penicillin
• Tissue Culture–Study of viruses; Vaccines
• Artificial Heart
• Genetic Sequencing–Recognition of patients’ predisposition for certain hereditary diseases
• CRSPR–Gene Editing; Personalized Medicine
• Atomic Power
• Space Technology
• Telescopes that can discover “exoplanets” in other star systems and determine their potential ability to support life.
• Etc.

And now comes AI, one of the most controversial, promising, “frightening” and mysterious technologies since nuclear fission.

Inventing artificial intelligence is an ongoing process with many people contributing to its development. The term “artificial intelligence” was first coined in 1956 by computer scientist John McCarthy. McCarthy and other early AI researchers were influenced by a number of ideas from philosophy, psychology, and mathematics.

OpenAI is a company owned by a group of technology entrepreneurs who have been involved with other startups and technologies. Its CEO is Sam Altman, one of the most well known and controversial figures in the world of AI.

ChatGPT is an AI-powered language model developed by OpenAI. It’s capable of generating human-like text based on context and past conversations. It can also create images, chat with voice, and use and build custom GPTs for various purposes, some of which are used by casual users (me) and some really scary smart people like Geoffrey Hinton, formally of Google who said: 

“I have suddenly switched my views on whether these things are going to be more intelligent than us. I think they’re very close to it now and they will be much more intelligent than us in the future,” he says. “How do we survive that?”

He is especially worried that people could harness the tools he himself helped breathe life into to tilt the scales of some of the most consequential human experiences. Especially elections and wars. 

Nervous? Worry not. There are people on the IQ scale between Hinton and me who are keeping the digital ship afloat. So far.

I suppose I could sit back and let ChatGPD write this entire blog with little or no input from me. But where’s the fun in that? The text and images all sprang from this ancient fevered brow.

I conjured up this old gypsy with a crystal ball and asked her to give me some idea of where AI will take us.    She said “Who knows?”

Last month, OpenAI simultaneously stated that it is “impossible to train today’s leading AI models without using copyrighted materials,” and that the company believes it has not violated any laws in such training. This should be taken not as a favorable illustration of the leniency of copyright statutes permitting technological innovation, but as an unabashed admission of guilt for plagiarizing. Now it is up to the public to deliver an appropriate sentence. 

P.S.–Read the link (stated) above. 

By the way, if you know anyone who might be interested in visiting Hideaway Pond, the address is hideawaypond.com. Thanks for sharing!

Blog: Hideaway Pond 12-15-23 hideawaypond.com

Christmas. Not the “Christmas” of Bloomingdales or WalMart, Kohls or even Amazon or Ebay. Nor the religions that have lent their names to some of today’s most troubling times.

Let’s instead indulge ourselves for a few moments and pretend that this is the Christmas of our childhood. When “visions of sugar plums danced in our wee little heads”. Until a we grew “to old” for sugar plums.

A sort of 21st century Brigadoon. Sort of. An invisible area in space and time occupied by people and things that didn’t happen or don’t exist but once a year. Things behind that thin veil that separates us mortals from myth, mystery and the paranormal. 

What if it’s not a mere vision?

What if. Really.

We can’t see through that veil.  But if we could what might we see?

Well, we might find dispelled, for example, the rumor that Santa Claus doesn’t exist. Through the curiosity of a small schoolgirl, we might even find clear evidence that he does. We might.

This editorial, as it first appeared in The Sun, was prefaced with the text of O’Hanlon’s letter asking the paper to tell her the truth; “is there a Santa Claus?” O’Hanlon wrote that some of her “little friends” had told her that Santa Claus was not real.

Frederick Church, the Sun’s editor, responded: “Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge. 

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. 

Not believe In Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. 

You may tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. 

No Santa Claus! Thank God he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.”

What better proof that Santa exists than that he will continue to “make glad the heart of childhood”?

Really.

Then there’s the issue of whether Santa is an elf or a human. Well, the poem “The Night Before Christmas” refers to him as a “Jolly Old Elf”. That should be enough, in itself, to be potential proof. Furthermore, imagine a full size guy flying around in a miniature sleigh hauled by 8 tiny reindeer. Or slipping down a chimney. And if successful, into a pile of still smoldering coals? Probably not.

Really.

The elves. If Santa exists, his elves must also exist. These would be the small, peaceful, happy and productive people who make the toys that Santa delivers to good little girls and boys on Christmas Eve. Some have asked how the little elves get all of those toys onto Santa’s tiny sleigh. The elves are magic. No further comment.

On to the fairies. This is a much more complex and weighty subject than those previously discussed here. First, they live behind the standard issue Fairyland veil which conceals Fairyland and the rest of the mysterious unseen world. Secondly, three branches of the fairy community live behind that veil.

1. Good fairies -Tricksters (hide various items, steal candy set clocks at wrong time, put salt in the sugar bowl, etc) and gift givers (fresh spring rains, taste and aroma of a ripe apple, rainbows, butterflies, birdsongs, etc) who eat flowers, mushrooms and burp in small bell like tones.

2.Bad Fairies–Forever bathed in darkness, these fairies cause
sadness, angst, loneliness, acne, halitosis and the heartbreak of psoriasis.
They speak only to each other in low unintelligible whispers.

3. Goblins, trolls, ogres, and their ilk–uncouth and evil brutes who cause crushed bones, bleeding ulcers, car accidents, hemorrhoids, etc who eat road kill, raw bats and sewage. Also scratch in public  and noisily expel large dark clouds of acrid smoke. And drool. Green stuff.

Fairies of all types are said to be invisible to humans except on rare occasions such as during a flash of lighting or the soft glow of the Aurora Borealis.

They are also apparently without sex or religion. Scratch two potential really serious problems right there.

It’s alleged also that fairies communicate only with animals, birds and unborn children. I’ve interrogated dogs, cats and Hideaway critters at length and received in return nothing but blank stares and utter silence. And pity. Perhaps their reticence is some unknown form of omerta that’s practiced only in the Fairyland behind the veil.

Could be. Really.

Unborn children? Well, once they’ve slid down the birth canal and been slammed in the sensory receptors by the harsh sounds and sights of reality they’re totally pissed and speechless. And in no mood to chat. They immediately reach for their mother’s breast. The human’s nascent tendency to use food as a comfort during times of stress.

Perhaps you remember. I know, neither do I. Not really.

Making all of this more complex and mysterious is the following note, found scratched on a tree fungus near Elk Lick, Idaho– which denies the very existence of fairies. Allegedly authored by fairies, themselves. If you care to see the original, it’s on display in the Elk Lick Grange Hall.

Dear Humans,

This may come as a surprise to you, but we fairies are not real. Surprise! We are mere figments of your imagination, inspired by the wonders of nature and those things which lie behind the magic veil that separates our mystical world from that of you mortals. We do not exist in your world nor do we wish to. Period.

Please do not disturb the peace and harmony of the forest.  It is our sanctuary. It is home to many mystical creatures, plants, and elements that deserve care and admiration. So please don’t screw it up.

We hope you understand and will let us continue to enjoy our quiet life of song, dance and joy in our beautiful, enchanted forest. We understand your curiosity, but we prefer your absence. No hard feelings.

Really.

Sincerely, The Fairies

P.S. We unequivocally deny the rumor that is currently circulating among you humans that we are responsible for the AI infestation that is presently afflicting your world. That’s pure unicorn poop.

A disclaimer from the Mgr., Hideaway Blog Editorial Staff: Regarding the text above, mea culpa. The illustrations were done, according to Staff specifications, by the fairies with their mystical AI tools. 

Also really.

Blog: Hideaway Pond hideawaypond.com 11/22/23

November. That chilly month that lies in limbo between Autumn Equinox and the Winter Solstice—so called Astronomical Fall.  In case you’re interested. Or not.

The paradiddle of acorns bouncing off the roof has long since abated. Leaves have finished their annual serenade of lush greens and bright colors, now dwindling into a forlorn dirge of a few wrinkled old crones. Quivering in the wind. Clinging to their final hopes of hanging on.

Most small critters—squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks, field mice, mink, raccoons, beavers and other critters of a  furry persuasion have retreated to winter dens. They will occasionally venture forth to seek the most appealing or available sustenance they can find. Turkeys wander about trying desperately to avoid looking like a potential Thanksgiving dinner table centerpiece.  And migrating ducks are navigating around a thin skim of ice that has formed on the pond. Winter “pickins” can be quite slim in the critter world.

Although some critters, like bobcats and coyotes, are unafraid to assert themselves, bears are uber boss in the Northeastern forests. Especially mother bears (sows).  By summer’s end, they will have fattened up for the winter and the impending birth of cubs.  They will find shelter and await the blessed event. Thereafter, they will waken to feed and give birth to the cubs. Dinner is served on a first come, first served basis. This can be an existential issue to some cubs who are born small and/or crowded away from the table and will become “runt” of the litter. Or float quietly up to Ursa Major, the Big Bear in the sky.

Unlike fish and some mammals that enter a deep state of torpor, bears hibernate lightly and can be easily aroused. So please don’t disturb them. It pisses them off. Although their body temperature drops slightly and their heart rate slows to as low as 8 beats/minute, they are still alert and aware of their surroundings. Female bears usually give birth in January or February, after about 8 months of gestation. The cubs are very small and helpless at birth. They weigh only about 1 pound and are blind, deaf, and almost hairless. Strange little critters whom only a mother could love. They rely on their mother’s warmth to stay alive.  Meanwhile, male bears (bores) wander the woods seeking food while wondering what to do with their spare time.

Bears also held a  significant place in Greek mythology. Though Artemis, Greek Goddess of the Hunt, is often depicted with either a hunting dog or stag, one of  her most sacred animals was the bear. Artemis held domain over the moon as well as the forest and all wildlife within it. Like most Greek deities, she had incredible multi-tasking skills. The bear was the largest and most powerful animal, so Artemis found it to be a special animal. Any time a bear was killed by the Greeks, Artemis would lay a plague on the people as punishment. Tough love.

Callisto was a nymph who served as a companion of Artemis. She was very beautiful and caught the eye of Zeus, who disguised himself as Artemis and seduced her. Callisto became pregnant and gave birth to a son named Arcas. When Artemis discovered Callisto’s secret, she was furious and turned Callisto into a bear. Years later, Arcas, who had grown up to be a hunter, encountered his mother in the woods and was about to kill her, not recognizing her. Zeus intervened and snatched them both to the sky, where he made them the constellations Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, the big and little bears. However, Hera, the wife of Zeus, was jealous and asked her nurse, the ocean goddess Tethys, to prevent the bears from ever dipping into the sea. That’s why these constellations never drop below the horizon.

One of the goddesses most directly associated with bears (and one of my favorites) was Mielikiki. Mielikki was the healing goddess of Finland. She was associated with the woods and with wildlife, but her main attribute was her healing abilities. She healed the animals when they were sick or wounded. Mielikki was one of the goddesses who had a part in the creation of the bear. According to the story, Mielikki left earth and traveled into space, past the moon in search of the materials with which to make the perfect animal. She returned and stitched together the materials from the heavens to make the bear. The bear was Mielikki’s favorite animal. Incidentally, a mountain on the planet Venus and an asteroid are named after Mielikki. Well earned tributes, indeed.

All months have a moon and every moon has one or more names. November is no different. November’s moon names highlight the actions of animals preparing for winter and the onset of the colder days ahead. Digging (or Scratching) Moon, a Tlingit name, evokes the image of animals foraging for fallen nuts and shoots of green foliage and bears digging their winter dens. The Dakota and Lakota term Deer Rutting Moon refers to the time when deer seek mates, and the Algonquin Whitefish Moon describes the spawning time for this fish. The moon most commonly associated with the month of November is the Beaver Moon. This is the time of year when beavers begin to take shelter in their lodges, having laid up sufficient food stores for the long winter ahead. During the fur trade in North America, it was also the season to trap beavers for their thick, winter-ready pelts Monthly names are tied to early Native American, Colonial American, and European folklore. Traditionally, each full Moon name was applied to the entire lunar month in which it occurred and through all of the Moon’s phases—not only the full Moon. Seems fair.

Finally, in the midst of all of this chaos of unruly gods, goddesses, names, seasons, critters and critter sitters, Artemis (Goddess of the Moon), Arcus and Callisto (Ursa Major and Ursa Minor)–unlikely sky mates that they are–will share the placid skies of the beautiful Catskill Mountains. One hopes. To paraphrase, “When the Gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.” Oscar Wilde

September 23, 2023………..Early this morning at 2:50 am EDT, Earth awakened to a new season.

It’s again the time of the autumn equinox, and the harvest is winding down. Most of the crops have been harvested and stored for the coming winter.

And it’s the time of the mid-harvest festival, when our ancestors honored the changing seasons and celebrated the second harvest and Mabon.

Mabon was the Pagan term for the Autumn Equinox which occurs annually between September 21st and 23rd. It’s the first official day of Fall, then known as the Witches’ Thanksgiving. It was the welcoming of the harvest and the last farewell to the long days of Summer. Following the Autumn Equinox, the days begin to become shorter than the nights. 😒

In ancient Celtic times, Mabon was a time where the some of the women descended from the hills where they were caring for the livestock and children, to aid the men in harvesting the crop. Feasts took place, which were, for some, a precursor 💕to marriage. But everyone feasted and celebrated the abundance of the earth. 😄

Mabon was also the name of the Welsh Celtic god of light, death, resurrection, the harvest and much more. He was the eternal embodiment of youth and immortality. Anda very busy god, indeed.

MABON

Our agrarian ancestors were badly affected by the enormous loss of sunlight that followed the apex of the summer solstice. Desperate to see the Sun again after the long, cold winter— which they often barely survived — they welcomed its warming rays in Springtime😁.

On or around September 21 it was a Pagan tradition to give thanks for the things they had, whether it was abundant crops or other blessings. It was a time of plenty, of gratitude, and of sharing their abundance with those less fortunate.

Each September marked the Fall equinox (or autumnal equinox). Stonehenge is only one of the ancient monuments marking the solstices and equinoxes which survive today.

The Celts held no monopoly over Autumn. 

The Greek goddess Persephone was strongly connected to the time of the Autumn Equinox. When Hades, God of the Underworld, abducted her it set in motion a chain of events that eventually led to the earth’s falling into darkness each winter. 😒

The Autumn equinox marked the return of the goddess Persephone to the underworld for three months, where she was reunited with her husband, Hades after she had spent the Summer with her mother Demeter and the community of gods on Mount Olympus..

This somber event, as recorded by the ancient Greeks — who saw the work of the gods in all natural events — reflected the feeling of the Autumn, when the brilliance of the Summer receded into the more muted tones of September.

Persephone’s connection to the seasons is clear. “She was queen of the Underworld, as wife of Hades. She was also associated with the new life that rose with the spring.

She emerged from the ground to the blooming of flowers and the warm sun every Spring Equinox, rejoining her mother Demeter for the long summer days. 😄

So, as the ancient Greeks knew, the return to the darkness of Autumn and Winter is not permanent. Spring will come once again. And everything good will return once more to Earth.😁

PERSPHONE

The Blind Poet’s Vision of Spring

With the coming of spring the light will be gaining.
So after Brid’s feast day I’ll set my course –
Since it entered my head I’ll never rest easy
Till I’m landed again in the heart of Mayo.

I’ll spend my first night in the town of Claremorris
And in Balla I’ll raise my glass in a toast,
To Kiltimagh then, I could linger a month there
Within easy reach of Ballinamore.

I testify here that the heart in me rises
Like a fresh breeze lifting fog from the slopes.
When I think on Carra and Galen below it,
On Sceathach a’ Mhile or the plains of Mayo.

Killeadan’s a place where all good things flourish,
Blackberries, raspberries, treats by the score,
Were I to stand there again with my people
Age would fall from me and I would be restored.

 — Anthony Raftery (1784-1835). Translation by Michael Coady

Blog–12-21-2022—-Hideaway Pond—-hideawaypond.com

Tempus fugit. Last night at the stroke of midnight, the entire world stepped (or slept) in turn through a portal in time and into another season. The inexorable pulse of the cosmos. Some seek to understand– even control– that pulse. The dance of celestial bodies in infinite time and space.

Scientists contemplate complex phenomena such as lightspeed, Interstellar gases, gravity, pressure and the birth of stars. The “depth” of mysterious ‘black holes:” A curve in the time space continuum. “Worm holes”. “Black holes” in the fabric of that continuum–leading to–what? And to where? Another dimension? Perhaps. “Warp speed” in the fertile minds of sci-fi writers.

Yet, with all of our research and scientific assets, we’re mere insects in comparison with the vastness of the universe.

One wonders–I do–if the critters of Hideaway Pond have the perception and curiosity to look up at the night sky that shines and spins overhead. And wonder too. I’d like to think that they do. After all, they’re part of all of this. The same wild abandonment of rules that reins in all natural things.

Our ancestors, without our limited knowledge of the universe, feared many of its wonders. They invented and worshipped gods to fill that void. Space, time, the moon, ,stars and the rest of the cosmos were part of that void. And its mystery.

Winter solstice has also been known to celebrate Earth’s regeneration or rebirth. The Scandinavian Goddess, Beiwe, is associated with health and fertility. It was believed that she travelled through the night sky in a structure made of reindeer bones with her daughter, Beiwe-Neia, to bring back the greenery on which the reindeer fed. For this reason she was worshipped during this time of year.

Winter solstice rituals have long been practiced by cultures around the world. Traditionally, it’s been a time to celebrate the harvest, the return of the Sun, and the dichotomies of life and death.

In Italian folklore, La Befana is a goddess who rides around the world on her broom during the solstice, leaving candies and gifts to well-behaved children. Placing a rag doll in her likeness by the front door or window entices her into the home.

Alectrona was the greek goddess of the sun. It is thought that she might have also been the goddess of morning or ‘waking from slumber’. She will now begin to grace us each day with increasingly more of her warm presence . Until summer solstice when she yields once again to growing darkness of Beiwe the Goddess of Winter.

“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”  
Omar Khayyam