Finding the Moonfield: Unleash Your Wildness

I miss the nights when I played with my children in the Moonfield; a place that explodes in the silver light of the moon, illuminating all that lies beneath, casting distinct shadows typically acknowledged by day. 

A full moon is not required for such brilliance. Take last night for example; the moon is in the first quarter – a perfect night for frolicking.

At one time, my children and I often climbed over the stone wall to the field by the school to our first Moonfield. We had endless space to run freely. That is when we created our game of “Moon Tag”. Just the mentioning of it conjures up the echo of innocent laughter that drifts away to the edges of the field into the long, thin, lines of tree shadows.

Of course this game can be played in sunlight; but there is more magic in the moon.

The object of the game is to chase each other’s shadow – tag the other person without physically touching him or her – your shadow touches his shadow. It doesn’t count if you make physical contact. I started this game with my three children when they were about four, six and seven years of age.

It works well on a variety of levels. It is possible to play the game when the moon rises early in the evening, just after dark. It gives your little one(s) an opportunity to run, laugh and exercise in the fresh air, making way for a good night’s sleep. [Actually, this game is not limited to children. If you were here now, I would initiate a good game of “Moon Tag” with you.]

It invites silliness. I love that part about it. There is no competition. At first it’s a bit challenging to work with shadows as opposed to your physical beings. However, once you get used to it…the game rises to a new level because you now comprehend moon shadows.

Games in nature have depth in meaning. We are able to use the power of our body, mind and spirit in imagination. We are in the wild, living our wildish nature. Batteries, chargers, smart cards and other stuff are not needed, nor do they matter. When we play such games in the Moonfield (or other Gaian places), in addition to connecting with each other, Our Mother and the moon; we connect to our heart, soul, and to the wildness that resides within. We have an opportunity to externalize our untamed nature, which stirs the colors of our vibrancy, stimulating emotional, spiritual and creative growth.

These games played in the Moonfield reclaim that which has been lost in the age of technology, which are weakening the senses. We merge with our vision and values, responding to the joy of being where we belong – out there with our feelings that both tickle and roar within us. We fold up the joy and vitality to carry with us for darker times, to awaken from a psychic slumber, unfolding and returning to it when needed.

I have had many Moonfields come and go in my life; each providing great opportunities for capturing bliss and meaning – both vital to me. Take this newly found wisdom and go play in your Moonfield. Pay attention to the environment and be a part of the lessons woven within. The Moonfield exists in each of us; honor and celebrate your place in it.
Journal: Periwinkle

Addendum: Sing Again

Response to feedback from my blog – Sing Again


I guess there are always metaphors and reading between the lines...that is quite appropriate for my nature writing...and especially for those of you who know me and my wildness that has been unfolding over the past decade. So yeah...I can see where your interpretation(s) are coming from...[Sing Again – Blog] is a true account, a blend of the weather and a "bigger picture" scenario.

I really longed to be outdoors, but it was very raw and rainy...not a hard rain, a syncopated rain that as far as actual, individual raindrops, I saw (more than felt)...the drops were visible on the plastic greenhouse that covers my herb pots...I wasn't comfortable then, I preferred to sit by the fire with a cup of wild tea and plan the next thing.

As I was heading towards the house (where it was warm)...the wind picked up...and I heard a very loud, deep cry [of anguish]...at first I thought it was an animal, perhaps a moose. I stopped and listened again and figured out that it was a creaking tree. It was very distinctive. I waited and looked up the hill towards the edge of the grove where the huge white pines were swaying in the higher level of wind. Then I clearly heard many voices of the trees. It was magnificent yet borderline eerie. Once I focused on it, I liked it but  because of the implied urgency, it was somewhat disturbing at the same time.

Their song was a profound expression of their pain and concern...yes they are still healing from the loss of their brothers and sisters, but their concerns are global and pertain to the healing of Mother Earth Herself. With the ongoing disturbances, toxicity and manipulating of nature that have been practiced for decades, we (inhabitants of this great green planet) need to pause, take notice and act responsibly. No more raping the forests, fracking, drilling into the crust, spilling and dumping toxins into the atmosphere and waters and earth, killing habitats and already fragile eco systems.

It was all in that song. I listened closely, inhabiting the beauty, power and melancholy of their message. I appreciate and honor them.

As I listened, I looked over at the crocuses that were moving and unbending in the wind. I do not have an unconscious death wish. I simply admire them for living gloriously and courageously in the moment. They are a symbol of strength. They do not question their existence; they simply are. I liked that in the midst of all else that was happening.

Thank you, Jelly Bean.

Journal: Babies Breath

Sing Again

I walked and I waited beneath gray skies and syncopated rain. I could not find a reason to stay, yet I could not find it in my heart to leave. The birds sang sweetly in the middle of the day.


I envied the courage of the deep purple crocuses when they joined in song, not caring that they might die tomorrow.

The language of the senses spoke, wrapping around me like a tight fitting glove. In order to stir me, the wind blew through the outer edge of the Pine Grove. The giant White Pines called in separate creaking voices to remind me of their presence. I stopped and listened like it was the first time. [It was not, but then again it was].

I heard what they had to say and with the guidance of my inner compass, I was able to follow the conversation. Distinctive pitches swirled gracefully above within the highest green boughs stretched up towards the sky. An urgent cacophony of voices begged to be heard and then subsided, dying down to one deep, ancient voice of the eldest White Pine, commanding peace and order.

When the wind ceased, the silence tormented me. Was it greedy to want more from all possible voices of this green earth? I think not. It is with love, joy and concern that I hear messages woven within an earthly tapestry of sacred harmony.

The weeping clouds passed overhead, pausing long enough to witness the truth, yet not long enough to quench the ground [so ripe within].

I was grateful for the crow that flew fretfully from one woody branch to the next in an effort to stir the wind. Losing patience and yearning to awaken, I climbed onto the Prayer Rock and waited for the mournful choir of the Pine Grove to sing again.

Journal: Babies Breath

The Proverbial Pathway - Another Day

At the break of day when I do not feel fruitful, I go into the woods to sing. I sit on the Prayer Rock to witness the immeasurable canvas sprawled before me, touched by the paintbrush of creation. The sun beckons to all upturned faces, living on the margins of winter, anticipating spring and the promise of re-birth.

I revel in cosmic chaos – the pulsation of sound amplified by miracles orchestrated in wind, bird and brook songs (accompanied by the rattling of last season’s leaves that cling tightly to the branches in the Ash Grove, awaiting new growth). I look to where the anxious mountains melt away the last traces of snow where my friend, the red tail hawk, circles above.

I wander down the proverbial pathway, lingering before the roses, exposed yet rooted in love as they stand naked, desperate for the return of their aromatic blooms to cover their vulnerability. Intoxicated by their scent, reckless in their presence and wildly imperfect, I am willing to bleed.

Further down the pathway, the remnants of milkweeds – the host plant for Monarchs and others – sway tenderly in the wind releasing the last few silky white strands, transporting papery brown seeds. I watch them float indecisively to the opposite slope.

Before it becomes a bit of a marsh, I head towards the spring pond that exists long enough for peepers to come out and sing and lay eggs for future prosperity. Predictably, the chorus halts as I approach. I catch a glimpse of an olive green frog – a possible prince during the essence of my becoming – before he disappears under the shelter of a faded bouquet of oak and maple leaves that float on the surface. A smile emerges from within as I spot at least a thousand eggs in various clumps knowing that soon it will be tadpole bliss.

I then sit on a mossy stump beside the twin trunks of two immense trees which shelter life amongst gnarled, trailing roots. The trees embrace, knowing that a love like this is rare and only threatened by the woodsman’s ax. I think if I were a tree I would want this and if I were a small creature I would live somewhere within.

To bathe in the woods is to draw strength from Nature’s womb. The milk of Our Mother nourishes my creative soul. So another day ends and another moon rises.

Journal: Babies Breath

This Balmy Winter Day

I remember that one word spoken in a voice quite like my own. It woke me up. Today when I entered into the woods, I finally understood.

“Needles.”

An unbroken stream of sunlight illuminated one particular Balsam tree, making it appear silvery and alone. I shivered as I witnessed ordinary transition to extraordinary in an instant.

The Black Capped Chickadees called to one another, flitting from branch to branch while the upside down bird sang an intuitive rhythm. The forever questioning Goldfinches begged me to follow them beyond the Prayer Rock, but it wasn’t meant to be.

The snow was peppered with an abundance of seeds, fragments of pine cones and half-opened, Copper Beech seed pods. I stopped to fill my pockets with wild tidbits rich with raw earth tones and of appealing texture, envisioning merries not yet created. I got close to admire the delicate lace patterns of shredded moss and lichen that cling to fallen branches, logs and well worn stumps.

The quickening brook carved a clear path through the slushy snow, carrying an assortment of fallen leaves, feathery fronds, curled birch bark and other woody debris. The water was pristine! Grateful, I praised Our Mother.

The sun warmed my face and shoulders. It was odd being in the cool woods in winter wearing shorts, a tank top and my favorite chunky snow boots. The best part was that there were no bugs.

It was too warm – 81 degrees – and there I was, trudging through the snow with my new walking stick that I found at the beginning of the path and later left by a stream when I stopped, distracted by a gathering of diverse mushrooms and a plush, mossy stump.

Soon moose tracks merged onto the path. Secretly I want to catch up with it (I decided that it is a grand bull moose by the size of the tracks), but it doesn’t happen like that. Then I dreamt of how I would respond if I met with a just awakened bear.

More tracks – coyote, deer, rabbit and turkey – enter, cross and leave the trail in somewhat melodic lines. I studied the imprints and wished in a childish way that we could travel together.

In contrary motion, the brook curved in front of me. It seems I crossed it over and over again, this time not jumping far enough and my right boot filled with water. (It’s always the right boot).

Almost home and at the edge of the woods, I stopped and listened carefully for droplets in the maple syrup buckets. Many folks had given up, but I never give up easily. My smile began in my heart and made its way to my face when I distinguished four steady syncopated drips of much different tones. I would make another small batch of maple syrup or at least have delectable sap for making tea. I gave thanks to the great Maples before going indoors to empty my pockets of the divine trinkets gathered on this balmy, winter day.

For those who claim that global warming isn’t real, I would like to invite you in for a cup of wild earth tea. Let’s talk. I mean, I will be the first one to admit that I delighted in walking barefoot in the mud before dashing across the fast melting ice to the snowfield to bathe in the sun. However, while I was sitting on the old log where I often do, I concurred with the forever questioning Goldfinches when wondering what will be?

Journal:Babies Breath

Apple Trees, Wheelbarrows and Herding Cats

If men were trees, I would consider Mr. Dearborn to be an apple tree. Stooped, honest and unassuming, his crooked limbs turned outward, his trunk although solid, was twisted and thick, and his joints were gnarled and interesting. His grayish face – like aged bark – was lined with experience. He was usually expressionless except for an occasional look of wonder. I do not remember hearing him speak; only murmuring a few sounds that carried an occasional whistle.

The fruit that he bore came in the form of cats. Mr. Dearborn had at least fifty cats if not more, which to a seven year old girl, was much better than apples.

He lived on the road that led to Sandwich Notch, up a ways on the left hand side, across from our long time family friend, Maisey Bloomberg. There wasn’t a Mrs. Dearborn or offspring that we knew about. He was simply an old man who no one bothered to notice, until that summer when my sister Susan, friend Lynn and I discovered his feral barn cats, soon to be the focal point of our very existence.

At first we were a bit skeptical, unsure of how we would be able to play with the fascinating felines without interacting with the old man. We thought about just going into his yard and playing with them but we might get in trouble, and no one in town seemed to say much about Mr. Dearborn. We never saw him at the store or the post office; we only caught glimpses of him in his window or shuffling out to his small, boarded up barn where the cats jumped and played.

Finally Lynn moved ahead with the direct plan, the one that required courage and was obviously the only one that would work. She and Susan stood on the wide granite slab step and Lynn knocked hard on the weathered oak door. I stood on the grassy stoop watching the kitties frolic. I knew that if Mr. Dearborn did something unimaginable, I could run really fast.

The door opened a crack and he leaned forward. “Hmmmmmm?” His oval, gold rimmed glasses were fogged and he had a large tan hearing aide on one ear.

“Can we play with your cats?” Lynn put her hands on her hips; Susan smiled.

“Hmmmm?” He ran his fingertips across the white fuzz on his head.

“Your cats! Can we play with your cats?” Lynn shouted. I was proud and hoped that when I was ten-years-old that I would be so brave.

Susan pointed to the back yard where even more cats were filing out of a crack in the wall of the barn. “Cats.”

It was muggy, too hot for him to be wearing a tattered brown sweater buttoned all the way up to his chin. He looked over his glasses beyond Susan and Lynn and set his sights on me. I shrugged my shoulders just in case we were overstepping our bounds.

He may have smiled; I’m not sure. He scratched his head again. “Yesssss. I ‘spose.” He turned and shut the door.

We dashed through town and on to Lynn’s house and got her Aunt Ginny’s wheelbarrow. Lynn had an elaborate plan, and that was to create a village for the cats. We would name them and assign a family and abode to each cat lucky enough to be selected.

“Hey! Where are you girls going with that wheelbarrow?” Billy rode towards us on his red Stingray bike with a banana seat and slammed on the brakes leaving rubber on the asphalt.

“We’re going to get some cats from Mr. Dearborn’s and bring them down to Ginny’s to play.” Susan always leveled with Billy. Lynn turned her nose up and kept pushing.

“Does Ginny know?” Billy did a wheelie and stood holding his handle bars, front wheel in the air spinning.

“Mind your beeswax.” Lynn rolled her eyes.

Like everyone else who interacted with Lynn, Billy did as he was told. He mounted his bike and rode towards the playground where minding his beeswax would be enjoyable.

When we got to Mr. Dearborn’s house, Lynn brought the wheelbarrow out to the barn. We immediately started chasing cats and putting them in the wheelbarrow. I went after a gray cat; it squirmed and scratched me with its back claws. I tossed him in and wiped the blood from my arm onto my pedal pushers. Susan and Lynn were screeching and trying to keep the cats from escaping. Mr. Dearborn looked out the window, scratching his head.

We came up with a method of transporting the cats. Lynn pushed the wheelbarrow; Susan held the cats down in the cart and when one hopped out, I chased it and returned it to the cart. We managed to transport five cats at a time. It took us hours just to make it less than a quarter of a mile down the road.

This activity required a great deal of time and became our pursuit for a better part of the summer. There were about a dozen cats willing to participate and cooperate as much as felinely possible – they were appropriately named and took their rightful place in the pecking order in the great compound that we created for them.

All of us became accustomed to the drill. Gather the cats, fuss and fumble with them until they are in the wheelbarrow, capture the ones that escape and herd them into the compound.

On my eighth birthday, Susan, Lynn and I were climbing my favorite maple tree (not too far from the compound) when I fell. I dislocated my shoulder and my elbow suffered a compound fracture. I was in the hospital for over a month in traction.

When I came home from the hospital, I was elated when Susan and Lynn presented me with my favorite cat Smokey – a gray short hair with emerald green eyes. Apparently Lynn and Susan told Mr. Dearborn of my accident and asked if they could give me one of the cats as a present. He agreed, which we girls thought was so generous. I preferred Smokey over all the others when we first met and began our cat escapades. He was mellow and seemed unaffected by the antics of the others – both human and feline.

Now I have returned to Sandwich. When I drive through the desolate village I conjure a clear vision of three young girls giggling, scolding and managing fidgety cats hopping in and out of a wheelbarrow. I cannot help but smile hard and even laugh at that memory. I am proud of our determination and the victorious outcome. We did not give up.

When I am on my way towards Sandwich Notch and I pass by Mr. Dearborn’s house – now boarded up – I think I see the shadow of a dead apple tree stooped over the granite step with a cat perched in the crook of the outstretched limb. I hesitate and sometimes almost turn around to see if it will come to me. But I continue on and smile as I recall how herding cats was wicked fun.

From Journal "Marigold"