Lughnasa 2012

Today borders on two five-year anniversaries. Tomorrow marks Karen's official completion of treatment. Five days later, Noddfa Imaginings was formed. Like the bridge that Janus watches, it is a good day for me to look both back and forward.

About a month ago I was talking to a friend as we were working off the excess beer stock I'd picked up for Karen's party. He's the type of friend that sneaks up on you, the kind that you sit down with one day and find you've crossed some sort of threshold from acquaintance to close friend without ever realizing it. He and I met eleven years ago, at a game of course, through a mutual friend both of us have since lost touch with. He kept in contact during Karen's treatment as well as afterwards. He was one of the first to sign up for the e-mail list. We continue to game off and on as our lives permit.

He was asking me how writing was going after the chaos of the spring. This was before the floodgate opened that allowed me to finish "Terminal." I was telling him about the difficulties I'd had over the past few months and the decisions I had ahead. I'm always afraid the words will dry up, that my muse with flee screaming into the night. He looked at me and said, You have to write. It's like a compulsion with you, just something you have to do. It's in your personality. He said it in a way that said he both understood and wasn't worried.

And with that, I wasn't either. I knew he was right. Writing is not something I chose to do. It's something that chose me. Some days that's hard to remember that as my age settles on my shoulders like a knapsack slowly filling with sand as I wait for inspiration to strike.

Some days the empty parchment stares back at me smudged only by the smoldering light of another uninspiring dawn. Some days, the sting of rejection transforms into the sweet taste of artistic freedom. Or is that just the poison slipping deeper into my veins? Some days, after several eruptions nearly bury my desk, my notes metamorphose into a pile of karst-like blocks slowly eroding toward amnesia. Some days, I scramble up a midden of words whose meanings constantly shift and slide beneath my pen before I reach the top. Some days, the ink fades a little further from the page until, one morning, nothing remains of each line but the shadow of a memory.

Even then, bright blue ink courses through my veins, just waiting to redden with inspiration. All I have to do is slit my wrist and out it pours. All I have to do is dip my pen and bleed.

Perhaps that pen really is as mighty as the sword. Or in this case than the long spear of Lugh, the bright warrior of Irish mythology and namesake deity of this cross-quarter holiday. Whatever your blood-borne passion, I hope it brings you joy this Lughnasa.

© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Lughnasa 2012 - a reading (on YouTube)

Summer Solstice 2012

Today is the summer solstice. I always have trouble writing in this season. This year more than usual, the lines are too bright, the focus too close, the colors oversaturated.

For me, writing is an exploration of the world that plays at the edge of my senses. A world seen only in the interplay of light and darkness, heard only behind the distant wind. It's an unmistakable, yet unidentified scent, a taste without food, a feeling that makes my untouched skin tingle. 

It is a place many have explored but few have charted. Those who left maps drew smudged lines colored by riddle and paradox. The journey is full of obstacles, most of which I create for myself to make the journey seem more hazardous so that when I overcome them, I get a feeling of accomplishment. Another trap I set whose only prey is me. 

I search the landscape not to make a new discovery or to claim some new territory, but to revel in its beauty, ponder its mystery and seek my place within it. On the stained and smeared chart that is my soul, I’ll mark that dark circle “Here be dragons” and call it life.

I know I’ll do better as the winter solstice draws closer. Night is the great equalizer. In daylight, anyone can see.

© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Summer Solstice 2012 - a reading (on YouTube)

Beltane 2012

Beltane 2012 - a reading (on YouTube)

Beltane. May 1st. May Day.

When you say May Day, most American minds spring to the distress call. Some believe it evolved from the Haymarket Massacre in 1886 Chicago several days after what has become known as International Worker’s Day. Others believe that holiday arose in Communist Russia, though the Soviets only marked it, they did not create it.

In truth, the distress call (“mayday”) derives from the French “(venez) m'aider” (“come help me”) and came into use around 1927 as French desperately clung to its lifeline as the lingua franca of international commerce.

Neither is related to the older, Celtic holiday. May Day marks the end of barren winter in the northern climes of Europe. Mid-spring to some, the first day of summer to the Celts. A cross-quarter day of celebration not distress.

Normally, I would write about the green-root rather than the red-root or pan-pan meaning. Today is not a normal day. My mother is in the hospital, my father is dying, and their surrounding situations seem intent on putting the “fun” back into “dysfunctional.”

Currently, my life feels like a three-ringed circus with me cast as the clown trying to distract a runaway tiger so no one gets mauled. Or a flashback to December, 1942 (there I was in Chicago enjoying a nice game of racquetball at the university when suddenly...). Who knew that two six-month tours in the integration lab dealing with the narcissistically Cerberean egos of hardware engineers was really an Israeli-style commando simulation training me for my future?

So, for me, today is about escape. I don’t distract myself in any of the traditional Celtic ways. I don’t drink. I don’t dance. I don’t don antlers and chase maidens through the gorse and bracken by moonlight. When I have time, I read stories. More often, I sneak in a game.

Some people tell me games are a waste of time. I would ask what purpose is served by drinking? By dancing? By drama, or any other pastime? On the best of days, they make us feel good about our lives. On the worst, they anesthetize our pain.

My favorite games serve as simulations. They present problems with discrete though sometimes complex solutions rather than ones that remain intractable. Most games have preset starting points with definitive goals and objectives. They grant players a stronger measure of control than ordinary life. When we get stuck or find ourselves trapped in a dead end, we can backtrack step-by-step to where we went wrong, restart and try again. Sometimes we succeed. But runs of luck can never be discounted.

Games form one layer to the bedrock of my existence. My father had me playing chess before I turned ten. My mother taught me Spite and Malice. My grandmother cribbage. I discovered a passion for war-games and role-playing on my own. We never had a family game night. In fact, we never had much of a family night at all. Perhaps that plays a part in our ongoing angst.

In times of stress, games act as my reward. I seek them out at every opportunity. Game stores form the constellations that guide my travels, from Maryland to New England, Scotland to Seattle, the I-4 corridor to the dealers rooms at Dragon*Con, even as their individual stars wink out one by one. I can trace the stratigraphy of Sci-Fi City (nee Enterprise 1701) back through four locations. The Fantasy Factory through only three.

On our weary way home from one of several round trips to the right coast of Florida in March, we detoured through Orlando so I could pick up a war-game based on the Crusades that I had hesitated over in January. Reading new rules is a kind of meditation for me. Game tokens have become my talismans. I have more dice stashed in boxes and bags throughout the house than any sane man should. Perhaps that says something but each sight of them brings me just a tiny bit of joy.

In whatever brings you joy this Beltane, I hope your day comes up natural rather than snake eyes or midnight. As I wish you luck in yours, I hope Fortuna grants the same in mine. Regardless, the die is cast, the strategy laid out and opening moves will soon begin.


© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Spring Equinox 2012

Spring Equinox 2012 - a reading (on YouTube)


Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(so priketh hem nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages...

- Geoffrey Chaucer


When spring had brought forth lush flowers in every grove and field and the weather had turned nice, the minds of medieval people turned toward pilgrimage. Their destinations might be a small shrine just a day or two away, a massive cathedral (a crusade in stone) nearer the cultural center of their society or even one of the holy sites beyond the very edge of their civilization. They traveled for a variety of reasons, to seek forgiveness of a wrong, to seek healing, even just to go, to get out in the fresh air and see someplace new. Upon reaching their destinations, pilgrims collected badges bearing devices as confirmation, a scallop for Santiago de Compostela, crossed keys for Rome, palms for Jerusalem.

We don't often make pilgrimages anymore. Or perhaps we do. Weddings and funerals have become our modern pilgrimages. Weddings especially often involve churches or some other meaningful shrine, whether to art or nature. We travel long distances to attend, hopefully somewhere with nice weather in the spring or early summer. Weddings can be redemptive. Nothing heals the soul like seeing two people you care about commit their lives to one another and witnessing the happiness their celebration brings.

Eighteen years ago, just days before our marriage, my then bride and I took our wedding party on a pilgrimage of sorts. We packed everyone into cars and drove over to the east coast of Florida where my wife and I had gone to university, her for a master’s degree, me for a bachelor’s. A friend, who was a member of our wedding party, had always dreamed of watching the sun rise and set over the ocean. I liked the idea so much that we co-opted it. In Florida, it was easier to arrange than had we lived in, say, Kansas.

Our wedding ceremony was patterned on the ancient premise that the world is composed of four elements, earth, air, fire and water, linked by a universal whole. We had used that principle in making mead, an avocation we’d picked up in a medieval society during our time at school. The botanical gardens on campus figured prominently in that activity at the time. That garden, aptly called the Jungle, with its rivulets, paths and pagodas became the object of our pilgrimage, not so much for the site itself but for the peace and tranquility we both remembered there.

Each of the couples in our wedding party represented one of the four elements, with our master of ceremonies being the spirit that linked them all. As such, we asked each of them to carry a particular stone throughout the entire day, jade for earth, moonstone for air, carnelian for fire, mother-of-pearl for water, and a multi-point quartz crystal broken in two for spirit. The men carried the appropriate stones for me, the women for my bride. Plus we each carried a stone of our choosing for the other. We handed them out at sunrise on the beach overlooking the Atlantic then collected them on a different beach as we watched sunset over the Gulf of Mexico.

Those stones went into small leather bags with long straps. I wore mine around my neck at the ceremony and under my shirt at work for a long time after, including the weeks I spent at sea without her that spring and summer. For me, the bundle served as a marker, a pilgrim’s badge if you will, a reminder of the day and all it meant. We ended up replacing the original leather bags that housed the stones some years later. Wearing them so long against our skin had taken its toll. But we each still have them, along with all the stones. As it turns out, the moonstone is one of the last physical reminders I have of the man who stood beside me at the ceremony, one of the witnesses who signed our marriage license.

Out in the Jungle, we talked about marriage and commitment, asking each of the couples what it meant to them. All were married, some for many years, some only a few, some still, some not, some again. In ways, that day is as or more meaningful than the day of our wedding itself. It resonates deeper. Perhaps, that’s because it was based on no societal traditions, just symbols of our own choosing. Perhaps, it’s because on the actual day I spent too much time having slivers of my soul trapped in pictures. Or, perhaps, it’s because I wore that marker against my skin for so long afterward.

So what, you ask, does any of this have to do with the spring equinox? Well, that day, not any particular date in March, marks my wife's and my anniversary. Like the stones, we chose the day specifically for its symbolic meaning, a day made up of equal parts of light and darkness where the light was waxing rather than waning. We both saw our wedding as a marriage of equals and still do to this day, eighteen years later.

Happy anniversary, my love. Even weighing all the joy and tears that have followed, I would make that pilgrimage with you again today. I hope our light is waxing still.


© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Imbolc 2012

Imbolc 2012 - a reading

Every year is full of endings and beginnings. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, memorials. Days, months and years marking events of real or imagined importance. Earth Day, Breast Cancer Awareness Month, the Year of the Woman, the Third Millennium, the Age of Aquarius. Like a long spiral staircase ascending and descending or an intricate double helix twisting and untwisting, the pattern of our lives repeats.

Nine days ago, we entered the Chinese Year of the Dragon, the Black Water Dragon to be precise. The Chinese consider the Dragon an auspicious year. For some, perhaps it will be. Certainly not for all. For a few, it may seem that they’re accursed.

I was born in the Year of the Green Wood Dragon. For many years, I used that sobriquet as a pseudonym on a Daoist discussion board. I loved the juxtaposition contained within that name. I mean, who would carve a fearsome dragon out of green wood? These days, that’s what I feel like, an unseasoned beast ready to crack and split as I age and continue to be tested.

I’ve always been fascinated by dragons. Dungeons and, Uther and Arthur Pen-, the red of Wales. Chinese dragons are powerful and noble. By contrast, European ones are greedy and fierce. The last battle of Beowulf. Fafnir of Der Ring des Nibelungen. The Legend of St. George. These are the dragons of my people.

Five years ago, I stood rearguard as my wife slew such a dragon. The landscape of that quest resembled Cymru, a native land of dragons, cloudy and craggy, shrouded in mist and mystery. The road through those mountains was hard, the siege against her fortress treacherous, the final battle in its lair fierce. Fortunately, she was victorious at every stage and that particular wyrm breathes no more. Though some nights, its long shadow haunts our dreams still. So, at Candlemas, we light votives to aid in our forgetting. Day by day, those memories are dispelled like ripples fading from the surface of a pond.

Since then, for me, each passing year has become a goal to attain, a quest to fulfill, a series of obstacles to overcome on the path to a glittering treasure I likely will never possess. As humans, we long to take comfort in the future. In auguries and names, we search for stability, an understanding of this life. Eons ago, someone categorized and compiled the names of these years based on a perceived pattern of events. Good years or bad, like a face on the surface of a distant planet, we are predisposed to see patterns even where none exist. But their beauty or ugliness is firmly rooted in the eye of the beholder, not the beheld.

Like a lamb stirring in its mother’s womb at Imbolc, the life of this black water dragon has only just begun. Whether it grows in the Chinese or European tradition has yet to be woven by the Norns. I suspect it will bring a bit of both: joy and sadness, wealth and poverty, misery and health. Ours is but to receive its gifts with patience and with grace, knowing that next year it will not visit us again, at least wearing the same scaly guise.


© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Winter Solstice 2011 (from Nyala)

Winter Solstice 2011 (from Nyala) - a reading by Karen Morgan

My name is Nyala. I'm a familiar. This year, I turned three. I'm the youngest in a long line sent by Bast to watch over my mom-cat and dad-cat, and keep them out of trouble.

My dad-cat doesn't let me play with the computer. But he's not watching me right now. I paw the keyboard when I want to be petted or when he's not looking anyway. He doesn't know I've learned to stalk words with my eyes, at least a little. My Auntie Mara and the spirit of my Great-Auntie Felicia are helping me with the hard ones. The spirit of my Great-Uncle Smoker says he knows a spell to make sure this message gets out. He found it in Great-Uncle Thomas's spellbook. Great-Uncle Thomas was a wizard and Great-Uncle Smoker was a sorcerer. I know where they hid the spellbook, but I can't tell or Auntie Mara will find out.

Tonight, mom-cat and dad-cat get to see some of our world. Their eyes aren't very good most nights. They can't really see in the dark. They trip over me and Auntie Mara all the time even though they should be able to see us. We can see them when we lay down and roll on our backs in front of them. It's not like it's really dark.

Tonight, they light little fires all around the house. They try to keep them out of our reach, but me and Auntie Mara jump up when they aren't looking. They scold us when we do, but we're curious. We just want to see. I don't like the little fires anyway. They smell hot and bitter, and sometimes bite my nose and whiskers. Fire is scary, even little ones. But I like the dancing shadows. And they make the perfect light for hunting, not that mom-cat or dad-cat really do. I don't know how they feed themselves. Mom-cat leaves to hunt every day, but she never comes back with anything. Dad-cat just guards our territory while she's gone. He leaves us alone for a few hours once a week to hunt with mom-cat. He must be a better hunter because they always comes back with butter and something good for us for breakfast when he goes with her. I like butter and breakfast.

Mom-cat and dad-cat don't light the cold little suns tonight, or watch the glowing box where the birds and bears and little balls live inside. Sometimes it calls my name, at least the name the humans call me. They can't pronounce my real name. But Bast says I need to keep that a secret anyway. I'm good at keeping secrets.

I like the light tonight. It makes me want to run around and chase Auntie Mara. Or pretend to sleep even though I'm watching everything through slitted eyes. It's like a whole night's worth of twilight when we hunt the best. Nothing can see us but we can see everything and pounce on it if we like. But Auntie Mara gets mad when I pounce on her too often.

This is my third time seeing the special night. A cat's night. Bast-mas is what mom-cat sometimes calls it, I think. Our night. The first time, I was only a little kitten, so mom-cat and dad-cat watched me extra close so I couldn't get into trouble. In a few days, we get presents: boxes, bags, wrapping paper and ribbons. But I can't keep the ribbons for long. Auntie Mara likes to eat them which makes mom-cat and dad-cat mad. I like swatting balls of paper around. Auntie Mara says they're too pretty, but she plays with them when I'm not looking. They are almost as much fun as hard, dangling, sparkly balls, or stalking Auntie Mara while I hide beneath the plastic tree. I like to gnaw on its branches. I wish it tasted like a real tree, but it doesn't. Still, it's almost like being outside only safe. Auntie Mara likes sitting in the boxes and bags, but all she does is purr, and get mad when I jump in with her.

We also get feathers and acorns and juice-rings and rattle-sticks, and a few leaves of fresh catnip. Mom-cat says they come from Basty-claws, but I know it's really her and dad-cat. Basty-claws is just for little kittens.

But that doesn't happen for a few more days. It's a busy morning with all sorts of new scents, but it's kind of scary too with all the new things I don't recognize, at least until I've rubbed them or swatted them a few times. After that, most of them are boring.

Tonight is never boring. Mom-cat and dad-cat sit a lot, so we get to curl up in their laps. They drink their stinky wine that smells sweet, like a mouse left under the couch too long. I think they should just drink water. I like it best when it's fresh, right after I paw my bowl until it gurgles at me. They mixed up more stinky wine and put it in the pantry closet today. It smells like something died in there until it finally stops farting in a few weeks. I like the funny noise it makes but not the smell. Ew.

Sometimes they light a bigger fire on the table on the porch after sunset. I like the porch. That's where Auntie Mara and I watch the squirrels and birds and smell all the interesting scents outside when the wind is blowing. I just wish the dogs next door would go away. They are so noisy and scare me all the time. Auntie Mara says to just ignore them. Sometimes I listen to her. She's pretty smart about what to growl at and what to run away from. Sometimes both. She doesn't run from the yappy dogs, just any people or growly trucks she hears. But she doesn't run from the rug-growler so I don't know if I really trust her.

By the time they go to bed, mom-cat and dad-cat are so relaxed and happy that I expect them to start purring. Mom-cat doesn't purr at all. Sometimes dad-cat tries but he never gets it right. I purr back at him anyway. Maybe one day he'll learn how it's done. I don't think so. He's not very smart. Tonight, I curl up with them, and don't even ask them to play with my feather-stick until I'm tired.

Later, when mom-cat and dad-cat are asleep, I'll creep down off the bed to watch the one little fire they leave hanging out of reach. It burns all night and throws tiny shadows all around our bowls. They look like little faeries flying around the room. I think that's the part I like the best. It's magical. It lets mom-cat and dad-cat see what we see every day, a hidden world. They sleep so peaceful this night, like cats curled up by a fire. I like to see them happy. Maybe they know that me and Auntie Mara are watching over them.

Auntie Mara says dad-cat is coming so I have to finish up quick. I was about out of things to say anyway. Making words is hard.

Enjoy your little fires tonight if you light them (but you can keep your stinky wine). Stay warm and catnap curled up next to someone you like if you can. If not your mom-cat or dad-cat at least a favorite auntie if she lets you like mine does until I bite her. But don't sniff too close to the little fires or they might singe your whiskers.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Winter Solstice 2011 (six days early)

Winter Solstice 2011 - a reading (on YouTube)

Next week marks three significant anniversaries for me. The first is the 20th anniversary of Karen and I celebrating the winter solstice by lighting the house only with candles. The second is the 12th anniversary of the first solstice message I sent out, at least the first one I have archived. I have managed to put out a winter solstice message every year since. For just over five years, I've written seven other messages throughout the year to mark each of the eight Celtic holidays.

The third is the fifth anniversary of the test that led to Karen's diagnosis with breast cancer. That adventure started three days before the winter solstice of 2006 with what should have been a routine mammogram. As fate would have it, I'd accompanied her to that appointment as we'd planned to kick off her vacation by doing some things together downtown that day. We spent that winter solstice trying not to worry as we awaited more appointments for more tests, which eventually led to her surgeries and treatment. That year is not one of our better holiday memories, though we are thankful we can look back on it with the good fortune of having everything turn out ok.

This year, I had planned to write a winter solstice message from the cat's point of view to celebrate these three anniversaries. Before I tackled that, I'd planned to have the final installment of the Abrami's Sister cycle posted. And another Christmas story out for which I'd jotted down an idea late last year. I'd planned to review where my writing was headed and how to approach each of the various websites I maintain. At Samhain, achieving all those goals still looked promising.

Once again, the universe laughed at my plans.

The words "cancer" and "chemo" have made a reappearance in my life. They entered in mid-November when I received a card from my father telling me he had lost his voice. Three weeks later came an email saying it was from cancer. Two days ago, another email arrived saying it was aggressive and that he starts chemo next week.

My father and I aren't what you'd call close. The people who know me know why. With Karen in 2007 I knew my role and my responsibilities. They were written in my wedding vows. This situation is more complicated. Once, I wanted to prove I was somehow worthy of this man's affection. Now, those thoughts are ashes blowing through barren fields. And yet I still feel empathy and sadness for his situation.

Since that first note, my writing has become frustratingly sporadic. I have completely sketched out the last Abrami's Sister story. I can see all the details but haven't been able to download them from my mind. I want to write, but I've found I've been waiting for news that is slow in coming from a man who, on the best of days, is not what you'd call a natural communicator.

Writing at its heart, whether a story, an essay or a memoir, is about communication. Most days, I struggle with how much of my personal life to reveal to strangers, what to say and what to leave unsaid. There is no point to this message, no clever words, no epiphany, no surprise that ends in hope. I feel trapped between empathy and history. Expressing that is all this message is about.

For decades, I haven't liked this time of year. The holidays strike me as fake, false, a saccharin-sweet fiction like Santa Claus, or the false-front Potemkin village that are the pictures from my childhood. I began celebrating the winter solstice twenty years ago as a way to reclaim this time, a way to make it my own. Our own. It turns out my wife's family life needed a little rehabilitation, too. Maybe everyone's does.

In a hundred years, no one will remember any of the events I struggle with. In the light of history, they will be meaningless statistics at best. In the light of nature, they already are. The flowers in the garden don't care about my struggles. Neither do the squirrels, the birds or the cats. The sun still moves through its progression. In a week, the winter solstice will arrive whether I'm ready for it or not. Even if I do not mark it, the darkness will approach and recede.

This week, I read a quote attributed to Steve Allen that said, "If you pray for rain long enough, it eventually does fall. If you pray for floodwaters to abate, they eventually do. The same happens in the absence of prayers." I don't pray for people or their situations. It's not in my makeup or a part of my beliefs. I think about them, I worry about them, I reach out to them, I help them if I can. And I light a lantern for them to help me remember.

When Karen and I were married, we received two Wolford lamps as a wedding gift. For the longest time, we lighted the pair of them on the winter solstice. One year, I broke one of them moving a piece of furniture. The survivor now lives on the stove. We light it when our friends or family are sick. We light it when someone we care about has died. And we still light it on the winter solstice to celebrate the night, as we hopefully will again this year.

As long as we're home over this holiday, that Wolford will be burning as a reminder. I don't know what the immediate future will bring. I don't know how I'll react to it. But that has always been the case. Life is fundamentally what happens while we're making other plans.

Whatever your plans for the approaching holiday, may the memories you form be pleasant and your treasures be left unbroken. And as always, may your solstice be warm and bright.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III