Beith, meaning “birch” is the first letter of the first aicme of the Ogham Alphabet. The Elder Futhark rune “Berkana” also means birch, and essentially the same thing. Though I had anticipated starting with the beginnings of each ancient alphabet, it makes some sense I think to pair similar runes and ogham for journey purposes. My next journey will begin with Fehu, as it is the first letter of the Elder Futhark. 

I admit that I have trouble memorizing the symbols for the Ogham; they all look like sticks and slashes and not much in the way of pictures. In addition to my Irish ancestry, I also have some heavily Germanic ancestry, and runes come to me more naturally than I thought possible. Perhaps it’s because I’ve made so many rune sets. 

At any rate, I intend to journey to understand the meaning of these runes, and possibly understand them on a deeper level and how I relate to them in addition to the ‘traditional’ meanings. 

Traditional meaning: The birch tree is often the first tree that springs up after a massive clearing or fire, and thus represents new beginnings. However, the type of beginning is that of a much more causal and major shift as a result of the clearing. Locally in MD, this might be represented by the silver maple rather than the silver or white birch, as maples will grow wherever there is a spot of sunlight. Unfortunately, these trees are often the first to die once the growth they foster outgrows them and the Oaks and Ashes blot out the sun. The seeds fall to earth, and the process begins again at the next great clearing of the area. Birch wood will take to fire even when damp, and the white-fire quality is key to understanding the fiery tenacity and courage of the birch tree. 

I tend to associate Beithe with Brighid, and Berkana with Freyja. White hot fire, goddess tree, renewal, courage. Through Birch Tar Oil which is extracted from the tree, it also has associations with protection. The Birch has many healing and medicinal qualities, from pulverizing bark to ease bruising and wounds, to crushing the leaves to make a tea, to extracting the oil, to extracting the sap to make beer, or wine or cordials. The tree-side-down soaked bark can ease joint pain, and the oils can act as an astringent and helps with herpes, eczema and psoriasis. And birch beer is delicious. A very healing, very giving tree that symbolizes new life. 

The Journey: Visuals, Feelings, and Observations

Birch forest, golden leaves in fall, like a gloriously tall burning tree as though the memory of the fire that necessitated it’s growth simply burned up through the roots. The Goddess Brighid, with two arms extended; one hand full of water which spilled out and birch branches snaked up and around her arms and grew up as tree antlers through her fiery redgold hair. Her other hand was fiery with the light of the sun just behind it, through the canopy of birch leaves. I did my best to turn the journey towards Berkano, and saw the symbol carved first on a doorframe of a house in which a woman was giving birth. I then saw it carved into every bed at an army hospital. Themes of sacrifice, fire, redgold, new life. 

 

Though I could not possibly list absolutely everything that was said during healing, I will at least jot down some keywords and imagery that will help me complete my homework.

-Skara Brae

-Tomb of the Eagles

-Snake in Heart

-Serpent’s Egg

-Sacrifice/Sword through heart

-Sea Eagles (significant eagle moments from memory: Journey for Lughasadh in which witnessed preparation of Tailtiue’s body, followed by devouring of it by sea eagles before interment in tomb, finding haida eagle totem plaque and bringing it to grove, eagle spotted on way to wellspring, bald eagle overhead the day I had to take over SD)

-Known Morrighan for a very, very long time. (As expected)

-Mucho feminine power. With some guys in there, honest.

-People are intimidated by mirrors.

– Sulfur veggies/sulfur stones

-Lepidolite pendant?

– Manannan- water balance. Head Fire like whoah. Thor Lightning to remove spinal stabbination thought cluster. Morrighan being Morrighan and ever present.

-Lion (or could be Panther depending on shaman’s filters. Panther has been with me since forever)

– Lasting body of work– art or book etc. Projects that will survive me.

-Go play in nature more, damnit.

-Laugh off the haters.

-Morrighan is overwhelming huge. Not fat huge. Just an unfathomably enormous, eternal Being.

More later. 🙂

I am not often driven to explore the deep dark recesses of the Underworld unless in times of utmost need. However, when your friend’s daughter was raped and feels trapped by her attacker, and because she’s not Pagan the normal routes of healing are closed, I chose instead to target her attacker. I will not elaborate on my process for this, because it is not something to commit to the written word. Bits of it, however, I would like to remember while it is still fresh in my mind. 

I journeyed down a spiral staircase deep in the base of an oak tree. As I wound around, the first hallway was full of oval mirrors, referred to as the Hall of Mirrors, literally intended for self reflection and examination of intention to enter the Otherworld. The mirrors are brutal and show you everything about yourself and weigh this balance against the one I sought to dis-power. I looked honestly at all of the mirrors, which were sunk deep within a root system and inner bark of the tree, and lit candles and incense there to honor all the parts of me (good and bad) and affirm that I was who I said I was. 

The first floor room was bright with crystals and deep connection to the sidhe. I could feel feather light touches on my feet and hands, and brushing the sides of my head. This was the room in which words had power; it was made of fire and ice contained within a wooden tree. There were crystals protruding from the walls and it sparkled like nothing I’d ever seen. I lit more incense to honor the fae of this place, and continued down on my walk. 

The second room was the heartwood room. In the center (where an ice chandelier had stood in the previous room) there was a massive heart. It was human in shape, but pumping sap and fire and water throughout the tree, and cast a reddish light on the walls. There, my heart was weighed against that of the Attacker, and I was permitted to pass though. I lit a candle and set it beside what I believe to be a sort of sidhe of that room, who were kneeling and praying at the massive heart. It was in the heart room that I performed also an act of disempowerment of the Attacker. 

I descended down again into the root room. This place was very chthyonic, and smelled of dirt and damp and death, but also frankincense and myrrh. Here, I lay half submerged in a cell of water that existed between roots. Other people lay in other cells. I lay here, floating for a while in the nothingness. Eventually I heard what sounded like a purse being shaken, coins knocking together and jingles set in time with footsteps. When I opened my eyes and sat up, glittery water rolling off my arms and skin, I saw a formidable figure I immediately recognized as death. He moved in a velvet manner and went around dropping coins on the other people who were deceased there. I realized then that I was the only one living. In the cell next to me lay the Attacker. I cursed his actions, and cursed his name, and asked Death to remember his face, for what he had done was unacceptable and unforgivable. Donn pulled back his veil (yes, he was wearing one) and walked over to the cell that held the Attacker. He repeated his name and stared at him and requested I recite his crimes. I told him. He asked me what I had done, and what I might offer to assure that I was not telling a lie. I offered him a piece of my heart chakra to hold until this man’s karma caught up with him and justice would be served. He accepted it and asked if I understood fully what that meant, and I said yes, because when The Attacker harmed my friend, he had already damaged my heart in a way that could not be healed unless they were able to find healing. He asked if I would deny the Attacker healing, and I said no, but that he should suffer the consequences of his actions in whatever form that would take. We agreed. 

He held my hand as I recited his name, and then told me to follow Macha, who appeared to me as a white mare with dragon scales. I followed her through the room and through a passage. When we stepped out into the light, we were standing in the middle of a desert, surrounded by mesas, against a backdrop of Anasazi ruins. It confused me, but I did not question. There was a fire lit, and around it were many people in brightly colored blankets of turquoise, red, yellow, black, and white. They were dancing around, and as Macha and i approached, the drums picked up in intensity and the fire rose. Macha told me that we also had to dance; the movement would help build energy. And so we both joined the dance furiously. When I looked up and around me I realized that I had been dancing with different Hopi kachinas: 

Storm: http://j2apilgrim.files.wordpress.com/2010/07/longhair-kachina.jpg

Crow Mother: http://hopikachinas.webs.com/photos/crow.jpg

Eagle: http://hopikachinas.webs.com/photos/Kachinas/eagle%20Kachina.jpg

 

Macha referred to Eagle as Lugh, who transcended all cultures and all times, and that this land has also been hearing the call for some time, and would not reject her newer children. So long as we walk in balance with the sacred earth, the earth would support us, old Gods and new. 

 

We then lay in the desert on the red earth until a storm had thoroughly soaked me. I sat up holding a rattle and a dress of beads, feathers, and Irish knotwork. I was surrounded by horseshoe prints in the mud, but I was alone. As I rose up, I began to come to back in the Ritual Room in my home. 

 

Voyage to trip out city, maybe. But it was important to document. 

For the sake of my record keeping, these are the invocation poems I read during the sunrise ritual at our Grove’s Winter Solstice celebration. 

 

Poem for the Winter Sun:

 

We raise our offerings to the sun

Sun which golden, shines

Shining through clouds and bursting through darkness

Darkness that is breaking

Breaking and clearing a new space

A space for wind and stars

Stars which gleam in the eyes of the Gods

Gods to whom we bring Offerings

Offerings timeless and pure

Pure as the rising winter sun

Sun that leads us to Spring

Spring of many flowers and sacred water

Water which shines with potential

Potential new life rises in flame

The flame of the gods of Sunlight. 

 

For Grainne: 

 

She who wakes with flame

and stirs from her cold slumber

A hundred thousand eager faces reflect her light 

Full of hope and expectation.

But where is she in the vast hordes of poetry and page?

How then can you shake warmth free from a stone, 

or strike a memory from water so pure

it seems impossible to remember she had touched them.

The earth remembers her fingers of fire as they lit up the earth with life.

The earth remembers what we have forgotten. 

 

For Aengus:

 

Son of the frozen stars, 

your father moved them for you and pinned them with precision,

There. Just so. 

Born of cleverness you were,

alive with spirit and the purity of flame and water.

Speak to me of dreams written on the moon.

Sing to me of beauty, of sunrises and sunsets, 

of sweet air and foggy mornings. 

Delicate melodies carried on snowflakes, 

drifting on airs of madness. 

The heart holds a lantern high that burns with all the true things about who we are. 

We listen with forests in our eyes

to the heartbeats of hunter and prey.

Tragic and beautiful are the colors of threads,

which weave our tapestry,

a vibrant, living thing.

So vital and precious, this spark of beginning, 

brilliant glow within your house, illuminate our futures. 

 

Wee. 🙂

Manannan of the Blue Sea

The wide, calm ocean beneath

the sky and sunny days.

Benevolent, provider, friendly and fair.

 

Manannan of the Green Sea

The anger and wrath of your furious waters

pitching and seething, the untamed storm.

The cry of lost sailors bid you aid them.

 

Manannan of the Grey Sea

Of cloudy skies and rainy days

when your ship passes through the mist

and welcomes us home.

 

The colors blue, green and grey,

Your raiment, you are.

May all who hear your song

in the turning of the tides, sing along.

Hail and honor to you, Manannan Mac Lir.

Hail be to the son of the sea.

Things happen from time to time that shatter even the best laid plans. Our Senior Druid had to step down and take a leave of absence for many reasons, but he had also been slated to run our Midsummer High Rite. Because I was Vice Senior Druid, I was voted in the same day and had to assume responsibility for the High Rite. Now, I am a big believer in making sure our High Rites are spiritually significant to our community, and that they reflect the needs and desires of those who come to worship. Midsummer is variously run as a Fool’s Rite, a Greek Rite, or a Celtic Rite, or some combination thereof at our Grove. Though the original plan was to run the Rite as an Irish Rite, there had been many rumblings and requests for a Greek Midsummer Rite. I stepped WAY outside of my comfort zone and decided to roll with it, despite my comfort lying moreso with the Irish Rite idea.

So. We decided to honor Aphrodite and Hephaestus, with Hecate as the gatekeeper. When you have a grove mate that can speak ancient Greek and recite the actual hymns to those Gods that were actually used in ritual, this is what you should do. It was recited in Greek with pauses for English translation, and accompanied by individual drum beats for each deity that roused the spirits. Because of our focus on these deities, we understood the Rite to be a rite of Creation; learning to create and craft things of beauty in honor of both primary deities. Not every attempt was beautiful, but every attempt was made, and the folk really put their best foot forward and donated some beautiful crafted items to the Grove for auction.

I was requested as Chief Liturgist to write and perform the Lore of the Season and the Opening Prayer, which not all ADF Groves do, but we enjoy a good bardic parable/performance at our High Rites, and it often pleases the Gods, so I wanted to record the text of both.

Opening Prayer

Raise your awareness and seek the sanctuary of your spirit. Let the spirit of this Grove open your mind and heart. We have each learned to pray in a sacred way, an ancient way, our hands held high to the fires of the heavens, bathed in the heat of the solstice.

This rite we hold in our hearts a living prayer: Forging a beautiful balance.

O, Gods! Of the lofty heights of Olympus, hear our voices carried on the gentle breeze of summer! Show us beauty in all creation!

Aphrodite, most fair, born of the sea,

Shining Goddess, we praise you! Teach us the ways of unlimited love, eternal force, that we may walk forth shining among an ocean of hatred and distrust with compassion: unmarred, unsullied, and renewed with understanding and acceptance of human suffering, joy, and elation.

Mighty Hephaestus, smith of fire and craft, we praise you! Hear us now! Teach us the value of boundaries, show us the value of limitation that we may know the appropriateness of our expectation. Our incredible capabilities are measured in acts of creation and destruction.

Hear us, O Gods,  in this time and place as we call you in the ancient fashion!

Show us the beauty in darkness, the finite world of our experience, the love which ties us together, the values of wisdom and moderation, the courage to believe in ourselves and in others, to walk in balance with the earth and to follow our dreams with passion and a steady hand…because our lives (each one) depend on it.

Esto!

Two Seashells: The Lore of the Season of Midsummer 2013

Small hands cradle the treasure wrought by the sea.

Wide eyed with wonder, the summer child embraces

That which he has pulled from the crashing surf

And rescued from inevitable demolition

Promised by the force of the waves

that pound away mercilessly on so

small a thing.

Spiraled on one end, pointed on another

A ceramic pink sheen on the inside,

now absent of its former inhabitant

from whom the shell is named

The child beholds the outward beauty of the conch

Ignorant of the sacrifice of the being that created it,

Its importance and beauty still resonates

the finest jewel of the ocean, the child admires his prize.

It is perfect. 

His sister, seeing what beauty her brother has found

searches the shoreline with desperate eyes

craving the beauty, longing to meet her brother’s newly formed standard.

Her hands grasp the foaming waters, splashing her face with spray

She is driven by her search undeterred by the size of the waves;

Dark and unknown and crowned in white.

She catches a glimpse of something blue and white, grey and fleeting.

Quick as a whip, she grabs blindly and is swallowed by the wave.

She tumbles and turns and crashes onto the sand, breathless

and clutching a shell she refused to release

though her life was in danger, she did not waver.

She runs her hand over its ridges and looks upon its misshapen form and ugly appearance.

She runs her fingers over its deformities, denying any imperfection.

A quick glance at her brother’s find fills her with doubt.

Slightly crestfallen, she begins to see its flaws.

Sad eyes observe in detail the broken barnacles that armored the tiny receptacle.

She turns it in her hand, wanting with all her heart to see

some semblance of beauty in this tiny creature.

She turns it over and over in her hands until they are scraped raw.

Against all odds, the seal releases.

Nestled within the slimy interior is a tiny pearl, slightly misshapen

small by adult reckoning.

She closes her shell and rejoices, waving it about,

she shows the oyster to her brother.

Holding its secret close, her brother smiles.

It is perfect. 

This is the lore of the season.

I do a variety of things on the daily. Sometimes when I am in a rush, I wind up putting on my jewelry in a ritualistic manner. I meditate on which dedicated piece feels right for the day, then put it on and thank the God or Goddess the piece is dedicated to. I admit, I have more pieces of jewelry dedicated to the Morrighan than any other Deity, but I have jewelry for multiple aspects of her. On days in which I have some more time (read: I don’t have to wake up and be at a shoot in 30 minutes) I take some time at my altar and perform my morning shielding ritual. It changes just a little bit depending on variables like dreams I just awoke from, or feelings about the day I am about to encounter. Some days there is more incense lit than others, some days there is really good scotch made in offering, sometimes I refill the birdfeeder. The things that remain constant are the lighting of some sort of incense and use of its smoke, which I use to blanket myself in as though it were armor. I recite the same prayer that I have written for my patroness, as I invoke her each time to build up our relationship even further. My prayers and rituals are intensely personal to me, and I don’t often share them. In fact, I wouldn’t, if not for this requirement.

The text is the following:

The Shield of Anand

In the morning I rise

Her breath within me

Stirs me from resting

Calls me to waking

 Trembling earth beneath my feet

Grant me armor of the mountain

Rushing rivers of the land

Fortify my iron lifeblood

Wind and rain and sunlight

Temper and shape my spirit

In this image of Morrigan

May no harsh word molest me

May no lies blanket me

May no forked tongue distract me

May no peace be struck from me

May no arms be raised against me

May no brands be left upon me

May all falseness be revealed

And left to shrivel in the sun

I shield myself in the name of Anand

And follow her footsteps with mine

May good strength be revealed

May the enemies of truth lie down,

And your will be done.

+*+*+*+*+*+

I blanket myself in incense, take a few deep breaths and connect each of my inner cauldrons with the womb of the earth, then go about my day.

I do not always do this on a daily basis; certainly a busy life demands that I skip some days, but there is always at least one act that I do daily to infuse the spiritual into my mundane life. It’s especially challenging to do so when struggling with depression, but I try very hard.

While I understand and respect that some ADF clergy should be saying prayers before major meals, I know that any priest sensitive to the needs of their participants knows when to not infuse a belief that is not shared into a shared feast. However, because I do believe in speaking a blessing over the food items I prepared for Thanksgiving dinner, I had a small ceremony over the food the night prior as I was doing prepwork.

I prepared all of the flesh of the animals, to brine the turkey and laid out the wild salmon  onto a chopping block. I lit incense and quieted my mind, sought out any traces of the spirits of the animals that might remain (more on the bird than the fish, but the fish had a sort of magicy quality I can’t pin), and spoke prayers over them:

I give honor to the leaping salmon, 
Sockeye and silver flash
Vanishing in the roaring river
Spirit shining, they return
So long as the people give thanks. 

I give honor to the turkey, 
A once wild bird, cunning and quick
A clever eye in the browning brush
transformed and tamed
and slaughtered nonetheless. 

I give praise to the Earth herself
Deep power, long memory
Fertile is soil that draws the sun in
And grows all life within her womb
Ripe for the harvest, we are ever grateful. 

So be it.

Simple, direct, to the point. And I continued about my prep work. 🙂

 

11/17/13

 

Typical Walk With the Old Ones Meditation and Blessing Rite at the Grove at 11:30am. ( ADF COoR lite)

One of our members is a practicing Shaman and therapist, and she led a workshop today on the Wounded Healer, then an introduction to shamanic journeying techniques in which we meet our guides. I have a long established relationship with my guides who help me with healing and who are also a part of me. We re-established our safe place.

I was to drive the journey by drumming for participants, but quickly found myself tranced in and out and could not sit still for the life of me. As I drummed, first a heartbeat, then a quarter beat, then a 16th, then furious drumming patterns and a callback…I rocked back and forth with the beat of the drum and the spirits that moved around me. My arm grew weary off and on, but I found I was able to will the weariness away and just float there out of space and time. Had to rock, stand, move. Slight dancing, needed to sing.

Because we were supposed to meet our Guides, I saw my older guides skulking along…I felt the black, thick fur of panther. I heard wingbeats but saw no birds. I heard water. I heard the lightest ever fall of snow on pine needles. That is when I realized: my sacred inner grove is comprised of a cedar forest, where snow falls silently–I know it’s real life location, and its spirit is that of the forest next to my old beach house in Point Lookout MD. Dreams have often found me back there, seeking the dead. Since doing journey work with my grove, I have identified the personalities of many trees in my inner grove and there are all varieties of them now. There is a magic stream that cuts through just next to the grove, then more forest, then the potomac river. It is in a state of all seasons at once on the beach, but is most often winter in the grove. This was an important thing for me to remember.

These are my notes from this experience copied from my handwritten journal:

-I think it is time to accept snake as a powerful personal totem. I have been afraid of them all my life, but the mythic snake has reached out to me in ways many other animals have not. It is a different kind of connection; one of awe, fascination, terror, and respect. Not like the kinship connection I feel with panther, or the teacher feeling raven has. As I drummed on the beach, (my journey beach, not a real beach. We were doing this in the Grove inside). Two snakes wrapped around my wrists as I drummed, and as I said to them “Ok. It is time, and I accept.”, two more wrapped around my ankles. All I could feel was the rhythm of the drum as it rattled my bones, and I drew snakes out of the woods. I felt empowered like I have not in a very long time; owning a fear I guess. A huge black rat snake ran figure eights around my legs and tried to force me to dance. I wanted to sing, but I could not due to the type of journey we were doing.

-Wood spirits, snake, and wind removed wounds from my heart chakra. Felt like a javelin being melted out of me.

-Became overwhelmed with desire to help Taryn, who seemed in pain somehow.

-snow on cedars.

-snow on birches

-ice and snow in water

-snow on the beach

I can now recall some of the most unusual (and terrifying) snake encounters I have experienced:

-Snake frozen solid into water of a ditch, a Silver Snake with blue eyes (likely a black snake preparing to molt) I saw with my grandmother as a child, an eastern rattle snake my father beat to death in front of me with a bat when I was 4, a sea snake covered in snow on the beach in Bethany, A two headed snake in a ditch at my elementary school, a bloodied black snake my father beat with a baseball bat and tied around his neck while singing a song about a black snake necktie, a black snake in my room as a child, a black snake in my room as a high schooler, a dirt snake in my basement as an adult, an albino pink/white copperhead in a ditch by my house, a black snake I attempted to kill and wounded horribly with a hoe ( I am going to do a ritual and ask it’s forgiveness very soon. I just realized I should do something more formal), a baby snake I caught in an attempt to get to know and be less fearful of (I let this one go), the spirit of a snake that brushed up against me twice at Samhain (once during ritual, once during meditation beforehand), a nest of purple baby water snakes under the stoop at my beach house….

It is time that I surrender to the sacred serpent.

My journal is covered with doodles of snakes, stylized, some snowflakes, and the beginnings of a tattoo design.

This journey warmed me up to perform an urgent shamanic/reiki healing for a class participant who had a major blockage. More on that later once I copy over my notes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part of my personal Samhain practice involves honoring and remembering the dead, and giving offering to my patroness because it is her time. 

This past Samhain, I went to the grocery store and purchased candy for the ticky tees (Trick or Treaters, for those not familiar with my terms) and enough leftover so that I could also make goody bags for my Grovemates for the Big Ritual the next day. I believe this to be important to maintaining my relationship with the community, and hospitality is a virtue I hold in high regard. 

I also purchased roses: one bunch for my husband for our anniversary, a bunch of yellow ones for remembrance, and a couple for my altar for my patroness. I then visited two local places where I have encountered the dead (and the nature spirits). I drove to the Gunpowder river, crossed to the middle of the bridge on the pedestrian path, and dropped roses into the river for those who passed there…some more recently than others. I watched the roses glide downstream among the fallen leaves and became overwhelmed with a sense of peace and beauty in this act. 

ImageImage

I then drove to a local cemetery that my Grovemates and I spent much time and labor cleaning up as our Samhain community service. I left a single rose there for them and took a few photos (one of which has a sortof ghostly haze that isn’t present in the other photos and wasn’t visible at the time I took it), and offered up prayers for the dead who had been neglected for so long. 

Image

During the process of cleaning the Biddison Family cemetery, I had time among the gravestones to do a little research online and look at the actual faces of the deceased. Names and faces and honor given to them. I also researched some of my own family tree and learned more about my Irish ancestors, one of which died in Dublin but was born in DC. I had no idea I had quite so many Irish ancestors in my family. It appears that the first wave of them came over during a time of famine, at least on my paternal grandmother’s side. A lot of my family has been in this area since the United States was first populated it seems. Others spent time in New England, and I have many English relatives also. The best part was seeing the photographs of these people I’m related to; as a photographer it adds a level of intimacy that otherwise may not exist. 

Once I returned home, I threw some crab soup in the crock pot (a family favorite), and spent some time at my altar cleaning, rearranging, and offering prayers. I lit every candle until it was glowing and beautiful, offered incense and incredibly good Scotch. I said prayers and recited songs, The Foggy Dew (Despite commemorating the Easter Uprising) is a favorite of mine for Samhain. I find that a lot of time spent with my altar is spent singing, or keening, or creating wordless songs and chants. I also have a regular protection ritual that I do before I leave the house and before I do anything in a ritual sense at my altar. I will attach the text in my next post, with the understanding that people will not come along and yoink it. 

Morrighan does not always require a strict ritual format, and when She does it does not always follow the ADF Core Order of Ritual. I tend to spend a lot of time speaking directly to Her instead, and she has taught me a blessing rite specifically for Her folks. It’s direct, to the point, and effective. I sometimes combine it with the daily protection rite for a whole body experience. 

Image

At any rate, Samhain was very moving for me this year, probably because of the closeness of the ancestors and my patron this time around. My altar felt warm and sacred, and made me feel very happy and quite peaceful, like the eye of a hurricane. 

 

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started