Justin looked at me with a crooked smile.

"Do they think we're religious freaks?"

"No!" I answered with a laugh.

"How about crazy hippies?"

"Maybe. But they're coming."

This is why I love our friends-- even when I pick up the phone and ramble on about a Saint they have never heard of and the rituals that go with said Saint's celebration-- they just laugh and say, "sure, sounds fun," when in fact, it probably sounds a wee bit crazy. 

The truth is, while this festival is still celebrated in Scotland and other parts of Europe, I think Martinmas is not heard of much outside the Waldorf circles here in America.  We don't have a Waldorf community nearby, although we do have a group of families who get a lantern walk (part of the festival's tradition) together each year. 

We celebrate Martinmas more as an intimate family gathering. For me, it is a wonderful way to begin to center myself in this richly spiritual time.  For the kids, it awakens the wonder and magic of the holiday season.  

Here's a brief rundown of what we'll be doing today.

Retelling the story of St. Martinmas, the Roman solider best known for stopping and ripping his cloak in half to share with a beggar one dark and cold night.  The boys will act the story out (I'll tape two cloaks together for an easy "rip."

Go on our own little lantern walk.  We make our own lanterns using ball jars, tissue paper, and watered down glue (one part glue, two parts water). 

 The kids brush on the tissue paper with the glue water, 

and when they are dry, Justin and I use floral wire to make lantern holders. 

You can also use more natural materials-- this lantern of Noah's from four years ago has a leaf in it and is still my favorite.

We'll tell a story to connect the lanterns with the evening. I love this one, found on Our Little Nature Nest

The Lantern    

There was once a boy called George who had been outside in the garden all through the Summer running after the butterflies, jumping like a grasshopper, singing like a bird, and trying to catch the sunlight. One day when he was lying on his back in the meadow gazing up into the sun-filled sky, he said, “Dear Brother Sun, soon the Autumn winds will blow and wail, and Jack Frost will come and make us all freeze, and the nights will be long and cold.”  Brother Sun pushed the clouds aside and said, “Yes, it will be dark and cold. In the deep midwinter, warmth and light live deep within, hidden from sight. In the time of dark and cold, you will tend the Light Within.” “But,” said George, “How will I tend this Light when it’s dark everywhere around me?”“I will give you a spark of my last Autumn rays once you have made a little house for it, for this spark must be guarded well. It will light the way for you to tend the Light Within throughout the time of dark and cold.” And then Brother Sun once hid again behind a cloud. George went home and wondered how best he could make a little house for the spark of the sun. He took a thick piece of paper and painted a beautiful blue and yellow watercolor upon it. When it was dry, he cut windows into his painting. Then he placed colored tissue paper on the back of his watercolor – and – he formed it into a lantern. He took a candle and put it into the middle of his lantern. And, as it was growing dark, he went outside with it. George held the lantern up above him and said, “Brother Sun, I have made a little home for one of your golden sparks. Please may I have one? I will guard it well.” Then Brother Sun looked out from behind a cloud and said, “You have made a beautiful home. I shall give you one of my golden sparks.” And suddenly, George saw how the windows of his lantern were lit up, and as he looked into the lantern, he saw a spark happily dancing on top of the candle. Oh, how happy the light was in his lovely lantern! It shone and shone so brightly. “Thank you, Brother Sun,” George called out, “Thank you.” And he took his lantern and carried it carefully home singing:

 The sunlight fast is dwindling,

My little lamp needs kindling.

Its beam shines far in darkest night,

Dear Lantern, guard me with your light

~ from Autumn, Wynstones Press, originally by M Meyerkort and revised by L Sutter.

We'll share a meal of soup and bread (the bread will be broken and passed around the table) and then we'll light our lanterns and talk a walk through our woods, singing songs that can be found here.

The simplicity and beauty of Martinmas makes it easy to incorporate into a family evening.  As we head further toward the solstice and the season of giving, this is a wonderful opportunity to slow down and celebrate the light that shines within us all.  

...And of course, it's a great excuse to gather a group of little ones together and go romping through the woods after dark-- who wouldn't love that??

It was also a weekend where I found my camera strapped to me more often than not.  Standing in the fields, soaking in vitamin D, I noticed just how good I felt. It led me to pay attention-- to really pay attention-- to where light was, even as it grew dark outside. It led me to notice how light makes everything look different, simply by the way it reflects and shadows. It led me to be aware.  And in doing so, I felt peace and stillness...and so much joy.

I found it in trees

and in footsteps

in firesides 

fields

forests

and home.

And yes, even in darkness. 

This was originally posted over on Cluck and Tweet last June.  However, we've been playing with our story cards so much lately (and because they could make a really cute little holiday gift), I thought I'd repost it here.

"Tell me a story."

I can't tell you how many times those words get recited over the course of a day.  My children ask me for stories galore and I too, beg for their imaginations to float me away to lands where superheroes like this one, 

known to mere mortals as Super Bomber Kale Man (seriously) are able to protect the weak and weary.

Truly, we are a family that loves to read, to recite (okay, well, I still love to recite. The kids? Not so much), and create tales of all kinds.  It's no wonder that a game geared toward doing just that caught my eye at our local bookstore recently. And while this game does look fantastic, I opted to put our dollars into actual books that day, and instead came home with an idea for a craft...one that I am SO happy we did, and so glad I skipped the purchase and went handmade.  

Introducing, Max's Story Card Game

We started with a piece of paper, folded in four even parts.  In each square, Max gave me an action to write (my favorite was "hugging mama") and he added the illustrations. We completed several other papers with people, places, and things drawn on them. It took us a couple days to do this, more because I wanted to avoid Max burning out than anything else.

Next, we used our handy-dandy laminator (oh, how I love this gadget. You can pick up the same inexpensive but effective laminator I use in our Amazon store), and we laminated the sheets. 

Max was mortified by the smell (which is almost non-existent) but he soildered through.

Once the sheets were laminated, we cut them out and began to play!

To play, we separated the cards into piles (actions, people, places, things) but I think it would be just as fun to draw five random cards...and also a good way to learn what needs to be available to make a story...

So Max's first story was about a boy named Sam who was playing soccer on a UFO in order to win a giant dumbbell. Very interesting, indeed.  

We have played (and played and played) this game since its creation, and have been steadily adding cards to our deck.  We also, of course, had to sew up a little bag to keep the cards.

Tell me, what ways do you tell stories with your kids?

Fields are being turned and prepared for rest.  Geese, in their haphazard V's, are moving southbound in sulking skies.  In the woods, animals are edging toward the middle of the forest, gathering strength for the season to come.  In my house, I feel it too, and this year it seems more palpable than ever. Two days ago, I began my 31st year of life. 

It was an odd day that had me mopey and feeling strange and empty, despite knowing it wasm like always, so full of blessings.  Maybe it was because 31 is a step away from a milestone-- a decade change that for me, came with the high of a huge surprise party. Maybe it was the fact that Justin has been gone so much, and well, I'm just tired.  I could simply be a birthday brat-- I'll admit to being accused of that once or twice in my life.

Or maybe it was because I feel increasingly tied to the spirit of the seasons, and the beginning of November marks a shift, a path for both coming and going, an earth settling into its sunset.

With Advent season less than a month away and the winter solstice on the horizon, rich spiritual and natural celebrations will soon fill our days.  And what I think I've realized, as I reflect on the empty, waiting space I sensed on my birthday, is that this year, more than ever, I want to--and am ready to-- reach for my inner light as we enter the darkest of days. So this month, my mindfulness will be focused on the essence of that light-- what feeds it, how to nurture it, and how to carry it forth as a lantern in the unlit woods.  

I am so pleased and honored to welcome a new sponsor, Nova Natural Toys + Crafts to this site.  I am a huge fan of this company and its beautiful, simple, and responsibly-made toys.  I'm excited to introduce folks to such a wonderful source of imagination-building products, especially right before the holiday season. I know I'll be helping Lizzie write a letter to Santa for a play kitchen she's sure to love...

And I'm drolling over so many other great gifts....

   


Um, okay, so obviously I could keep cutting and pasting all night-- because there is so much to ooh and ahh about whenever I'm on the Nova Natural website. Click here and see for yourself!

Once I got my hands out of the pumpkin seed jar (ahem), we set to work creating new identities.

From the scariest of the bunch (a voodoo priest-- notice the gnome and hand-sewn dolls suffering with so many pins on his belt)...

to my black belt tae kwon do master (thank goodness for friends and hand-me-downs)-- the 9000th costume, but one he wore (with wooden audiences watching his every ninja-esque move) all weekend long...

to another perfect hand-me-down, this time in the form of a very scary tree frog,

we had quite a good time getting into character!

And playing with fabulously dressed wizards and trash cans and gnomes...and Samantha's that are normally Sams...

Early yesterday, while the kids built train tracks for Lizzie (she now has Noah and Max's old sets, and they are getting so much use again!),

 I sat reading a notebook of my favorite poems, including this one, by Mary Oliver::

The Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

(from the Paris Review, 1992)

Like any good poem, those words danced in my head, colored my thoughts, rose my awareness for the rest of the day.  And as I glance back through the week, it brings so much deep appreciation for each little moment, for each spoken word, for each breath, falling leaf, and song from nature.  So today, I'm giving thanks.

I'm thankful for

:: my brother helping carve pumpkins with Justin away.  

And also, for the fact that my children know well the dirt in which those pumpkins were grown.

:: technology, as strange as that seems, because of our ability to talk and see J while he's gone.  And also, for the way it allows me to sit for a moment, and watch my children light up with joy.

:: Noah, so suddenly grown up

and also, the way he still makes a face-- the same face for 10 years-- when first touching pumpkin guts. 

:: For Max, and his exhausting and wonderful energy

and the way his laughter is so full you can almost see it spill into the air

:: For this girl and her bossy nature

and mothering ways

and also, for corduroy dresses, stripy tights and red shoes.

:: But perhaps most of all, for how we celebrated yesterday's gift of hours of blue sky and sunshine with lots of silly outside play

And also,  a walk in woods with a good friend, a babe on my back, and boys that ran ahead only to still come home behind,  because they had to pause in discovery of  a woodpecker.  I love their awe and reverence for something as simple and complex and connected as the sound of a bird's beak against bark. 

I feel like I need to stand up, raise my hands and say, "I admit to sometimes making three entirely different dinners every night to accommodate for the rotating list of most-picky eaters in this house."

There. I said it.  

I have longed for the rhythm of sacred family dinnertimes for, um, ever now. 

The problem is, I have incredibly picky, texture-sensitive (heeellllloooo gag reflex) children.  Whenever I've gotten on a dinner-focused kick, it always has ended badly-- power struggles, tears all around, and incredible frustration.  So, for years, dinner has been less-than-ideal.  And often, in shifts.  

I tried to tell myself that because we homeschool, because we don't over-schedule and are together so very much anyway, that putting a ton of energy into family meals just wasn't that important.  With babies and cranky toddlers, weird work schedules and staggered bedtimes, there was a pretty big chunk of time that a dinner routine was almost impossible.  Letting go of guilt about that has freed me up to revisit the subject, and to see that in this moment, we're getting to a place where family meals are doable, enjoyable, and yes, wonderful for our rhythm.

Part of this is the help factor:: the boys are hold enough to both really take responsibility for chores in the kitchen-- from cooking to compost carrying, table setting to sibling herding.  

And there is the meal planning, and Sunday extra cooking, when time allows, which is a huge blessing on the eating-at-a-reasonable-hour front.

We've also gone back to that family dining bible, Feeding the Whole Family, and are making some major changes in how dinner is done in our house.  I only make one meal now.  Instead of turning our dinner into a full scale you-will-eat-what-you-are-given battle ground, however, I'm being careful to cook meals that have a least one "winner" on the plate, even if its only sliced carrots.  The kids have been told, kindly but firmly, there will be no dramatic flailing or wailing or claims of poison via parsnips.  If they do, they leave the table.  If they only eat a smidge, they get toast before bed.  And you know what? It's working.  We've been able to sit at the dinner table every night-- with candles lit and Johnny Appleseed's blessing sung-- and enjoy our meal. And most importantly, our time together.

This is the thing with rhythms:: they change. They ebb and flow with ages.  They get lost and found after births.  But being open to gaining rhythm during sacred times-- like the dinner hour-- that, I think, is the key to finding a flow to our days.  We learn to be flexible. We learn to fall down, sometimes cry, and then, get back up. As mamas, we're moving through a very deep, natural rhythm of parenting and growing family bonds-- we only need to trust we'll see those openings for connection...and suddenly, our days fall perfectly in to place.

and knowing we need a day to watch the way light dances

and the way our children play

or ponder.

Sometimes, it means having the rest and space to whip up a last minute (or last seven minutes) reminder of home for a weary traveller who is on the road, again, for five days. 

The idea-- a family heart with special pocket for love notes-- came from Amanda Soule's wonderful book, Handmade Home.

And sometimes, it means being quiet and grateful for the moment, knowing there's lots to look forward to in the coming days.

Here's to following your rhythms, whatever they might be this Wednesday....

Ahem.

Yeah. 

So anyway, we spent the week locked away from the world, and with 30-plus mile an hour winds, sleet, or rain wiping away any desire to step outside, the kids got a wee bit stir crazy.  By Saturday, Max and Noah had turned every Lego guy they own into a green or blue blob, courtesy of our glass paint markers.

 (Notice the shirt? I love it!)

Lizzie was on her upmteenth (requested via pointing and head-tilted smiles) photo session. Of course, I happily obliged. 

She also wanted to try on her Halloween Costume-- which was Max's where-everywhere outfit a few years ago-- and boy, did she love it. Meet Elizabeth, the scary tree frog (growling was necessary and constant. The boys thought perhaps she'd be better as a poison dart frog).

As for the grown-ups in bunkerville, well, I spent some half-aware and frustrating moments with my sewing machine before walking away with a little ray of sunshine:: my reversible jaquard ribbon headband (twill tape tie back, sewn inside the ribbons before sewing up the short-side seams).

And bless Justin's heart-- the man made another two bushels worth of applesauce. 

Just in time for sanity-saving, for a glorious two hours on Sunday the sun peered through the thick cover of grey.  My three boys could not get out the door and into the woods fast enough.  When they returned, I burst into giggles and smiles at their dirt-stained faces.  

Noah led me through a small, freshly cut path, so excited to show me what they'd been up to. The trees around us were balding, top branches bare from the heavy winds, bottom branches heavy with wet leaves.  The forest was quieter than the last time I'd been there. The woodland floor is covered now, a collage of reds and browns and yellows that will, by spring, be fading into the ground. It makes our steps silent.  It makes the trees seem muted and distant when the breeze weaves through their skeletal limbs.  

Seeing the new fort-in-progess in the middle of these woods-- these tall trees that seep magic-- was simply amazing.

It felt like it had always been there, and seeing the pride and joy in my boys' faces took me right back to the days of my own secret forts and teepees and houses made of mud and sticks.  

Although they don't know it, stepping inside that fort was like spending a day at the spa for me.  I felt the crisp air rush deep into my lungs.  I felt the domestic annoyances of the week wash away.  I walked out totally refreshed, reminded of the rich, rich blessings of living where we do.