A
Midwinter Night's Dream

The
Muse's News for Imbolc 2009

©
2009 Oona McOuat

The night sky is the colour of a concord grape. Glistening from its depths are a zillion pinpricks of light. Constellations so often unseen here in the cloudy Pacific Northwest flank a smiling crescent moon. As I drink in the peace of this midwinter's night, I am filled with awe at its majesty
and promise. There is so much beauty and potential stretching out before me, so much mystery; so much that remains unknown.

Photo
by Leigh Hilbert

Photo
by Leigh Hilbert

Photo by Stocks Photographs

Photo
by Leigh Hilbert

Photo by shaneandruth

Photo by law-keven

This came from my friend Krista of Generacion in Portland, Oregon: "The Mayan glyph for birth means to touch the earth, and in traditional Celtic times, newborns were taken at high noon to touch their brow to the earth."   As we prepare for the season of birth and rebirth, it is a wonderful time to touch the earth and to ponder on how our lives are connected to the world around us.

Photo by Fort Photo

The nights are growing shorter now but they are still the nights of winter's dreamtime, nights of warm nest beds and bedtime stories. As I hiked up the mountain today - the hills in the distance today still covered in snow - a simple story came to me. I will share it with you here.

Photo
by Leigh Hilbert

Photo by Kmax

Photo
by Leigh Hilbert

photo by Sfphotocraft

Photo by SLENGfJES

Photo
by Leigh Hilbert

Photo by Kmax

Blessed
Midwinter dreams to you,

Oona

Here in the Cave

The Muse's News for Winter 2008

© 2008 Oona McOuat

Here in the cave it is cozy. A fire burns in the stove and night enfolds me like a pair of flannel pajamas. Here in the cave it is silent. The phone does not ring, the traffic stops. Mind chatter gives way to being and breath. Here in the cave it is still. I am alone. I sink into this space of solitude and watch sorrow and loneliness surface and settle and I listen to their story. Here in the cave it is dark. But there are windows, and if I pull back the curtains a perfect, tiny crescent moon fills me with her light.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Deep, deep, deep in the heart of December,
Deep deep, deep in the womb of the mother,
Deep, deep, deep where there is no other
Song but the song of my soul…

Solstice Chant © Anne Bearheart

Last Week's "Cosmic Smile" captured by Leigh Hilbert

Advent. The dictionary says that beyond being the season before Christmas it is the arrival of an important person or thing….I stop to reflect. Is this perhaps the downfall of modern humanity? We focus on what might happen, what will happen, what we will to happen and miss the moment? So, is all this frenzy of Christmas feasting and frolicking, this attachment to holiday tradition, this shopping and baking, decorating and dragging our sniffling and sun-starved bodies from one potluck or choral event to another an authentic celebration of the season? Some of it may be, but much of it may also be a way of avoiding the gift of the cave - the deep, dark, quiet of these short days and long, velvet star-studded nights.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Here in the north country, the earth grows still now as if hollowing out a cradle for the rebirth of the light. I love the winter Solstice. I love Christmas. And I know if I don't sink into the cave, I will neurotically or habitually fill the emptiness and miss the richest gifts this period of advent has to offer.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Yes, like all of you no doubt, I have been busy. This was a magic autumn spent recording with Daryl Chonka, a musical soul brother who has helped me create a beautiful thing. (I will let you know when it is ready.) The most wondrous part - all of this was done within walking distance from my home - the album photo shoot, the recording, the mixing, the mastering. Come on, I'll take you there….

Photo by Kmax

Go through the gates that lead into and out of the vineyard. Walk past the lambs who are almost full grown and no longer scurry away when you pass. Climb over the neighbor's fence. Be careful not to tear your pants. Take the trail that crosses the still dry creek. (It's been such a warm, atypical fall here.) Follow the path of soggy, russet maple leaves. Notice the sprouts covering the forest floor and the young nettles springing up as if it is spring. Wonder if one day soon the climate here will rival that of Hawaii… Pass the copse of fir trees and inhale their good, green scent. Stop when a flock of skittish starlings suddenly lights on the overhead branches and bathes you with their chatter.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Walk through the same sword ferns that filled the ohia forest on your tropical island home. Jump over the birch tree that fell in a recent windstorm. Do not take your usual route up the mountain but instead head down into the valley. Enter the yellowing blackberry thicket. Step out onto the reddish dirt road and you have arrived at the studio, the magic place where music is birthed and captured and then sent out to the world.

(And here is the luminous cast of characters who have joined me in this sonic cave...)

Jami Sieber on the cello

Desmond on vocals

Richard Lee on woodwinds

James Mutubu on vocals

Chris Bertin on percussion - this is his handmade Mother drum

Producer, engineer and musician extrordinaire Daryl Chonka & Chris jam on the didg

Zavallennahh Rokeby-Thomas on violin

Corbin Keep ..o

Eventually, soon, this wonderful music must leave the safe, dark womb of the studio and be released to the world. How, you might ask? Much of it from my home computer.

The internet has changed everything. Everything. I am beginning to wonder if it is irrevocably changing me. Yes, it creates more empathy, a sense of global connectedness. It teaches me to communicate with few words and big presence and to use instant discernment and intuition when assessing someone or something I stumble upon on there. But when I go on the net I am opening an energetic door that invites all kinds of things to come to its threshold. I wonder how much of this is actually entering me. There is something very intimate about sitting down with my computer.

As I develop my myspace site I am discovering the internet allows instant friendships to form with hundreds of people most of whom I'll never meet. We are all on a first name basis. Yes, there is connection - sometimes it stays on the surface, sometime it runs quite deep. Each friendship is like an energy thread that reaches out from my psyche. How many of these can I support before I become diluted? This way of connecting creates a speedy sort of mind buzz, a heavy-headed eye burn that must be counterpointed with walking in the woods or touch or having a bath to keep me in my body. And yet it is addictive. The flickering, seductive screen keeps the dark away.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Just when I feel I am stretched to the end of my cyber-networking capacity, I am told about Twitter - the new way to make your mark in the music world. Three times a day, I am encouraged to give short reports about where I am and what at I am doing. I can text messages from my cell phone. (What cell phone?) I can invite people to "follow" me and I can "follow" them, which means we can check our email a hundred times a day and voyeuristically discover what we're all having for breakfast.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Supporters of this site say it will fend away the paparazzi (shucks - I was kind of getting fond of them) as you are openly sharing the juicy tidbits that keep your fans hooked. They say it is a great way to make lasting connections, and that you can quickly weed out those who are authentic from those who are not, just by reading their two line "blogs" …

Photo by Kmax

And I wonder - would an authentic artist be playing her harp, musing in the woods, sitting and writing words that flow from her heart or would she be calculating that if she tells the world she is going to drive to town to buy some light bulbs she will somehow endear herself to them and sell more CDs? Don't most artists already find it challenging enough to bridge their feelings and perceptions with the world and/or distinguish the world from their feelings and perceptions without making their very lives a consumable piece of art? I can't do it. I cannot trade real relationship and true communion for cyber speak. Yes, this new way of recording and selling music is all computer based and yet I cannot allow the computer to become the center of my universe. I must balance the disembodied communication and fuzzy connection to the physical world it fosters with the visceral, the firm.

Photo by Fort Photo

So yes, the cave is a little harder to get to than it was 10 years ago before the onslaught of the World Wide Web. (Spell-check likes to capitalize this.) Even for someone who spends most of her waking days (and sleeping nights) in a tiny cottage on a small island, without company or television, heating with wood and drinking and washing with well water…

What then must I do to return to the cave of myself? Stop. Unplug the computer. Turn out the lights. Light a candle. Sit in the dark and mourn my losses, count my blessings, envision what I want my life and the world to be like. Resist the temptation to fill time, spend time, spend money, eat snacks, numb out. Be wild. Get outdoors. Get sweaty, muddy, real. Allow things to die without immediately trying to fill the space that's left behind.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

This advent, I am opening to the adventitious - that which comes from outside in an accidental sort of way. Some might call this magic. Some might say nothing happens by chance, that it is here in the cave of deep self, as we sit and strip down to bare bones and commune with the Mystery, that we call the unexpected forth. We make space for great miracles. We build a darkly rooted foundation for the great tree of Light to come.

Photo by Stocks Photographs

Here in the cave, alone and yet together, we are dreaming the dark. We are dreaming a balanced, loving world into form. May this season of dying and rebirth bring you peace,

Blessed Be,
Oona

Surrender

The Muse's News for Autumn 2008

© 2008 Oona McOuat

The first leaves fall, letting go of their branches, surrendering to darkness and decay. Today there is a muted quality to the light - pearly grey, autumnal, retreating.

Out come the wool sweaters, in comes the wood, and on goes the woodstove. There's soup in the pot - carrots, peppers, the last of the basil, the first of the red kuri squash. All day I feel sleepy, like I want to curl up and dream… 

But there is so much to do. My album is the first priority. But there's a kids choir to pull together for an environmental fundraiser next month - rumour has it Raffi may join us on stage....   I have been asked to prepare this same yet nonexistent children's choir to sing on the soundtrack of a documentary on Jade Bell being produced by Netwerk Records' Ash Sood.  I will be performing with Victoria based Puente Theater as a a part of their multicultural storytelling troup in October.  I am the guest artist for Salt Spring based Stagecoach Theater's 2009-2009 season.  There is talk of creating an original play from my lyrics.....

(Time to take a deep breath....)

Last night the stag returned, ambling rather ungracefully - for a deer - through my rock garden, not at all perturbed by my presence. (He had after all stood munching apples two feet from my window for hours last fall, wondering what strange music my fingers were typing and why I was so mesmerized by a small, illuminated box.)

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Photo by Kmax

Performing with Iridescence Dance Theater: Photo by Leigh Hilbert

"Watch out for those finger buzzes!" she hollers. "Don't play too dynamically or the notes will jump out!" "Keep it even, stick to that click track." "Remember the 12 measure instrumental and don't forget to go back to the bridge." "What ever you do, don't make a mistake or we'll have to go through this whole ordeal all over again…"

Photo by Kmax

Photo by Kmax

As I think about beats and intonation, cellos and drums, part of me sinks into the universal flow of pure essence, while another part sits watching, waiting, profoundly aware of the critical place we humans dwell in on this planet at this time.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Once again, the US election falls near my birthday, and I wonder how the cards will fall, what will unfold as a result of the choices made on November 4th. A wise yet wordly presence inside me doubts that those who would practice electoral sleight of hand will let a heartfelt leader win the day.

Photo by Kmax

Photo by Kmax

Performing with Iridescence Dance Theater: Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Photo by Kmax

Summer dances in and out of presence this year. With the first warm days in early March I planted seeds, certain that an early, balmy spring would soon transform my garden beds into a fecund oasis of near self sufficiency.

But the warmth was short-lived. It was a spring and is now a late summer of wood fires, wool sweaters and toques.

My sister Carol and I sporting our toques

It snowed in April. The past two years I was lake swimming by May, but this year, the generally cool temperatures have made the thought of jumping in the water highly unappealing.

Meandering into a lake water nymph style a year ago

Photo by Kmax

I transplanted the first seedlings I planted into the garden in April. Only some of them survived. I then started a second batch of seeds which I put out in May….. By June a part of me just didn't understand how the sun could be at its apex but nothing was ready to eat yet….. (Okay, I did eat some kale and arugula that had over-wintered pretty well, but that was in February!!) And surely, shouldn't the weather be consistently warm when it's summer?   I mean - isn't that how it was when I was a kid, or is selective memory and not global climate change at work here?

Photo by Kmax

Why does the weather matter? Is it because as humans we need to know there are some things we can count on? Do those of us living in a northern climate want a guarantee that we will get our fair share of light and warmth, enough to make the long, dark days bearable? This summer, a part of me resigned myself to always being cold or being prepared to be cold here. Except for on those sporadic summer-look-alike days that come like a blessing or a benediction and renew faith.

Photo by Kmax

Last night was like that. I went to a west-facing beach I'd never been to before with a friend and her three little girls. Off went the corduroy pants, wool socks and hoodie. Ah - bare skin, the ocean's edge, sunlight dancing off the water and kissing my head, my hands, my toes…. A little bit of that Hawaiian beach feeling enveloped me. The lazy reassurance that one can lie at leisure on the sand, not having to grab the nearest fleece blanket when the sun goes behind a cloud. Trust. I could trust that I would be warm. I felt the armor of winter, the part of me that has come to believe, or fear, that Canada is always freezing, cautiously begin to melt. I guzzled the setting sun's rays like I used to drink only-served-on-special-occasions ice cream floats, sipping so hard on the straw the fizz went up my nose. I imagine it's similar to growing up in a home where you are often hungry. When the fridge is full, you want to eat as much as possible just because you can.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

There were surfboards on the beach. Windsurfing boards without their sails to be precise, but large enough so that I could paddle out with the adventurous six year old Zama Rose on the back. ("Are we deep yet, Oona? Are we really deep?")

Zama Rose tenderly cradles a baby chick

Sea water seeping between my belly and the board, arms a little numb from the cold and from paddling, paddling, but oh, the freedom, the joy, the body's remembering of lying on my belly, paddling, paddling out to sea. Funny, but surfing in Hawaii was always a bit stressful for me - the reef, the big waves, the undertow, the currents, the risk of getting too much sun, the being held under and flipped a thousand ways and praying that you were heading up and not down as you grew short of breath - but now, my back arched in the just so surfer paddling position, the softness of the ocean as it resists the movement of my hands, I am at peace.
"Are we going to go swimming, Oona?"
"Yes" I answer. "Who should go first?"
"You," she says, then impetuousness gets the better of her and she jumps into the shockingly cold water, delight and panic co-mingling on her beautiful, open face. I lie ready to pull her out at any moment, but she dog paddles back and shimmies back onto the board, laughing and shivering with joy.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

I dive in. The water is clear and cold and greener than the Hawaiian Pacific.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

I swim a bit, reveling in the buoyancy, the familiarity of being lifted and carried by the salt and the sea. I climb back on the board, the blood rushing to the surface of my skin, my pollen sensitive sinuses flushed and clear, my body feeling like at last it is home. I dive in again, wanting to experience the life-quivering vitality that this chilly ocean mother brings.

Later, I sit, blissful, on shore wrapped in a yellow towel. Two year old Nusha has taken an unexpected dunk and is crying. Eventually she says proudly: "I got wet", but for now she is snuggling into the warm and familiar curves of her earth mother's body.

Nusha's 2nd Birthday Party

Four year old Ava wades elegantly in her underwear, exploring, but not pushing past her comfort zone. Zama paddles back out, then comes to shore with a perfect sea weed hula skirt draped across the board.

"Look I found this. Would you like this little skirt, Oona? I think it will just fit."

Baby's First Luau

Painitng by CC Arnott in honour of her 1 year old Grandniece's birthday.

(Hawaiians believe it takes a year for the spirt of the child to fully enter the body and they celebrate the child's "arrival" with a big 1st year birthday bash!)

Mermaid momma Shellyse goes in the hard way, twice, the painful wade from shore, icy water moving from knees to thighs to waist to…. I can do it…. the plunge, the shriek. The gift of this body.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Summer comes reluctantly, in bits and pieces this year, but perhaps this helps us savour the moments we have with her; grab them passionately, with a child's enthusiasm, joy and vigor. Live now. Live big. Live beautifully. Celebrate and give thanks.

Blessed Be,
Oona

Epilogue

I am lying in a tub of warm well water, floating, rinsing last night's salt from my skin and hair. This tub has been my sanctuary, my connection to the water world that was once such an important part of my daily life. I am lying in a tub of warm well water and I am floating in the small warm pool off the shores of Pohiki. Sacred pool, mermaid pool, healing pool. Coconut palms silhouetted by a perfect blue sky. Sun filtering through their strong, symmetrical branches. Tiny, near invisible fish nibbling at my feet and fingers. My hair is a halo, my body weightless, the volcanically heated water a conduit for Pele to speak and heal through. So often, so much, too often, too much … E ho mai…. let it go, release, let it flow like lava to the sea.

Homage to Pele

(This image is time exposed, but untouched. On a full moonlit night I knelt & prayed, while lava flowed past me & into the sea)

Photo by Leigh Hilbert