Without being able to drive now, I am at the mercy of other people in terms of transportation. Nor do I have blanket permission to bring anything I like to the new house. It is frustrating and stressful. Furthermore, it has destroyed the Wheel of the Year to some extent in terms of being able to decorate for festivals and holidays.
I have been fascinated with festivals most of my life. I became interested in the Eastern European Festival of Martisor before I ever had Romanian friends. When I met a charming woman named Adryana, she was surprised by my familiarity with customs that are virtually unknown in Western Europe and the States. She sent me a Martisor card from Romania. I still have it, but of course, it is at the OLD house.
Martisor is celebrated on different days in different countries but sadly, is over now and I missed it, partly because of an emergency with my Puttikins and partly because of a terrible snafu with my bank that was caused by PayPal and the inability of computers to deal with real people.
More snow and ice than usual this year contributed to the problem as I was unable to go to the old house at all throughout most of the month of February. Finally, I was able to visit yesterday and I found my beloved snowdrops in bloom and as yet, not stolen from the little garden in back of the house. I dug up two clumps and placed them in small pots to bring them to the new house. At that point in time, I had forgotten what day of the month it was although Martisor was on my mind because of the association of that festival with Snowdrops.
I found my Snowdrops in a local graveyard before Freya was born and through the years, they have multiplied. They really are the first flower that appears in the cycle of the year and they are fairly hardy, blooming amidst snow and ice and continuing to bloom sometimes for a fortnight. The snowdrops in the little pots have not bloomed fully yet, but have survived the move evidently, much to my delight.
The two people who understood my love of Martisor are dead now. Adryana died of a sudden brain clot. Fleming died last year after a long struggle with cancer.
Freya and I exchanged Martisors when she was a child and indeed made Martisors for one another a couple of times but she is at University now. My enjoyment of these Festivals has diminished greatly now that I have no one with whom to share them properly.
One year, I made a traditional Martisor pair of little couple from red and white yarn. In the years that followed, my Martisor couple were devoured gradually by moths. The pernicious creatures worked from the back, hidden from view until it was too late. Today, I thought I would make a new pair but discovered that although I had brought the red yarn to the new house, the white yarn remained at the old address. Very symbolic of my life in general.
The Snowdrops in the little pots remind me somehow of the Adonis plants that the ancients grew and then threw in the river as a sacrifice. They remind me as well of the plants that still are grown for Nawroz in Iran. Rather than throwing them into running water, however, I think ultimately my Snowdrops need to be planted in the earth of the new house. I will have no real spiritual roots here until some of my plants grow in this soil.
The Goddess Tree I planted at the old house died last year. It was a sign of sorts that made it clear to me that it was time to move. I grieve for her still. She was not the right sort of birch but she had power. When I placed my palms on the trunk of that tree, I could feel the thrumming of life through her veins. It rather amazed me, in all truth. Although I always have been interested in shamanism and magic, I never had the blind faith in any of it that so many people appear to be able to summon at will. Magical experiences elude me for the most part, but there are moments. One such moment occurred in the shallow caves on the French Riviera near Menton where some of the earliest human settlements have been discovered. Such experiences are unforgettable and that is all to the good.
I am a stubborn woman and refuse to admit defeat. If I cannot return to the old house for the white yarn, I will buy another skein and make a new couple to bring luck to this house. Martisor is a festival that celebrates rebirth. If one considers that our calendar does not represent an absolute, having been changed a few times through the ages, it is possible still to celebrate Martisor.
I owe it to Adryana and to Fleming both to try.
