The Tale of Silverhoof

(Silverhoof Matrioshka set by Golden Cockerel from St. Petersburg... Christmas gift from my dear friend, Cherie)

Once upon a time, there was an old man named Vania who lived alone and was very lonely as he had neither wife nor child.  He heard about an orphan girl who was not wanted by the family who had taken over her old home.  Although his original intention was to adopt a boy whom he could teach to hunt and follow in his footsteps, he realised that the girl needed a family and, if she were anything like her parents, they would enjoy a good life together.

He went to visit her at her old house and found her in a corner with a cat on her knees.  The woman of the house declared that caring for Daria was nothing but a nuisance and a burden.  She had not asked for the responsibility and she and her husband would be happier without the girl.   Vania asked Daria if she would be willing to live with him instead, even though he was only a poor hunter who lived in the forest.  While telling her of his life there, he mentioned his lifelong quest for the stag with the silver hoof.  Daria was intrigued by the tale and wanted to know why he was so interested in the stag... Vania declared he would tell her all the details only if she went with him.  She agreed, on condition that he accepted her cat Moura as well.  Vania agreed and off they went.

The new family was content with their life.  Vania hunted, Daria cooked and cleaned and Moura chased mice.   The lonely old man no longer felt lonely in the least.  Daria no longer felt like an orphan and Moura no longer was thin and hungry.

Vania kept his promise to tell Daria about the White Stag.  It was a magical creature seldom seen.  He had a silver hoof on his right forefoot.  When he stamped it, a multitude of jewels spilled out onto the earth.

Winter approached and Vania  told Daria that he intended to spend the season in his hunting cabin far from all human habitation.  Daria begged to accompany him but at first he refused, saying it was no place for a child.  In the end, however, he surrendered to her wishes and all three of them, Vania, Daria and the cat Moura began the long journey to the cabin.  The villagers whispered among themselves, saying that the old man was irresponsible to take a child into the wilderness for the winter but Daria was happy to go wherever her new father went and she was determined to see the White Stag somehow.

At the cabin, Vania spent his days hunting.  Daria cooked and cleaned and Moura caught mice.  All three were happy.  One day, while Vania was out hunting, Daria heard a noise and, looking out the window beheld a gorgeous White Stag with five-pointed antlers.  She ran quickly to the door and opened it.  There was nothing whatsoever to be seen.  She thought she had to have fallen asleep for a moment and seen a vision perhaps...

The next day, while Vania was off hunting, Daria heard the clatter of hooves on the rooftop.  She quietly went to the door and opened it.  There, standing in the snow in front of the cabin was a beautiful White Stag with five-pointed antlers and a silver hoof.  Daria clapped her hands with delight.  The Stag ran off...

The next day, Daria found herself still alone in the cabin as Vania had not returned yet from his hunting trip.  Moreover, Moura the Cat had disappeared.  She was worried and went out into the snow to search for her beloved cat.  She walked until she came to a hill covered with snow.  There on the top of the hill stood both the White Stag and Moura.  The two animals faced one another, their heads nodding as though deep in conversation.  After a time, Moura began to walk away and the Silver Stag followed him.

Although Daria attempted to follow the animals, she was unable to find them.  It was growing late, so she finally realised she had to return to the cabin.  When she did, she found the Silver Stag, Silvershod on the roof.  The magical creature stamped his silver hoof and jewels flew out, into the snow: diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies, piled high.

At this moment, Vania returned from his trip and beheld the magical Stag again in conversation with the cat Moura, jewels sparkling all round them.  When he moved forward, Moura gave a strange unearthly cry and both animals vanished.  Vania filled his cap with jewels, but Daria suggested that he leave the rest where they had fallen... the sight of them glittering in the sunlight was so beautiful!  Let them enjoy the incredible display for a time.

The old man and young girl went into the house, leaving the rest of the jewels in the snow.  More snow began to fall.

The next day, Vania tried to find the jewels beneath the new snowfall but no matter how deep he dug, he could not find a single jewel.  Nonetheless, the jewels in his cap were more than sufficient to give them both a good life.  Moura the Cat never returned, however and both Vania and Daria missed her terribly...  Even so, it is comforting to think that the White Stag and Moura now are inseparable companions, friends forever!

The Language of Prayer

It was during my own childhood that the Great Rebellion against Latin took place.  Even the Church repudiated the ancient tongue and reconstructed the Holy Mass in the vernacular.  What a pity!  Throughout the world, before the pronouncements of the Second Vatican Council, worshippers could enter a Church and participate in the Mass freely, without having to struggle with a foreign language.

People justified the change by claiming that no one understood the Latin but really that makes no sense whatsoever.  The Homily never was given in Latin.  It was only the ancient set prayers such as the 'Pater Noster' (Our Father), the Gloria and the Credo that were declaimed in Latin.  I cannot believe that any practicing Catholic, or indeed any individual with a passing knowledge of sacred Music, would not know the text of these prayers.

The Church now recognises the value of the Latin Mass, however grudgingly, and there are Churchs that have added a Latin Mass to their weekly schedule.  Unfortunately, none are close enough to me and at present, I cannot travel much in any event.

Still, the old prayers in Latin give me pleasure and the very weight and resonance of the language is beautiful to me.

The following are not taken from the Mass but are extremely ancient prayers:

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O Sacrum Convivium
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O Sacrum convivium, in quo Christus sumitur:  recolitur memoria passionis eius; mens impletur gratia et futurae gloriae nobis pignus datur.

V.  Penem de caelo praestitisti eis;
R.  Omne delectamentum in se habentem.

O Sacred Banquet, in which Christ is received, the memory of His Passion is renewed, the mind is filled with grace and a pledge of future glory is given to us.

V.  Thou didst give them Bread from Heaven
R.  Containing in itself all sweetness.

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Sub Tuum Praesidium
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Sub tuum praesidium confugimus, Sancta Dei Genetrix.  Nostras deprecationes ne despicias in necessitatibus, sed a periculis cunctis libera nos semper, Virgo gloriosa et benedicta.

We fly to Thy Patronage, O Holy Mother of God.  Despise not our petitions in our necessities, but deliver us always from all dangers, O Glorious and Blessed Virgin.  Amen.

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The turning of the soul towards God during illness or medical emergency or the threat of impending death is the subject of much mockery but really, it does make sense.  The veils that separate this world from the other become tattered and thin when one sees or senses the approach of Death or even its threat.  Yes, we should be conscious of the blessings of God at all times but most people do not have the capacity to multi-task and being aware of the spiritual World while trying to perform a host of mundane tasks can be difficult.

When one is forced into physical inactivity, it is easier to return to the spiritual.  After the first operation, I was not as aware of the spiritual world as I am now, after the second.  Indeed, I had a very vivid vision during the recovery from the second operation where I saw both Christ on the Cross and our Holy Mother.  She appeared to me as she did to St. Bernadette at Lourdes but she was surrounded by flowering trees and vines.  The colours were incredibly vivid and the scent was exquisite.  Although she was dressed in blue and white, the colours of the plants that surrounded her were almost overwhelming in their vivid glory.

Christ was on the Cross, to the left of the Holy Virgin, a little in the distance, but both of them spoke to me.  In fact, I had a bit of an argument with them.  I asked, 'What is the point of all this pain and suffering?  Why have I been forced to live so long with so much pain?  Did I do something to deserve it?'

The answer was not that unexpected really.  Christ, bleeding on the Cross told me that suffering NEVER was meaningless, and never pointless.  Pain was a Teacher and it enabled us to become stronger and to see beyond the transitory to the eternal.  Furthermore, through witnessing the pain of others, we become more compassionate and empathic.  We become less selfish.... well, some of us do, I suppose.  Others have an incredible ability to ignore the pain of others or simply to find it annoying and burdensome.  I do see, however, that I became more compassionate as a human being by being forced to witness the pain of others, both animals and humans.

Our Lady looked at me with such tenderness and compassion.  She did not have to speak at all.  I had to acknowledge that she, of all human beings, understood the path of suffering.  She walked that path with her Son.  She never turned away.  She gave him strength and faith at His darkest hours.  How can a Mother bear to watch her own child in torment?  it has to be the bravest act of all, that refusal to turn away and her willingness to act as a witness to the Passion of Our Lord.

I have not had many real visions in my life.   This vision occurred at a point when my blood pressure fell radically.  No one ever will tell me what happened during or after the operation, but I know I had to have massive transfusions and that my blood pressure was dangerously low for quite some time.  No one was allowed to see me for almost two hours AFTER the operation...

At some point between the first operation and the second, a wonderful volunteer from St. Francis Parish began to bring me Holy Communion regularly.  What a difference that has made!  It is not only the Holy Communion itself or the rite...  the fact that this woman, who herself suffers from disabilities and pain, is ever willing to battle bad weather and her own problems to help others, is a source of inspiration to me.  How many of us would try to find excuses not to go out of our way in these circumstances?  I find her dedication and kindness rather amazing.

Christmas always has been a favourite festival of mine.  I love the entire Advent Season and the many traditions that our family followed.  We did not only observe our own traditions.  We would adopt traditions from other cultures and our Christmas embraced St. Nikolaus and Krampus, St. Lucia, the Nativity, Stockings and of course the Tree and after Christmas itself, the Feast of the Epiphany.

Advent 2016 and its Blessing

Such a makeshift, frustrating but I suppose potentially blessed Advent season.  I am sleeping in a recliner in the little office by the front door, in the same room as the small live Blue Spruce Christmas Tree.  Thank God for that Tree!  I insisted that Freya find a live tree to replace the one that had died quite dramatically as I lay in hospital and then in a rehabilitation facility after my first operation in June.  I vowed I would not come home to a dead tree after the 2nd operation and finally, finally, it came to pass.  The poor dead tree was carted away and a little baby Blue Spruce took its place.

Early, yes, for Christmas, having been placed in the corner before the Thanksgiving festival, but my operation was scheduled for the day before Thanksgiving.  My main focus that week before I went into hospital was the TREE, stringing lights on it with the reluctant help of Freya and making certain it had a bit of water to prevent it from following its predecessor into an early grave.

I was wise to make these preparations, as I am still unable to stand at all.  I can walk fairly well with a zimmerframe/walker, but I cannot stand.  Trimming the little Tree therefore is extremely difficult.

It has been extremely disappointing to discover that Freya does not like the trappings of Christmas much, does not take any joy in decorating and recently confessed that she does not even like dolls now.  She loved them as a child... they remain one of my great loves and it is sad not to be able to share that with my only child.

Each Christmas as a child, my sister and I received a new doll.  Most of the time, it really did not belong to us, in the sense of having any control over the doll or being able to play with him or her freely.  My Mum was a collector and the dolls usually were stashed away fairly soon in a cabinet somewhere.  Nonetheless, finding a new doll under the Tree was a thrilling experience.

We did not have any money really.  If my Mum could not afford a new doll, she would make a new outfit for a doll that we had.  One for my doll and one for my sister's doll... the dolls would disappear mysteriously from our room a few days before Christmas and appear under the Tree on Christmas morning clad in new frocks.  My favourite was a llittle frock made from fabric with a pattern of cherries on it.  She made that one for my Wendy Doll.

Vicki had a Ginny by Vogue and I had a Wendy by Madame Alexander.  Both were the same size.  They were 8 inches in height and both were 'girl dolls' rather than fashion dolls, adults or infants.  These dolls were not relegated to a display case or closet.  They were the dolls with which we played regularly.

We were a very international family in terms of our holiday traditions even though our heritage was Northern European.   Both my sister and I continue to celebrate all sorts of ethnic festivals.

One of the most beautiful festivals of the Advent Season is that of Santa Lucia.  She was a saint from Sicily but the Scandinavians adopted her and the traditions now associated with her are the ancient traditions associated with the Goddess Freya.

Santa Lucia was a virgin saint.  She is depicted dressed in a long white gown with a red sash, wearing a crown on which garlands of evergreens, red berries and white candles have been set.  The candles are lit.  She is, in effect, the Goddess of Light.

During a famine in Sweden, St. Lucia appeared in a boat laden with food, wearing her crown of light.  She saved the people of the land.... this, of course, is Freya, the Goddess of Fertility and Plenty.

One of the traditions in Sweden is that the eldest daughter of the house dresses as St. Lucia on the morning of her festival and brings a tray with a special breakfast to her parents.

I always wanted a St. Lucia doll but never had one until a very good friend sent me the American Girl doll, Kirsten with the St. Lucia outfit one Christmas.  Every year, I set her out on the festival of St. Lucia.

I knew where she was, but I cannot climb stairs yet, and all my decorations are either upstairs or downstairs.  I told Freya where she was and asked her to fetch the doll a few days ago.  She claimed to be unable to find her.  Yesterday, I begged her once again and this time, she did return with the doll.  I suppose she realised I would continue to ask her to search until she finally opened her eyes and made a serious effort.

So now I have my St. Lucia... . I did find a damaged St. Lucia Ginny doll by Vogue some time ago.  I had intended to try to repair her but that is impossible at this point in time so instead, I took one of my own Ginny dolls out of her raingear outfit and redressed her as St. Lucia.  She looks rather wonderful I must say.  I am quite happy about it.  She may not be a 'new' doll under the Christmas tree this year, but she is a doll with a new outfit, so the old family tradition is being followed still.

As a young girl, I delighted in the world of the imagination, in books and their beautiful illustrations... in artists like Arthur Rackham and Sulamith Wulfing.  John Cole's Bookshop always had a marvelous selection of cards and books from Europe featuring these artists... now, sadly, John Cole's is gone.  Sulamith Wulfing is dead and the reprints of her books are now out of print... I could not afford them when they were published and now the prices have leapt through the ceiling.   Fortunately, one can find a few illustrations on the internet, but I dearly would love to have the books.