The Time In-Between - theHumm January 2023

By Susie Osler

There once was a planet that was inhabited by caterpillars. It was a dazzling planet of jade and emerald greens, and sapphire and turquoise blues. Leafy, textured and abundant. In their short creeping lives the caterpillars ate, and ate, and then ate some more. Periodically their expanding bodies needed more room and they’d trade their old skins for new skins that could accommodate their expansion. This happened five times throughout the course of each of their lives. And one day, finally sated and the compulsion to consume the leaves that supported them having abruptly ended, they rippled themselves off to find out-of-the-way places where they could rest, dangling upside-down from delicate silk cups of their own making. And as they dangled there by their toes, the envelope of fleshy, green-striped skins that had housed their long bodies morphed one final time into capsules of gold-speckled jade in which they dreamed.

]

On the same planet a baby was conceived, gestated, birthed and cared for by a mother. The baby ate and ate. She grew into and out of clothing. She learned to stand, to move, to play. She became a child and then a youth. She learned to talk, to want, to relate, to wonder, to create. As she grew into a woman she hungered for the experiences of life and feasted on its many flavours — some bitter and some sweet. Her world expanded — at times so much so that she felt she was sure to burst through the boundaries of her own skin. Her encounters were many and her path meandered, but it always followed the faint pheromone of her spirit.

As the seasons of her life passed, the woman noticed that she had begun at times to feel disoriented; for the scent of her spirit, which had once been clear to her, had waned and she could not discern it any longer from all the other scents around her that had crowded in. As much as she wandered this way and that, searching for her scent, the essence of her Self had vanished. At last, tired from the hapless effort of searching, she stopped her wanderings. Her striving ceased and she withdrew to a grove in the forest. She tended to the embers of a small fire for many years, collecting fallen sticks each day with which she fed her fire. In return, the fire gave her warmth, light and beauty to behold. It kept her company with its quiet crackles and sizzles, its varying moods and animated flames. The days passed, the Sun rose and fell, and the Moon waxed and waned over the woman in the grove who was warmed by the glow of the fire that she tended.

]

Winter Solstice dawns. I’m sitting on a hill watching our star — a ball of fire 93 million miles away — rise on the south-east horizon. Light delivers the winter landscape out of darkness like watercolour seeping across the surface of paper. Later, as our star falls behind the horizon to the west, sparks from the circle of flames near me lift off like small celebrations that disappear into the gathering indigo ocean above me. Wood is morphed by heat into ether and ash as the north begins to bend towards the light.

]

There is a certain peace that comes with surrender. And surrender is useful in weathering transitions. Without a degree of disorientation and dissolution, what can be dreamed has little chance of becoming. We must, in these urgent times, find ways to surrender our outgrown skins and to offer those skins — be they individual or collective — to the flame.

Can we embrace the chrysalis, retreat to the cave, to the forest, the fireside; to pause in dark times and listen for intuition to speak of how and what we can become? What would it take to surrender to the seasonal pause, the hormonal pause, the global pause that viral-induced illness has pressed upon us? What would it take to become comfortable with a period of naked, un-becoming stillness — a time of profound porosity in which we might catch the scent of our next becoming? What does it take for the caterpillar to become the butterfly? For the woman to become the wise crone? For the acorn to become the oak?

And what will it take for humanity to exchange its skin of hubris for one of humility? For our creative capacities to become attuned to, and in service to, Life?

]

On the dazzling planet, myriad tightly folded packets of patterns are stirring, stretching against the confines of old skins. After five instars, complete dissolutions, and inspired re-assemblages directed by imaginal cells upholding the creatures’ original instructions, metamorphosis has taken place. Everywhere butterflies begin to emerge and stretch their beautiful wings. They are poised to fly.

In the forest glade, next to where the embers have been tended, stands Old Oak. Her hair is shaped wide and wild, bleached grey by the wind and weather. Her skin is fissured, her ankles thick, and her roots sink deep and weave wide. Still in her place, Old Oak shelters the birds and feeds the animals and insects of the forest. She shades the soil, and she tends to Fire with her fallen twigs and branches. Sun rises and falls. Moon waxes and wanes. Fire keeps Old Oak company with its quiet crackles and sizzles, its varying moods and animated flames. And between Old Oak and Fire rests a small pile — where a tattered wool cloak is re-membering itself back to the Earth.

Carolyne Buchanan — Every Day’s a Dog Day - theHumm January 2023

By Sally Hansen

Art… and Soul

And that’s a good thing at Hounds of The Hood Studio at Carolyne Buchanan’s art-festooned home in Carleton Place. This multitalented artist has a mission — to popularize “dog art” to the status of “real art.” On Carolyne’s canvasses, it definitely is.

Why do we tend to dismiss dog portraits as less “real” than portraits of people? For many wo/men, their dog is easily their best friend. Over time their pets’ expressions communicate as effectively as words, and they are never as hur......

The Time In-Between - theHumm January 2023