“Love, whose month is ever May.”
—William Shakespeare, Love’s Labour’s Lost
“O Month when they who love must love and wed!”
—Helen Hunt Jackson, “May”
Hello Lovelies—
Buckets of gratitude for reading A Woman’s Place Is In the Wild. I appreciate all of you who support these weekly meditations. I have been inspired by Stephanie Land who writes compellingly about getting paid for the words we put out into the world and for the work we do, particularly as women. So I’m asking you, if you can afford it. to please subscribe (for as little as $6/mo or $60/year). Your financial support of the writing I am doing here helps me keep the lights on. I appreciate it.
The first broad-tailed hummingbird returned to the feeders a few days ago, slipping in between snow storms, which have been relentless this spring.
I heard the tell-tale whir outside, and both Greg and I stopped to watch the tiny beauty—a male—test the feeder with its long beak before settling in for a drink. Something in me lifts and lightens; joy has returned to the mountain.
The day hummingbirds appear for the first time is my favorite day of the year.
By now the long winter has wearied me. And even though the days lengthen and there are hopeful green shoots in the garden, the season meanders, rolling out in slow motion. I try to glimpse it filtered through the flickering cinematograph of storms; I’ve lost track of how many times I have watched snow fill the sky in the last weeks.
Today is May Day and whether I can believe it or not , I have arrived on its merry shore. I love this month with the the whole of my heart for its wild growth and abundance of flowers, for the return of birds and for May Day.
When I was a child, my favorite ritual was the making and giving of May Day baskets.
Back then, we brought used strawberry cartons to school, the ones with lattice sides and the whole class sat cutting thin strips of colored construction paper for the baskets. I usually chose red and pink and green, weaving a pattern into the sides of my basket. When I finished, I glued a thicker piece of paper in an arc, side to side for a handle.
The May Basket was intended for our parents, but at home, armed with supplies from school, I’d make more baskets. One was never enough. I wanted to repeat the ritual of ringing a doorbell, leaving the basket on a stoop, and running away over and over. It filled me with such joy to offer a bit of beauty to others.
I filled the baskets with flowers (real and tissue papered) and stones I found by the canal behind my house. Even then, I understood the natural world held precious gifts. Rocks carry the memory of water and earth. They are said to hold stories and we all know certain stones open certain doors. Sometimes, I’d tuck a note or a handmade card into the basket, admiring the recipient for their kindness or good-heartedness, drawing hearts. Perhaps, even then, I wrote a poem, though I think this memory must be a wishful invention.
I was five or six or seven. That little girl who loves beauty and surprise live in me still.
Now I celebrate May Day in the form of Beltane, or May Eve, when as great Wiccan Starhawk says, “sweet desire weds wild delight.” This is the time of the year when couples jumped the fire, sealing their bond, or went out into the fields where their love-making was said to make fertile the crops. Beltane is dedicated to fecundity and growth and the soil of our lives is made rich and abundant.
Each year I gather flowers and weave something colorful as I imagine what blossoms will open in my life.
And it was on Beltane, five years ago, that Greg and I wed—just the two of us—overlooking the peeper pond on Overland Mountain, in the mists of a blustery snow storm. We read poetry and vows and pledged our love to place and to each other, planting our intentions in the seeds we scattered. We’d heard the first hummingbird of the season that morning and later that summer when we repeated the wedding ritual in August in front of friends, hummingbirds whirred between us as we read passages from Wendell Berry’s The Country of Marriage.
Love and and hummingbirds and May.
For these small miracles, I am ever grateful.
What is all this juice and all this joy?”
—-Gerard Manley Hopkins
Sending you blessings for juice and joy on this Beltane and wishing you a season of fertile dreams and good growth.
Thank you for reading.
Big love,
Karen
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Upcoming Events
Mountain Words Literary Festival
May 24-26th, Crested Butte, CO
Story Catcher Writing Retreat
June 4-7, Gunnison, CO
Lighthouse Lit Fest
The Burning Heart: Finding Energy in your Short Fiction
Saturday June 8th, 1:30-3:30MT VIA ZOOM
$85
Homing In: Uncovering the Arc of your Memoir
Sunday, June 9th, 9:00-11:00MT VIA ZOOM
$85
Truth or Dare: Writing Family Stories
Wednesday, June 12th, 4:00-6:00MT VIA ZOOM
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Writing Wild with Karen Auvinen
Sunday, June 24th 10-3pm
Rollinsville, CO
Register by May 31st - $125
After May 31st -$150
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Writing Wild with Karen Auvinen
Sunday, August 4th 10-3pm
Rollinsville, CO
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After May 31st -$150
Space Limited.
Living Wild Writing & Creativity Prompts
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Being raised a Catholic and immersed in traditions that were borrowed from ancient practices, I'm sure, my May Day memories are a combination of benign and beautiful with I-can't-believe-I-swallowed-all-that-mumbo-jumbo. The elementary school nuns chose the 8th grade girl to be the May Day Queen, the equivalent of teacher's pet, and lead a procession of virginal female classmates down the center aisle of massive St. Vincent de Paul church toward the altar of the Blessed Virgin Mary (aka "the BVM"). There she would reverently walk up the steps and place a bouquet of spring flowers at the virgin's feet, then turn, eyes down, to lead the procession of girls to our seats in the first two rows of pews. The sermon at the ceremony followed the same theme: modesty, virginity, humility, and obedience. While the girls listened prayerfully, the boys slyly eyed them, hungry for a look at their legs, wearing white heels and nylons for the first time that year. May Day kicked off pastels and sandals, white gloves and new hats. Denver in the 1950's. Remembering triggers a touch of nausea. I was never worthy.