From Yule to Imbolc: 6 weeks of story and song

As mentioned in our last blog, we kicked off this year with the firm resolve to carry on planting "a handful of seeds in the hearts and minds of the children we are blessed to play with for this leg of their journey."  What we weren't exactly sure of was who would these kids be? This was a riddle baited like a worm on a hook that we long since sunk are starving jaws into waiting to be reeled in.

The southeastern coastline of the People's Republic of China, where the water borders between China's South and East Sea blend in a safe-harbored ebb and flow protected by typhoon inflicted Taiwan is speckled by an infinity of quaint god fearing fishing villages. For more than a year, our family was courted by several of these offshoots from the major city of Shishi in the Fujian Province. In the fall of 2016, enamored by the local masonry of the simple yet enviable rock-solid homes carved out from the countless quarries the southern chip of Asia has sat upon for millennia, my wife and I swore to the endless gods, of each of the untold temples we passed on our nubile walks of dreams and longing, that one day our kids would ride their bikes down these narrow streets making friends with kids oh-so-fortunate to grow up where houses have doors meant only for keeping out an unwelcome cold front.   

This past Yuletide, the fishing village of Wài gāocūn (外高村) finally pulled us into her boat--a strange catch indeed. For we, though being the fish audaciously proclaimed our captors to be our prize catch and have been feasting on their rich flesh of mostly untainted rural culture ever since. Ecstatic, after having lived 3 years in metropolitan China where, just like in the west: fires and anything natural is done away with, we set out to haul in a Yule Log and kicked off our return to the home-we-never-knew to the tune of some good ole folk songs and story. Our djembe's, snug between our thighs, rang out like the hearts of a pack of wolves coming to a rest after a good hunt. Our ukes, nestled close to our chests chugged away to the same wild beat as our boisterous multi-lingual wassailing rang out with a strange glee only those who have long awaited a big dream to come true would know. Oh, and that riddle I mentioned, well she began to reveal herself as the neighborhood squirmish kids wriggled in and gathered around the fire.

And they have been coming back ever since! As I step out on my porch for a sun salutation I am met by curious eyes that burst into laughter and seek cover in the alleys they reappear from, in larger numbers, upon our return from a day of work in the city. They are thieves that steal our children for adventure and mischief. But they have also, oh so quickly, stolen our hearts. And so, every Sunday as the sun sets in the west where we bit into the hook, we do our best to pay back our debt to their beauty and their fishing ancestors and deities who reeled us into this quaint little village that has a strange sense of home. 

This last Sunday, we celebrated Imbolc together. This raucous stirring crew was in charge of gathering the wood and digging out the fire pit. As we prepared the space I realized they are shapeshifters. Once worms that lured us half a world a way to live in one of their neighboring stone homes, they were now ants content toiling in what for them is just another form of play. The oldest was assigned the lucky task of lighting the dry pine needles that quickly set the bonfire ablaze. To our surprise, many of the songs were not so new and foreign anymore. Though our jumping through the fire was clearly a first for all but our two boys. Fear sized up to risk and courage and fell short as they went around again and again for another leap. Tired we settled down for the telling of the story of Brighid. But you'll have to stumble down our alleyways around sunset on a Sunday if you want to hear the wisdom we found in the tale spun that night. And if you do, you better not pack lightly, cause you'll probably just want to stay and plant your fair share of seeds into the hearts and minds of these fishing village worms.

The Hawk trilled softly. 

“The Song is a gift to be given freely. 

But know this: once you know this Song and have sung it, 

you must be prepared to teach—

for once you make its words, its rhythm your own, 

it is not something you will be able to hide away from the world. 

The brightness of this Song will radiate from you, 

and many will seek you for inspiration and guidance. 

Do you still wish to learn?”