December, the final fling of the year, the month of short days and long nights, I love to get out and make the most of the days as long as they are light, then snuggling down for the elongated evening.
A month that can seem bleak, bleakness can be restrained by the glory of the hidden nuggets we only have at the years end. December marks the time that our sun turns back to us, marks a time (should be have a clear sky) Geminid meteor shower a true celestial wonder show.
I love to draw on the sayings that my mother shared, it was December 15 years ago, a very cold and clear night, one she described as “the stars were dancing with frost” another favourite was one she borrowed from a much loved neighbour who described the world as “under the canopy of heaven”.
While out for a walk today, watching a shower making its way down the middle of the lake, dampening the brightness of the lowly winters sun, swaying over and back in a strong breeze like a cloud on a string. Making my way along the tree lined trail, lined with the leaf fall of the now bare trees. Another of these favourite nuggets on a clear day those heart lifting singing birds walk beside you hopping from branch to branch singing while on their way. On the trail this morning a robin, an spideog, sang beside me with the occasional interlude from a true December heroic bird, the little wren, an dreoilín. A beautiful sight of our little king of the birds, out flying the great eagle to wind his title, held in high regards for as long as the Irish can go back in the annals of our folklores. It was thought their sweet song was a message to the other world. No luck could come of harming our king of the birds, many a PR act tried to damage the wee wrens heroic reputation over the centuries. Still celebrated to this day just as we conclude the month on December 26th, Lá an Dreoilín, the poor wren were hunted and killed going from house to house playing music looking for food or money to bury the wren, those that did not offer ran a risk of bad luck as the wren could be buried outside the house . Todays tradition is for the entertainment and as I recall very strong diluted orange back in the 1980’s. On our escapades we only sang 4 of the lines of the song, the first 2 and the last 2, not knowing there were 8 more lines to the middle of the song.
The wran, the wran, the king of all birds,
On St. Stephen's day was caught in the furze.
So up with the kettle and down with the pan
And give us a penny to bury the wran.
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