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Under the beautiful crisp clear light of the full moon, our extended farm community gathered together for the “saining of the beasts”.  In our talking circle, we reflected on the realities of the Samhain season, specifically in relation to the animals of the farm.  I gave a bit of history concerning the old Scottish custom of saining (blessing) the herds as they come back from the summer pastures into the closer confines of the homestead.  I spoke as well about the AngloSaxon word for this Novembry season: blodmonath.  The month of blood.  This was the time when the culling of the animals would happen, depending on the size of the herd, the amount of hay stored for winter fodder, and the number of (human) mouths to feed in the community.  So this early winter season was paradoxically a time of both saining and slaughter, blessing and butchering.

For us, as for our ancestors, this is still the reality of a small scale, subsistence, off-grid farming life.  As members of our community processed from the chickens, to the sheep, to the pigs, to the cows, chanting blessings under the moon, we knew that some of these wonderful “more-than-human” persons would soon be filling our freezers and our stewpots.

This past weekend, at Knox-Metropolitan United Church in Regina, Saskatchewan, history was made.  It was, I believe, the first time that a traditional Christian church publicly hosted an event specifically around ChristoPaganism.  Someone please correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think this has happened before, anywhere.  There have been a (very) few gatherings for Christian-Pagan dialogue, but nothing that has brought Pagans and Christians together to explore the bi-spiritual path of ChristoPaganism, within the walls of a church.

I am so thankful for Pastor Cam Fraser and the congregation of Knox-Met for taking a chance, in a very public manner, to invite me to offer this introduction to ChristoPaganism.  And I'm equally grateful for the individual Christians, Pagans, and spiritual seekers who gathered together to learn, to share, to pray, and even to do ritual together.

As we enter the season of Lammastide, my eyes are drawn daily to the beautiful crop of oats growing in our garden.  The heads are filling out and passing through their milky stage. The tall stalks have survived storm winds and hail, and within weeks the grain will harden and it will be time to put in the sickle.  

In the spring, we began the sowing of this crop by gently and prayerfully burying the oat-doll which we made from the final cut of last season's harvest.  She held the spirit of the oats throughout the winter, hanging on our wall, a reminder of the continuity of life in its cycles.  After several months of good summer growth, the work of harvest will begin again.  My goodwife and I will cut the stalks, bind and stook them, thresh them, winnow them, and clean the oats, all by hand.  It is a labour intensive process, providing our breakfast porridge throughout the year. At some point in the harvest, I will inevitably curse this whole idea of “back to the land living”, with its stupid valorization of physical work. But in truth, it is a very good life.

“It is not the world who is mute, but rather we who are deaf.”  

Thus I wrote, several years back, in my book of Christian Animism.   I meant it – really, I did – but more as a rhetorical flourish than a statement from experience.  Now, the experience is kicking in.

For the past three weeks, we've been involved in a lovely and intriguing process here on the farm.  This particular season of the year brings a short period of weather where the nights fall below freezing and the days warm up in the spring thaw.  This oscillation of temperature, combined with the changing patterns of sunlight, creates  the conditions for sugar-laden sap to flow quickly in the trees. By tapping the trees and collecting this sap, we are able to enjoy the alchemy of maple syrup making.  Here on the prairies we don't have many of the big sugar maples of the eastern woodlands, but we do have Manitoba maples (sometimes called box elder, or even elf maple (!))  These maples are a little less prolific and less sweet in their sap production, but its still worthwhile to make the syrup.  

Visiting the trees every day to gather the sap is a delight in and of itself.  They are offering their lifeblood, not in dangerous quantities, but it still is a good reminder for me to thank them, and ask the Creator to bless them.  Like so many things on the farm, syrup production is derived directly from the life of other persons ... in this case, tree persons.

As part of a small community living off the grid, I often find it enjoyable to try to describe our way of life to others.  When I'm asked about our water situation, I usually quip that “yes, we have running water: I run to the lake and get water.”  

Well, actually that's not exactly true.  I generally walk slowly to and from the lake, pulling a sled filled with water pails behind me.  My “running water” joke is a fun little one-liner, but the reality is that hauling water is, for me, simultaneously a daily routine of survival and a spiritual practice, rolled into one.

A couple of nights ago, not long after Candlemas, I woke up at 4am with our farm animals on my mind.  The fire was out, the wind was howling, and it was freaking cold even under the covers.  Outside, the temperature had dropped to -40 degrees Celsius.  Factor in the wind chill and it was close to -50.  As I tried to get some warmth back into my toes, I began to worry about the animals outside.  Our small herd of cattle, horses, and sheep are all well suited to northern climates, but this type of deep cold is hard on them.  I said a prayer, and envisioned them blanketed by a protective warm layer of light and love.  I added another Spirit-song for the dogs, and all the other wild creatures on and around the farmstead.  I'm glad they are resilient, but I can't help but feel concerned for all the wights abroad on a night such as that.