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One of the many things I appreciate about contemporary “Northern Traditions”, or Heathenry, is the reclamation of lost words. These days, it is the word frith which is catching my attention. Theodish elder Winifred Hodge has this to say about frith:

Every year it surprises me. Saskatchewan winters are long and hard, beginning in November and not really done until well into April. That's a lot of snow and cold, grey skies and skeletal trees. Toward the end, the snow melts away and the ice releases its grip on the lake, but things still feel dead ... muddy and spent.

I know, right?  I'm in the wrong season.  Bones are for Samhain, when the Wheel turns us toward the dark, and we contemplate our mortality, gazing into the shadowed eye-sockets of a bleached skull.  Bones are not for spring, not for warm weather and shoots of green and vernal bunnies.  Bones are a bit macabre for that, yes?  ... I thought so too.

But here on the farm we have a black dog named Shadow, who has a love affair with bones.  Throughout the late fall and winter, while the butchering season endures, Shadow delights in raiding the slaughter-pen for all types of cast-off body parts:  hoofs, pigtails, chicken heads, whatever.  And for some strange reason she drags them all into our front yard.

Greetings from the Canadian prairies! I feel so honoured to be here taking part in this amazing conversation. As a long-time reader of Witches and Pagans, as well as PaganSquare, it is very exciting to be invited to blog with you, and share some of my reflections on earthen spirituality at this critical juncture of our shared planetary life.