Tir

Vault of the sky
justice and power,
I defend thee.

Tir was a rune often painted on pagan shields to give their bearers more courage and to protect the warriors in battle. Its color is red and it assures a good outcome in all things. This rune can indicate the taking up of a cause or the protection of someone you care about. It is an excellent omen for new beginnings and for overcoming past disappointments. It is a protective and nurturing rune. It signifies help from friends.


This doesn't make any sense now...but it will. And yeah, I'm talking to you.

Break of Day

There seemed a smell of autumn in the air
At the bleak end of night; he shivered there
In a dank, musty dug-out where he lay,
Legs wrapped in sand-bags, lumps of chalk and clay
Spattering his face. Dry-mouthed, he thought, ‘To-day
We start the damned attack; and, Lord knows why,
Zero’s at nine; how bloody if I’m done in
Under the freedom of that morning sky!’
And then he coughed and dozed, cursing the din.

Was it the ghost of autumn in that smell
Of underground, or God’s blank heart grown kind,
That sent a happy dream to him in hell?
Where men are crushed like clods, and crawl to find
Some crater for their wretchedness; who lie
In outcast immolation, doomed to die
Far from clean things or any hope of cheer,
Cowed anger in their eyes, till darkness brims
And roars into their heads, and they can hear
Old childish talk, and tags of foolish hymns.

He sniffs the chilly air; (his dreaming starts),
He’s riding in a dusty Sussex lane
In quiet September; slowly night departs;
And he’s a living soul, absolved from pain.
Beyond the brambled fences where he goes
Are glimmering fields with harvest piled in sheaves,
And tree-tops dark against the stars grown pale;
Then, clear and shrill, a distant farm-cock crows;
And there’s a wall of mist along the vale
Where willows shake their watery-sounding leaves,
He gazes on it all, and scarce believes
That earth is telling its old peaceful tale;
He thanks the blessed world that he was born...
Then, far away, a lonely note of the horn.

They’re drawing the Big Wood! Unlatch the gate,
And set Golumpus going on the grass;
He knows the corner where it’s best to wait
And hear the crashing woodland chorus pass;
The corner where old foxes make their track
To the Long Spinney; that’s the place to be.
The bracken shakes below an ivied tree,
And then a cub looks out; and ‘Tally-o-back!’
He bawls, and swings his thong with volleying crack,
All the clean thrill of autumn in his blood,
And hunting surging through him like a flood
In joyous welcome from the untroubled past;
While the war drifts away, forgotten at last.

Now a red, sleepy sun above the rim
Of twilight stares along the quiet weald,
And the kind, simple country shines revealed
In solitudes of peace, no longer dim.
The old horse lifts his face and thanks the light,
Then stretches down his head to crop the green.
All things that he has loved are in his sight;
The places where his happiness has been
Are in his eyes, his heart, and they are good.
. . . .
Hark! there’s the horn: they’re drawing the Big Wood.


--Siegfried Sassoon, 1918

Unbreakable

I'm home today...enjoying the rare day off from work. I had planned on doing nothing more than painting my toenails and watching television. It's barely cloudy outside...just cool enough to open the windows and let the breeze dance through all the rooms of this house. Perhaps it was the movement of the wind, but I've ended up cleaning, arranging, unpacking. I unwrapped my grandmother's liqueur set that's been in newspaper and bubble wrap since the big earthquake in Los Angeles. My ex was in New York and I was sleeping on the couch while he was gone. I'm one of those women that, once your imprint's in my bed, I can hardly bear it without you. I'd had a fire going earlier and had fallen asleep, covered with nothing but my favorite quilt and cats at my feet. Then, everything shattered. I remember thinking I was home (Texas was still home to me then...always) at first, and that someone was grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me awake. I ran to the doorway and clung to it, sitting on the floor. The earth shook and I raged. I wasn't frightened; I was angry. I was screaming at being ripped away from my life, at leaving this earth in a place that was strange to me, so far from my roots. You motherfucker. Motherfucker. Fuck. I didn't think of a god; I thought of fate. I thought of three blind fucking sisters snipping my skein of yarn by accident. It's not time! I yelled up to the sky. I held on so hard I left fingerprints in the plastered walls. It turned quiet and my neighbor (I think his name was Jack...an aspiring stand-up comedian) came to check on me. He knew I was alone. I came downstairs and the iron gate to the small porch was locked. I don't have a key, I said. I never can find my keys, Jack. I want out of here. He ran across and got his spare key (that he had from previous "I locked myself in/out" episodes) and unlocked me. He was very nice and didn't comment on the fact that I was completely naked until about three weeks later. My china cabinet was destroyed....so many things. I told myself over and over...they're just things. Just things. But they meant something to me. They were connections with pieces of my family. I went back the next day, certain that the liqueur set that had belonged to my grandmother, and her grandmother before her, was dust. The tiny flutes were so fragile. Paper shell thin with tiny deep red flowers and gold leaves painted on them with a touch as light as a kiss. I said my good byes to them before I even went back in to survey the damage. There, covered by broken bits of more sturdy wares, were all of them. Not a scratch on them. Intact. It meant more to me than just having the glasses and decanter. Our circle, a wreath made of the intertwined hands of all the women in my tribe, had not been broken. And so I unwrapped my grandmother's liqueur set today, acknowledging the roots that brought me home, breathing in the scent of old newsprint and strength beyond measure.