
On Learning from Old Things & Rising Sea Temperatures
Ancient isn’t quite heavy, or slow, enough of a word.
Brit Griffin
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Ancient isn’t quite heavy, or slow, enough of a word.

On Mystery, Beauty & Writing in Dark Times

It is wet out this morning, but still I feel it is now done, over with, the land’s ritual of the spring run-off, the great gathering in and up of herself - water showing her excellent inclination to collectivity.

Sometimes I see great, grey rolling waves.

This morning: the sky bleached grey and anemic - no glorious sunrise to welcome the spring equinox.

Maybe we can all feel it – the stars and planets, shifting and gliding.

The weather was too warm, snow sticky, melting - the March-like turbulence in the dead of winter, the slate sky, it felt all hunched up, waiting for something troubling to occur.

I’ve seen her now a few times – carefully edging along the length of the car, those elfin ears keen, taking in the warning chatter of the red squirrels.

Scraps of the sacred, offerings of lichen, are shaken loose from the trees.

I missed the Sturgeon Moon this past August.

Strange powers this creature has – making us want to run with them, dance with them, kill them, exterminate them even.

They come with the gloom.

Oh, on a morning like this – this winter wanderland, Christmas card worthy.

As if conjured – maybe even a summoning.

The dark half – we’re into it now.

I am heading to gold mining country this weekend - to Timmins, ON - to talk about the haunted mining landscapes of the north and other hauntings.

“Known for her evocative portrayals of northern life and the environment, Brit Griffin brings depth and atmosphere to every page.

The first time I saw her - a small red fox - it was only a fleeting glimpse, saw her leap up, pause, and then just through sheer grace, make the grey rock into a geological grotto, a holy place.

This past weekend, celebrating Thanksgiving out by the bonfire, the sun retreating, leaving behind those darkening blues as it went - and yes, the Tragically Hip were right, the constellations do “reveal themselves one star at a time”. But as lovely as those stars were, I wasn’t waiting on Orion or the Big Dipper. I was waiting and watching for the moon.

An eco-gothic tale from deep in the boreal forest... just in time for book gifting season!