Woodstock at Weedie’s Place

Don’t call Susun Weed that name, it’s reserved only to friends of long, long standing. Like thirty years. I’ve called her Weedie for a long time out of sheer affection for this wild woman who walks the green walk. Her place is near Woodstock, it’s set outside in the green rocky fields, trees and millions of singing frogs.

When she picks me up at the airport, after 12 hours of grueling transit, I am tired. Its usually late, she takes me for an hour drive and installs me in that little house in the Nettle Patch. It has turned into Tulip Patch of hot red and yellow flowers.

My room is decorated with just some flowers, a good bed, and there I can exhale at last.

As the night grows deeper I can hear the Leopard frogs begin their rehearsal. They just bring out the first singing section from their extensive choir for a trial run. While the peepers keep up a strong rhythm section. All day and all night long, the leopards come in with just one streak of their song. They hit a perfect note, and hold it more then a minute or two. It sounds like one single note, but it’s comprised from millions of small voices. Then they drop a half a note below perfectly harmonizing. Then one more, higher note. Then they take a break.

I am lying in bed and listening to this beloved concert. I have discovered them one spring, just like this one, but later into May. A little warmer, and their choir already jelled together. I heard them, and tears came down on my cheeks. It was the music of the spheres. It was the harmony of the Universe. It was a moving rich animal culture from which I have never recovered nor do I want to.

After a good long break the Leopards are back. This time they had worked out the kinks from their first run, and now they try even better. Out flows that long singular clear note, very unfloglike, and held much longer then a human being could hold the breath.

I am listening in awe. They worked and reviewed their act in the break they have taken. This time the note is sharper, and the half note drop is held longer, and the higher note afterwards is clearer.
These frogs are artists with high taste in music. After they have sung for a few minutes, once again they go silent. I guess now they are reviewing their performance, there must be some criticism, and corrections. Who conducts them? The Goddess herself?

I fall asleep. I dream of green fields, blooming tulips.

Next day my students are waiting for me. It’s a good section from all over, some drove in from neighboring states. I greet some old friends, meet the new ones. We are a cross section of middle-aged to in-their-twenties women, from practicing witches to first-timers. I teach from the Holy Book of Women’s Mysteries, first we discuss the Manifesto of the Susan B. Anthony Coven Number One. There are 15 different points in it, and we take them one by one. Politics for this generation is not as immediate then it was for us who lived in the Heroic Age (seventies) of our youth. But the issues are still burning, many points have not lost their importance at all.

We take a break. I had them in the studio for almost four hours, I am tired too. I give them some homework, they have to memorize the Invocation to the Star Goddess. Interesting how Americans don’t like to memorize poems. I grew up with poetry recitals and poetry by-heart homework’s. We made some progress.

Weedie is asking me, what nothing tonight? No circle tonight?
--They are not circle ready yet. Let what I thought them marinate.

Friday night . The Leopards started at nine pm precisely. The rain is not bothering them at all. They sing this time with two section of their large choir. It’s building slowly. They each hold one note which all are harmonious. They both vary half a note, one up and one down. I get goose bumps. Their harmony is all encompassing.