Happy Imbolc! More Farmyard Haiku!

Imbolc is here again: the old Celtic celebration of women, poetry, milk, and fire. I've tossed back a celebratory mug of hot chocolate, sent off a few letters to women I admire, and stoked the wood stove... so now it's time for poetry!

Here's a haiku almanac of the last few months on the farm:

HARVEST SEASON:
Our thirteen guineas
fed dogs, hawks, and foxes too.
"Free-range" comes with risks.

Chanterelle shining
Amidst shadows in deep woods:
Gold in them there hills!

Celtic year's turning
small lights guide along dark paths
Tonight, we shall sing!

Old Celts used turnips
To light the dead home. Pumpkin's
A New World trade-up!

Into year's dark half
We delve. Opposite of Spring
Isn't Fall, but Root

Brought home hay today
So pigs can burrow and build
a grand storm-proof nest

Come, sweet autumn rain:
All the tools are put away
And pig's got a roof!

O, well-carved pumpkin
Weep not. Full of light you go,
Now to join the saints.

Rural peace of mind:
high woodstacks, jam-full pantry,
Pig's jolt-squeak (fence works).

Bare witness of trees
documents the naked truth
at the branch office.

November closes
Wet snow swells the woodland streams
in shade, mushrooms bloom

Little Shiitake,
such goodness in such small space:
Edible haiku!


WINTER SETS IN:

Ice-rime all around.
Farmstead feathers stir, birds cluck:
Tea-time for chickens!

(Holiday Dollmaker's Lament:)
Artisan's eyestrain
overtakes. Help! Need some elves
to finish more elves!

Ah, Christmas! Warm fire,
Frozen fields, frozen streams, and...
Frozen shower drain.

Oh, pipes, won't you sing?
Warm, uncrystalize and flow.
I need a shower!

Drink deep, my cattle.
Hose uncoils, fills trough to brim
Before ice returns.

Subzero at dawn
hens huddle in nestboxes
laying eggsicles.

Ah dinnae ken gin
Ye can screeve haiku in Scots;
Thocht I'd hae a gae!
(I don't know if / you can write haiku in Scots / Thought I'd give it a try!)

Dawn o Rab Burns Nicht
Craitures blether poetry
tae toast Scotia's bard.

(Thoughts on retrieving wayward livestock after nightfall:)
We heed neighbor's call,
with rope and boots in snowstorm.
Wanna buy a bull?



Alright, folks: your turn! 'Tis the season for poetic inspiration and creative merry-making. Leave a comment with a haiku or two!

Imbolctide

The wheel of the year turns once more, and we arrive at Imbolc, one of the four "cross-quarters" or turning points of the Celtic agricultural year. This is a festival sacred to Bride (a.k.a. Bridgit)--an Irish Goddess or Saint (you choose!) One excellent reflection on this festival can be found here. Here on the farm, we're celebrating in grand style: we're going to play at yoghurt-making while pumpkin soup simmers on the woodstove. There are also rumours of a whipped-cream cake in the making, to be flavoured with lavender or whisky!

For Northern, pre-industrial folk, this was a hard time indeed, as winter storage foods dwindled and the prospect of new nourishment glimmered and wavered far off in hunger's haze. Imagine, then, the joy that came with fresh milk as lambing time approached and the ewes "bagged up" in preparation! The old name for this cross-quarter is "Imbolc," from old Celtic words for "ewe's milk." Traditional feast items for this time featured milk and cream and butter and cheese. If you don't have time for fancy stuff, celebrate by making a yoghurt smoothie!

In the deep February cold, this was also a time to celebrate fire--the fire of creation, captured in the blacksmith's work as well as the poet's inspiration. Smiths and poets were celebrated along with midwives and dairy animals. In fresh milk and creative fire, the hopes of earthborne people are renewed!

Here is a bit of bardic work for Imbolc, with a nod to Robbie Burns, Violet Jacob, and other Scots poetic forebears. (Hmmm. Haggis & Neeps might deserve a place on tonight's table, as well. They, too, are seasonally-appropriate elements for an Imbolc feast!) The poem incorporates the imagery of the "Cailleach," (pronounced KYLE-yok) or Old Woman of Winter, whose silver hammer kept the ground hard and cold until Spring.

IMBOLCTIDE

When yon Auld Grannie gyres an gimps
an unco dance on cranreuch groond
an gies her sillar curls a crimp,
Ye ken that Imbolc's comin roond.

When sillar hammers, blaw for blaw
fa habber-haird in hinmaist hone
then haud ye fast, for soon the thaw
will prize awa cauld winter's loan.

Nae lang she'll lanesame bide, nor sup
Wi'oot the dochter she lo'es best;
Nae grannie redds the kailyaird up
But for the thocht o some comin guest!

Nae mair the lanesame anvil-drum
Will mark the pace o Grannie's dance--
The Lass o the Lintin Wand shall come
An lowpin lambies hae their chaunce--

For Grannie Cailleach's time grows short
An wee snaw-drappies rowthie ring
for Bridgit cams, blithe hope tae sport
An after Bridgit cams-- the Spring!


--copyright Mainecelt 2011

Glossary: unco=strange, cranreuch=frosty, ken=know, Imbolc=Celtic Feast/source of Groundhog's Day, blaw=blow, fa=fall, habber=stutter, hinmaist=last, haud=hold, prize=pry, awa=away, wi'oot=without, dochter=daughter, redds the kailyaird up=cleans the place, thocht=thought, comin=coming, Lintin Wand=glinting wand of Bridgit, lowpin=leaping, chaunce=chance, Cailleach=crone/Celtic Earth-Goddess, snaw-drappies=snowdrops, rowthie=abundantly, cams=comes, blithe=joyous

Barnyard Haiku II

This week at church, I presided over the first session of our "Soul Spa." (I loved the name so much I had to steal it. Thanks, Songbird!) It's a four-week program designed to encourage storytelling, fellowship, and creative exploration on spiritual themes among the women of the church. Each week has a hands-on no-skills-needed creative project, and our first one was a "ten-minute haiku" exercise in which we played with different names for God.

By the end of the session, we were all indulging in a fair amount of Holy Foolishness, and if anyone said anything that happened to be five or seven syllables long, someone would shout, "That works! That could be haiku!" The event exceeded my imaginings!

So, Dear Readers, I invite you to indulge in some further explorations. I've done a few of my own... can you comment with your own haiku related to God, Barnyards, Gardening, or any combination thereof? Profundities and Irreverence are both entirely welcome!

Here are mine:










The bees have come home.
Hurry, open, you flowers!
We make a welcome feast.




















Open the new field.
Watch the cows leap, turn, and munch.
Such well-fed dancers!

















Piglets at wood's edge
Snoozing under broadleaf trees:
No sunburned ears here.

















Sweet, tender seedlings
Garden bed's green, lacy edge--
Get away, damn chickens!

2009: A Term for the Verse

Today marks the Winter Solstice-- the year's shortest day and longest night. As the minutes slipped away prior to the Official Astronomical Event, I wormed my way under our new house for one last intimate encounter with the earth. (The practical reason for this ritual was that a faulty extension cord needed replacing; the shower drain--so carefully surrounded with heat-tape, insulation, and a tyvek-wrapped, earth-banked styroboard frost wall--would do us no good through the winter's whistling winds if the heat-tape could not be trustworthily plugged in!)

Now I am back inside the house, grubby but warm, relaxing into the knowledge that the last great ritual has been successfully performed and we shall henceforth be able to Hold The Wolf of Winter At Bay. (We won't make any bold predictions about any other wolves just yet, but suffice to say that we're really boning up on our wolf-wrangling skills and getting better every day!)

The Proper Activity of Northern Winter Folk is repair and creation: the careful tending of tools and gear, the mending of strained relationships, and the creation of things both useful and beautiful. My heart is ready, now--and if you will permit me a bit of creative indulgence--my rusty bardic muse is in need of some warm-up stretches. Like any stretch, the following will involve the potential of painful reaches and the appearance of ridiculousness, but these seasonal tasks simply MUST be done...


2009: A TERM FOR THE VERSE

January started out
cold and full of gripes:
Our year began with frozen folk,
cold house and frozen pipes.

February came along
with icy, sparkling jaws--
We went outside and froze some more--
for a worthy local cause.

March brought hard digging
and--finally--joy! Let
us now praise installers
of pipes, shower and toilet!

April--on windowsills,
seedtrays sat out,
dark soil dreaming
and sending up sprouts.

May--month of sweet melting
and warming and growing!
New piglets were bought.
In the fields we went sowing.

June--to market and home again,
all in a whirl
to host a church picnic
and the dear Wild Girls!

July started wet and grew wet enough
to douse any forest fire.
Pigs being pigs, in the mud they did dig,
and slipped out under the wire.

August brought an island journey--
oh, sweet farm-women's reprieve!
Our first home-grown bull met his meaty end:
a choice we did not grieve.

September: batten down the farm
and rush to catch a plane
For a family wedding we piped and preached--
so good to see kinfolk again!

October came to
a bittersweet end.
With bards and musicians,
we mourned a dear friend.

November brought the cold and dark--
a fearful time for the farm.
But oh! We gave thanks for our sweet new house,
where the woodstove kept us warm!

December sang softly of flickering hope,
now fanned to a stalwart flame.
We plan for years, fields, and friends to come.
Solstice Blessings! May you do the same!

--copyright MaineCelt 12/2009


(This post's images were taken during a visit to Trustworth Studios.)

Friday Five: Music of the Spheres

Songbird, at RevGalBlogPals, writes, "...It was the same Martin Luther who said: "I have no use for cranks who despise music, because it is a gift of God. Music drives away the Devil and makes people gay; they forget thereby all wrath, unchastity, arrogance, and the like. Next after theology, I give to music the highest place and the greatest honor." On this Friday before Reformation Sunday, let's talk about music. Share with us five pieces of music that draw you closer to the Divine, that elevate your mood or take you to your happy place. They might be sung or instrumental, ancient or modern, sacred or popular...whatever touches you."

Oh dear. Only five?!?

When I read the instructions for this morning's Friday Five, I immediately raced over to my music-box (one o them fancy 4-in-1 things) and put on my CD of "Sing Lustily & With Good Courage" by Maddy Prior with the Carnival Band (CD-SDL 383, copyright 1990 Saydisc Records, England). The recording, commissioned by the BBC for the 250th anniversary of John Wesley's spiritual awakening at Aldersgate, takes its title from Charles Wesley's "instructions for singing," found in most Methodist Hymnals and also posted in the choir room of the United Methodist church in which I grew up. Look up the full instructions when you get a chance-- they're a delightful read and, even now, an excellent set of instructions for group singing.

The lusty, courageous singing and instrumentation of this recording are a real, well, EAR-opener for anyone who thinks "traditional" hymns are dreary and boring. They were, in the 18th century, a rather shocking innovation. Not only did they stray from strict adherence to the texts of biblical psalms, they often employed tunes that verged on being rambunctiously secular. But that wasn't all that upset the BigWigs and Hie-Heid-Yins. As Andy Watts says in the liner notes, "What made the hymns so different form the old metrical psalms was their expression of personal religious thoughts and feelings in vigorous, emotional language. They spoke of God's love for sinners, salvation for the individual, the liberating power of Jesus, the inner experience of the Holy Spirit, strength to withstand oppression and the promise of future glory. This was abhorrent to most of the Anglican Establishment and the ruling classes."

So, with my customary delight in doing things abhorrent to the ruling classes, here's my list of five:

1.) "O For A Thousand Tongues To Sing." Once you get past the ridiculous mental image, it's a wonderful tune of upwelling joy. I always heard it as confirmation of a multilingual path towards spiritual truth-- that no single tongue, no single voice or language is sufficient to teach us all there is to know about God's Grace and God's ongoing involvement in Creation.

2) "Be Thou My Vision" This mystical hymn wraps itself around me like a warm embrace from my spiritual and cultural ancestors. The tune, "Slane" is an old Irish one, dated at least to the 6th century. The hymn's imagery echoes old Celtic praise-poems and travelers' prayers of protection. Curiously, it also represents one of my few quarrels with the move to "inclusify" and democratise the language of American hymnals. I much prefer the old words, in which Jesus is proclaimed "High King of Heaven." Admittedly, the reference is lost to American singers, but this refers to the old hierachies of the Celtic Lands, in which many small local kingdoms deferred to a "High King" as their ultimate leader and wise arbitor. With all the petty kingdoms and tiny idols we modern folk worship, I still find it meaningful to understand Jesus as a wise leader whose stories and virtues inspire us to extend our gaze beyond our own navels.

3)"Lift Every Voice" (words: James Weldon Johnson, music J. Rosamund Johnson, c. 1921) Unlike "Be Thou My Vision," this anthem emerges from a struggle outside of my culture and ancestry, but I do not love it less. It makes me feel connected to the deep and powerful "soul-force" of the African-American freedom struggle. When I sing it, every breath re-embodies the truth that "an injury to one is an injury to all." The forceful rhythm draws my footfalls into a greater march. The music lifts and even shoves my spirit upwards and onwards. This anthem holds me accountable for my own role in the great drama of justice-seeking.

4)"Freedom Come-All-Ye" (Hamish Henderson) Many Scottish folk continue to call for this song to be named the new National Anthem of Scotland. It was written by one of my personal heroes, a Scottish soldier whose wartime travels to Africa and experiences of shared suffering somehow moved him to transcend hatred and bigotry, to love "the fellowship of man" MORE fully and deeply. (I use the gender-specific term on purpose, as Henderson's experience was truly one of brotherhood with his fellow soldiers.) Here, he has taken a pipe tune from the First World War, "Bloody Fields of Flanders," and put Scots words to it that draw a connection between Scotland's own history of struggle and oppression and the South African struggle against Apartheid. (Henderson was a long-time correspondent with Nelson Mandela during his imprisonment.) It's a visionary masterpiece that has become one of my own "get-my-courage-up" songs.

5)"The Joy of Living" (Ewan MacColl) Ewan wrote this song in his own struggle to come to terms with the approaching end of his life. I learned it from the singing of Alison McMorland and Geordie McIntyre, two Scottish tradition-bearers who knew MacColl very well. Their recording of it was played at my grandmother's funeral. Just now, I keep this song in mind as I mourn the crossing over of another dear one, my friend Bruce. I think Bruce and Ewan would have gotten along famously--they shared an intense desire to live each day to its absolute fullest, to do all the good they could in their years' span.




(Image sources: Language Tree from here. Celtic Mandala from here. MLK art from here. All other images copyright Mainecelt 2009.

Common Ground 2009: All's Fair in Love and Chore, Part Two

Here, as promised, is the second installment in our "film strip" from Common Ground Fair. Rose Freedman and Justin Lander of Modern Times Theater (an outgrowth of Vermont's venerable Bread & Puppet Theater) teach us about the word "Chore", the art of farming, and how to strike a blow for freedom.






"Chore lives high on the hog, low on the hog, and makes soup from the rest of the hog."

(I regret that the details of their hand-painted posters don't show up as well as I'd hoped due to the low resolution at which I was filming. You'll still have a pretty good sense of the images they're indicating, however.) If you ever get the chance to see these two brilliant buskers in person, I highly recommend it!

Journey to the Center of the Mirth (Part Three)

This is the final installment of our Pacific Northwest travelogue.

Sunday, August 30th
Kith and Kin are slow to wake and gather, and farmers need food before noon. We early risers banded together on the day after my brother's wedding and set out in my uncle's car on a bakery quest. Clarification--this was my uncle's rented car, complete with GPS. He recalled a previous visit, during which my brother had taken him to an enormous French bakery. He did an internet search for a French bakery in Portland, Oregon, entered the address into his GPS unit, and we headed off.

Half an hour and a few "recalculations" later, we arrived at the indicated coordinates: a tiny Vietnamese-French bakery tucked into the backside of a dilapidated building in a low-income neighborhood. This was not the sweetshop of memory, but hunger was edging toward voraciousness, so we went in. There was a small array of French pastries, most of which involved coconut, pineapple, and other tropical twists. There were also fried sesame balls and steamed pork buns and coffee--not your typical barista creations, but tiny splashes of tarry black stuff that made The Piper's eyes slam open so hard she appeared to bruise her eyebrows. After two sips, she looked entirely awake and slightly terrified.

One cousin, one aunt, one uncle, one farmer and one Piper quite overwhelmed the tiny shop and its single cafe table, so we ate quickly and took a bag of sesame balls with us in the car. None of our relatives were yet answering their cell phones, so we headed back downtown and raided a couple of Portland's fantastic bookstores--including the massive ediface of Powell's--before heading back to my brother's house for the 1:00 potluck "brunch."

After a beautiful sunlit backyard repast, during which the involved families lolled around adoring each other, we repacked the cars and headed north. This time, Z-man headed back with Dad and the other car was declared the province of "just us girls." We intended to make a detour: the Swan Island Dahlia Show. My florist mother, my sister the designer, my Piper and I tucked ourselves into the car and headed west.

The city streets turned to country roads. We traveled alongside rivers, through hillside tunnels, and down byways lined with fir, hemlock, and other evergreens. Two turns off the main road, the scenery suddenly changed to massive fields full of flowers as far as the eye could see. It was like the technicolour revelation of the Land of Oz: so brightly coloured as to seem unreal. The other oddness was in the crowd's composition. We were there for a flower show. Nothing else was going on. Why were there so many MEN?!?

Well, as it turns out, I guess dahlias are a guy kind of flower: big, brash, bold, their colours and styles bursting forth like so many fireworks. I have never elsewhere beheld so many men taking the lead at such an event, dragging their wives and girlfriends from one display to the other, enthusing about this one's size, that one's astounding hue, their cries of delight echoed by the preening peacocks on the roof of the adjoining barn. (Dahlias and peacocks: another previously unconsidered natural pairing!) The Piper and I edged our way through the crowd, marveling at the floral freaks on display: dahlias of pale green and velvety black, dahlias splotched and striped, dahlias bigger than our heads. We made our way to the exit and ambled around the edges of the farm's public concourse, just as interested in their safety and crowd-control measures as we were in their blooming displays. Flower farms need not fear the same vectors of infection as livestock farms--there were no boot-washing stations, for example--but it was a useful opportunity for study nonetheless.

My mother and sister emerged several minutes later, their grins huge, their digital cameras full, their eyes surfeited by colour. We laughed and enjoyed our time together, then reluctantly returned my sister to the city and headed north to the island once again.

Monday, August 31th
The pressure was on: this was our final day to visit kith and kin and there were two very important trips on our schedule, each involving a different ferry route to the mainland. My little brother had fortified us the night before with his ferry pass and some "free ride" bus coupons and my mother obliged us with a morning ride to the ferry dock. The rest was up to us...but I had forgotten to account for the fog.

Growing up, I loved the fog. I loved the way it encircled the island, a soft blanket that cushioned us against the noise and fuss and hurry of the rest of the world. Fog obscures sight and swallows sound. A ferryboat ride on a foggy morning, complete with good companions, great books, and/or pleasant projects, can be a sweet sabbath of unhurried time. There is nothing one can do but sit back, relax, and wait.

On this particular morning, though, we strained at our weather-tethers. Ten minutes' walk from the waterfront, in a mainland city, waited a dear friend I'd not seen in ages. I'd met her in a Gaelic choir, where her rich, full voice, welcoming spirit and wry wit were the delight of all who knew her. The understanding between us was deepened by our respective multicultural upbringings. I missed her heartily, and the ferryboat's delay was stealing precious minutes from our one chance at meeting.

Finally, half an hour later than intended, we arrived out our meeting spot. She was walking slowly away with a dejected air and we were racing down the street with much anxiety. When our eyes met and spirits leaped in recognition, the sadness and stress dissipated like fog under a hot summer sun. I introduced The Singer to The Piper. We repaired to a restaurant and packed as much affection and as many stories into that visit as time and space would allow--and then some! But she had an appointment to make, and we had buses and ferries to catch on our way to yet another visit... reluctantly, we held on to each other as long as we could, then bid each other a proper Gaelic farewell. The painful sweetness of the chance to converse in Gaelic was almost as hard to bear as the thought of leaving her and the Gaidhealtachd again. Such grief at departure is, of course, the basis for a great many Gaelic songs. As one Cape Breton bard explained it, "they're always singin' about the girl who's never there."

The sun was rising higher and, as we rode a bus out of the city to another ferry dock, the fog gradually lifted and cleared away, leaving us under a bright blue sky on a glorious late-summer day. The water sparkled. Our spirits skipped and danced, riding the currents of the Sound and the gusting sea-scented air.

Later that afternoon, Z-man and Mom joined us for yet another ferry-ride. This time, we aimed ourselves westward. We were off to the Olympic Peninsula to see the home and workplace of The Piper's Son, and we came bearing pies for dessert.

The Piper's Son works for The Arts & Crafts Press, a letterpress printshop that specializes in original and historic cards, prints and books related to the Arts & Crafts Movement. His employers, Bruce and Yoshiko, have immersed themselves in that movement, both its history and its revival. Yoshiko's artwork and Bruce's authorship both contribute to the revival, and their work is much sought after.

It was natural that The Piper's Son should find his way to their workshop. His father and The Piper built Arts & Crafts furniture together for many years before their artistic pursuits went in different directions. The Piper's Son divided his childhood playtime between woodland streambeds, a huge collection of Legos and an exquisite set of mahogany building blocks. Everything he handled informed his sense of structure, form, and design. Everyone around him worked with their hands, making stuff. So it was that, after graduating from college and working as our house-carpenter for several months, he took a cross-country trip and secured his current position.

We arrived at the end of his shift, so he showed us around the printshop. There were beautiful old printing machines with massive rollers and cast-iron flywheels. There were racks and shelves of recently-printed cards, warm vintage colours impressed on elegant, creamy cardstock. He talked us through the process from start to finish, then led us to the stockroom full of finished prints, cards, and other beautiful necessities. We could hardly tear our eyes away from the splendid array, but voices called from above us: dinner was ready, and it was a perfect evening to repair to the deck.

Mom, Z-Man, The Piper, The Piper's Son, Bruce, Yoshiko and I basked in the light of the lowering sun while their two small children wove in and out. We feasted and talked, it seems, of everything under the sun. I felt sorry for the young Japanese au pair-- our conversation became so rapid and animated that, although she was welcomed into our midst, I believe we quickly exhausted her capacity for comprehension. The children, meanwhile, seemed to absorb and use both languages with apparent ease. My Taiwanese brother, Z-Man, seized the opportunity to surround himself with other Asians. As soon as our talk veered towards art and politics, he excused himself from the table to play with the children. We all settled into our respective elements, utterly content, blissfully happy.

We talked until the moon rose high in the sky. The soft gradients of the sunset and the sharply deckled lines of the evergreens looked for all the world like one of Yoshiko's prints. Then it was time for more hugs, more promises to visit, more reluctant goodbyes...and a side trip to the present abode of The Piper's Son, spartan yet suitable, befittingly bedecked with one of Yoshiko's prints in a handmade frame and two well-assembled lego spaceships. He seemed to have made a good start for himself. We smiled to ourselves in the moonlight as we drove the dark roads and took the ferry back to the island.


Tuesday, September 1st
Bags repacked and begrudgingly ready to go, we stepped outside for one last walk around the gardens and blackberry thickets of my parents' island home. We smelled the roses, laughed at the comical trio of slug-patrolling ducks, and popped handfuls of juicy blackberries and huckleberries into our mouths. But we had to make haste-- there was another ferry to catch and another bus to ride before we'd reach the airport, and I was back in island-commmuter-mode, planning all my activities with lead-time and public transport schedules in mind.

On the way to the dock, we stopped for a quick hug and the briefest of visits with on of our Wild Girls, KyedPiper. I handed her a promised memento-- a snippet from the forelock of Broilleach, our recently-dispatched bull. Being a vegan, she was at once queasy and grateful for the tangible connection. We reminded her that the farm and the cows would gladly welcome her back again, then headed off to catch the boat.

On the ferry dock, we unexpectedly ran into another one of my childhood friends. Islands are like that! We walked on to the boat together. He gallantly carried our suitcase up the stairs on the ferry, then regaled us with tales of Casa Vista, the B&B he built on the island. It was a fitting connection, a reminder that we were headed home to continue the work of constructing our own dreams and building our own vocations.

One bus, two airplanes, one lost piece of luggage and a long car-ride later, we arrived back at our own wee home. We were greeted less-than-enthusiastically by our Border Collie, who clearly had adored the farmsitter. The farmsitter (a bit bleary-eyed from the rude awakening of our late-night arrival) said those words every returning farmer loves to hear: "you didn't leave me enough to do, so I weeded your garden."

Hmmm. With a farmsitter like this, we may just take vacations a little more often!

(All photos mine except for the final image of an historic boat on Puget Sound, which I borrowed from Osman Person.)

Friday Five: Wind in My Sails

Sally, over at RevGalBlogPals, writes:
"... sailing is a family passion, we love the water and the wind, and take delight in the fresh air and quiet, but also in the competition, striving to do our best!
How about you?

1. Is there a sport/ hobby that is more of a passion than a past-time for you?
I've never been one for sports, although I do like salt-water swimming and Messing About In Boats and I adore a good game of Extreme Croquet.
My hobby/passion is the exploration of folk culture and traditions--especially those of the British Isles. (I come by this anthropological bent honestly-- growing up in a multi-ethnic family with three adopted siblings, intercultural study was simply a part of daily life, and provided a goodly portion of our family fun.) With some like-minded friends, we even started a nonprofit organization to support our folk culture habit, although it's in "sleep mode" while we finish building our house. The Piper and I have justified the purchase of many a CD and weighty ethnographic tome by saying, "It's all for the Ceilidh House library, of course--and we'll use these as reference materials when we teach our bagpipe and Gaelic language students!"

2. Outdoors or indoors?
Outdoors: festival-going, "ethnically-correct" gardening and orchard-tending with heirloom plant varieties, and staying close to the salt water that bouys my spirit and connects me to my ancestors. Indoors: delving into books, gathering with other folklore enthusiasts, swapping stories, and having great music session around the woodstove.

3. Where do you find peace and quiet?
Not sure right now-- it's been a hard year. I seek peace in the slow intake and release of breath, the comfortable closeness of my partner, the gradually-revealed beauty of our almost-finished house and the slowly-emerging health of our land. Quiet is easier to find than peace--I am thankful every morning and every night that I can begin and end my days surrounded, almost entirely, by natural rather than human-made sounds. (I'll relish the quiet more fully when I can find my missing whetstone and "take care" of a couple of extra roosters, if you know what I mean!)

4. A competitive spirit; good or bad, discuss...
A competitive spirit is like fire: a good servant, a terrible master, and dangerous to play with. I appreciate its ability to overcome inertia and get a person moving towards a goal, but I don't like the way others tend to be left in a person's wake. I should come clean and declare, right here, that I am a vicious card player, but fortunately my commpetitive streak is matched by a tendency toward distraction and terrible bad luck in the dealing of hands.

5. Is there a song a picture or a poem that sums up your passion ?
I've posted links to Richard Hugo's poem, Glen Uig, in previous posts. It captures some of the essential pain and joy of reconnection to one's past. Here's another poem from Cathal O Searcaigh, translated from Irish Gaelic by Gabriel Fitzmaurice:

A Portrait Of The Blacksmith As A Young Artist

I'm sick and tired of Dun Laoghaire.
Of my bedsit in Cross's Avenue,
A pokey place that cripples my wordsmith's craft
And leaves me nightly in the dumps
Scrounging kindred among the drunks
Instead of hammering poems for my people
On the anvil of my mind.
Almighty God! It's gone too far,
This damned silence.
If I were back in Caiseal na gCorr
I'd not be awkward, half-alive.

No way! But in the smithy of my tongue
I'd be hale and hearty
Working my craft daily
Inciting the bellows of my mind
Stirring thoughts to flame
Hammering loudly
The mettlesome speech of my people.

--found in Writing the Wind: a Celtic Resurgence: The New Celtic Poetry, ed. Thomas Rain Crowe.

Bonus for posting a video/ link.
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