Wreath of Foraged Ritual

The ground had turned crisp and the hedgerow glittering with its own deep wintering. Into the early morning cold, our breaths made whispering shapes. Siobhan and I had made a foraging date to collect greenery to make some wreaths. It is something she does every year, and this year, she invited me along.

Siobhan is a very busy director of an Irish non-profit. Lots of our conversations circle the topics of strategy, fundraising, leadership, values and the constant challenge of trying to run social organisations. I learn lots and am constantly inspired by her drive and dedication. But on this morning there was going to be a different form of circling, and already it felt like those topics, somehow softening in this steady, wintery ground, could wait.

‘First you must find the right Sally’, explained Siobhan. Sally, or willow, is the perfect malleable branch for twisting and shaping into the wreath frame. Among these West Cork hedgerows it is abundant, and each of us carefully snipped a few rods to make some rings- enough, but not enough to impact the overall growth of the tree. Getting the balance right is the currency of the forage. I say ‘thank you’ aloud to the willow as I take my share.

Next, a few metres up the road, we find the long stands of evergreen ivy, which we will use later to wrap around the sally rings. Like verdant strings, the ivy will bring a reminder of the eternal cycle of life, and of the nearing Spring green, soon to bud. The ivy is in berry too, in brilliant bursts of inky black. A few pods of them will bring texture and seasonal colour to the wreath. ‘Thank you’, I say to the ivy.

And so our wintery forage morning goes, noticing the glistening in the trees, hearing the crunch of frost under foot, noticing the rising and falling of our misty breaths, aware of the robins and the wrens. Thank you to the moss. Thank you to the holly.

Soon our bags are overflowing, our hands near frosted themselves. So we sit in the car, sipping hot coffee from my flask, and tucking in to some cinnamon rolls Siobhan had made the previous evening. ‘Peak life’, I joke. It is a phase I use when I’m having one of those moments- those simple moments which no money can by, the kind of the wealth which hold both the ethereal and eternal in a joyous dance, ‘It doesn’t really get better than this, does it’, I turn to Siobhan laughing. It really is the simple things.

I think it might be a function of getting older, but the older I get, the less I care about things and the more I care about time; the less I care about presents, the more I care about presence. Here in the crisp and clear, was the gift of both time and presence; which felt like the very essence of the nature of a gift itself. ‘Yes, peak life’, says Siobhan, and we laugh.

…

Back home that afternoon it was time to make the wreaths. As I laid all the greenery and berries on the back patio, a little robin joins me. I throw him some seed, and a few of the red berries, and he sticks around, his companionship both comfort and delight. He is watching my every move, waiting, I imagine, for a wandering berry. But I wonder if he is somehow in on the ritual, sensing the gift of it too.

The first circle is the trickiest. I find a pliable rod, shaping it into a loop, then a ring. It pops out a few times, until I get the tension and the torc just right, and secure that first circle with twine. As I do, I wonder how long this tradition of wreath-making has hold. The circle of the wreath represents the cyclical nature of time. With no beginning and no end, one season falls into the next, and the next. Here in the midst of winter is also summer and spring, just a spin away in the great arc of time. And so we are offered metaphorical forage too; as chance befalls us, so too will change. In the depth of our own dark, is the seeds of the light. The circle can always spin.

After the first ring, everything else is weave. The ivy wraps, the moss is tucked in the gaps, the ivy berries give structure and depth. I decide to make three wreaths, two with berries as their headlines, one with heather and some garden herbs. Colour themes start to emerge and I notice more detail: the silvered backs of the rosemary and sage. I prick my finger on some holly. The smell of dried fennel seeds stirs something culinary inside me. My senses are alive. Yes, this is presence. When I am finished, I throw a few extra berries to robin, then find some lengths of ribbon in my Christmas decoration box, make a final bow for each. I hang one of my front door, one on my back door, and the other wreath is for a neighbour. Across the threshold, the foraged wreath- symbolic of cyclical time, makes an announcement each time I now open the door: the real gifts is in the ritual, in the making, in the presence. As I close the door behind me, my senses come alive.

Siobhan and I already know we have a date next year. She’ll bring the buns, I’ll bring the coffee, nature will bring the magic. Hopefully robin will stick around too. It may seem far away now, but spin the circle in the great arc of time, and we’ll be there in just the snip of a few seasons, which, of course, the circle always knew.

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