'Labyrinth' - a path of contradiction

While listening to the story of Theseus's quest to slay the Minotaur during our recent exploration of the word clue, I was distracted by the labyrinth itself. Our English Renaissance friends described it as a maddening maze, changing and twisting; but I had seen a labyrinth before. Wasn't it different from a maze? Wasn't it used as a spiritual tool for self-discovery? But if so, what about the 1986 movie "Labyrinth" starring David Bowie in which the heroine struggles to locate her brother, or more recently, the Percy Jackson book "The Battle of the Labyrinth," in which a modern-day middle school Theseus gropes through a deceptive network of shifting passages?

Puzzled, I looked up the word in two of our modern dictionaries. Both defined labyrinth as synonymous with 'maze' - complicated, confusing, irregular, and difficult to navigate. But, fascinatingly, the illustrations referred to by such definitions looked similar to this:

Take the time to carefully trace the path from point A to point B. What do you discover? Is it confusing? Irregular? Difficult to navigate? One thing is certain: there are no choices to make - there is only one path, albeit winding. The word for this is unicursal, as opposed to multicursal (more than one possible path).

How often do we find a blatant contradiction of definition versus depiction in our dictionaries? Dictionaries, we must remember, reflect our common usage, and, therefore, our expressed understanding - or misunderstanding - of a word. So, where did the misuse begin? Why has it been perpetuated? And perhaps, most importantly, what new insights can we gain from this exploration?

We may not find conclusive evidence today, but we can begin the journey. Are you willing to enter the labyrinth with me in search of the center? I wonder, will we encounter false stops and starts, or will our travels be smooth?

Let's start with our usual method: tracking a word's history. The early English Renaissance appears to be labyrinth's approximate point of entry into our language: referring to the product of Daedalus's machinations, it was borrowed directly from the Latin labyrinthus, itself a slight adaptation of the Greek laburinthos of Homer's account. Rather a straightforward path, don't you think? The center seems tantalizingly close.

However, the trail begins to turn. Although the Greek laburinthos means 'maze,' for some reason, the 15th-century English did not use their preexisting word 'maze' to translate the myth text - instead, they imported this one. Why? We recall that they did choose to employ the Middle English word 'clue' to describe the thread that Theseus held; why, then, did they decide to enrich their language with this foreign one? Did it express a new concept, one they had not yet encountered?

Thankfully, ancient depictions of Daedalus's maze still survive today, and may give us a clue (no pun intended!). In Piadena, Italy, a Roman labyrinth mosaic dating from 25-50 AD depicts Theseus and the Minotaur grappling its center. This labyrinth, however, is not a maze: it is a square network of passages with one path toward the center, and the same path out. In his marvelous pictorial book on this subject, "Labyrinths & Mazes," Jürgen Hohmuth articulates this conundrum: "A contradiction between legend and portrayal becomes particularly obvious with Roman labyrinths: there is only one path in and out. Why then did Theseus need Ariadne's thread?" (p. 64) In Switzerland, a circular mosaic labyrinth crafted around 200 AD portrays a similar theme:

Our question remains: how can a labyrinth with one flowing path be mistaken for a terrifying maze? Is this a psychological phenomenon that we can attribute to the darkness and depth of the Minotaur's prison? Are there any labyrinths free of this maze reference that can rescue us from this subterranean trap?

Yes, there are many examples of unicursal labyrinths independent of Daedalus' creation, dating from both before and after the aforementioned Roman mosaics. They have low or no walls, so that the center is always in sight; one entrance that doubles as an exit; the center as goal; and one sinuous path. The earliest examples of the labyrinth pattern date from 1200 BC and arguably even earlier, and labyrinth designs have been unearthed in Europe, Asia, Africa, and North and South America. Throughout this vast history, various peoples have utilized larger versions for religious rites and community rituals. In the Christian era, for example, worshipers have traced church labyrinths in prayer and meditation, often on their knees. Here is an existing example still in use in the famous medieval cathedral in Chartres, France:

So, is labyrinth correctly defined as a winding passage with only one opening, where the goal is the center? Can it be called a labyrinth if it retains these qualities, but is also a maze inside, offering many choices? Or, as the Roman mosaics depict, was it never really a maze at all, but just felt like one because Theseus could not see his way in or out?

Perhaps our human nature reacts similarly in the midst of either a maze or a labyrinth: when we do not reach the center (or the exit) in a direct fashion, we experience frustration, irritation, even panic. Maybe, in the rush of our modern world, we need to slow down and rediscover our sight. Then, we will recognize a labyrinth for what it truly is: not an "über-maze" constructed to defeat us, but a potentially liberating experience disguised as a path of singular constraint. A symbol, some say, of the journey of life.

If enough of us do this, then the next dictionary definition of labyrinth will reflect our discovery.

Glad to walk this winding path with you -

Ety

'Clue' - something to hold on to

When I think of the word clue, the first image that comes to mind is the popular board game by the same name. As a child, I loved the thrill of deducing a piece at a time “who did it” with what weapon and where – was it Colonel Mustard with the Rope in the Study, or Miss Scarlet with the Revolver in the Conservatory?

Did you know, however, that the modern English utterance ‘clue’ has also suffered violence? It has been totally severed from its original meaning! Should we deduce who did this “murder,” with what “weapon,” and in what century? Let’s do better than deduce – let’s go see for ourselves.

Today’s path is actually a paved highway, running straight back to the Renaissance like a major Roman road, and then forking into two footpaths. We peer down the longer path, marked with symbols in ancient Greek; fortunately for us, the English path is shorter. It “only” stretches back into the Anglo-Saxon period, beginning in the 6th century, when the Germanic peoples of the mainland invaded Britain in droves. With them they brought a term for a rounded mass or a ball of thread that became the Old English words cliwen and cleowen.

As centuries passed, people dropped the –en­, forming the more manageable Middle English word clew, their common term for a ball of thread or yarn. At the end of the Middle English era (roughly the late 15^th century), the variant spelling of clue surfaced. I can’t help but pause here and consider another relatively modern reference: Agatha Christie’s unassuming sleuth Miss Marple and her ostensibly innocuous knitting. On at least one occasion, I believe that her clue rolled away and led her to an important piece of evidence. Could this be the link to our modern usage? We turn and wink at each other – we know the answer can’t be that easy (or chronologically illogical!).

As we follow this quaint English footpath up to the crest of that great hill called the Renaissance, a busy, bright intersection comes into view: where the Greek path meets this English one. Both run concurrently for a while; this is a matter of simple translation, it seems. Seeking education and enlightenment through the Greek myths, brightly dressed Englishmen are applying the word clew/clue to the ball of thread that Theseus used to find his way out of the Cretan labyrinth. For now, clue retains its integrity.

But as we come alongside these voluble Renaissance men, the suspense of their newfound story momentarily distracts us from our investigation. King Aegeus of Athens paid regular tribute to King Minos of Crete: seven young men and seven maids to be forced into Daedalus’s labyrinth as food for the Minotaur. King Aegeus’s son Theseus was outraged by this injustice and, taking the place of one of the seven young men, vowed to kill the bull-man creature. Desiring his success, King Minos’ daughter Ariadne surreptitiously gifted Theseus with a ball of silken thread to tie to the door of the maze. Never letting go of this lifeline, the bold hero trekked deep into the twisting passages, slayed the monster at their center, and then faced the slow, blind task of following the string back to the earth’s blessed surface.

At this point in the tale, our sympathy is with Theseus; what must he be feeling? The terror of being trapped alive? Fear of never seeing sunlight again? He must steel his nerves and work by touch, not by sight. The “clue” he holds is the path to life itself, the only way out of darkness and despair. We are relieved when the narrators reveal that Theseus made it.

Since this myth has awakened our imaginations, we are not surprised to see a major change in the road we are walking. Here in the early 17^th century, labyrinth-inspired writers begin to use the word clue in an increasingly abstract sense. Just as the ball of thread helped Theseus get out of his predicament, so now anything that serves to guide or aid anyone toward the solution of a problem is known as a “ball of thread” – a clue!

“Aha!” you exclaim. “Mystery solved!” And right you are. We have uncovered that the English of the Renaissance (who) used the meaning that the Greek myth had impressed upon their collective imaginations (weapon) in the early 1600s (“where”) to inflict this violence upon clue, striking the blow that would eventually sever its ties with its original meaning. Our lane melds with part of the Greek path and changes direction gradually, transforming into a wide road of man-made substance on which we amble, satisfied, toward the present. The dirt trail of the original clew/clue continues on straight and dwindles into a barely discernible line.

Back in the present day, we sit down on a shaded garden bench to rest and reflect on our journey. We consider that perhaps clue’s change in meaning was not just a death, but also a rebirth – a birth into something great, a descriptor for something sought after by all humanity. What the Theseus myth captures is our universal search for truth, for meaning, for salvation. Whether tangible or intangible, a clue brings us closer to the revelation of the full knowledge for which we long. It gives us something true to hold on to that is one step closer to the shining door.

Encouraging you to keep your hands on the thread and take one step at a time,

- Ety

'Clerk' - the official story-bearer

A trendier title for today’s journey would be “Clerk – from Superman to Clark Kent and back again.” So strap on your sandals and join me for an invigorating trek back nearly 2000 years to clerk's ancient Greek source.

One of the rich rewards of these expeditions is uncovering the slice of history that breathes fresh meaning into a common word. The mundane english term 'clerk' currently refers to a cashier, or a keeper of official documents – occupations not usually associated with glory or distinction. On this beautiful spring day, however, expect a new infusion of life – both for this word and yourself.

Feel the warm sand slip between your toes as we climb from ancient Israel's Mediterranean coast toward Jerusalem. The sand gives way to soil as we scale the verdant mountains and consume the fresh highland air. Arriving at last in the bustling Jewish capital, we mill slowly through the crowds to a quieter street with a large home, our destination. We climb to an upper room, crammed with over a hundred men and women whose eyes are shining with expectation.

One confident man stands and somberly addresses the assembly. He speaks about the Scripture being fulfilled regarding Judas’ betrayal of Jesus, and that according to the Psalms, a replacement must be chosen. The qualifications? He must have been with apostles the entire time the Lord Jesus was among them. “For one of these men,” he continues, “must become a witness with us of Jesus’ resurrection.”

We realize now that the speaker is Peter, the bold fisherman who became the founder of the Christian church! And we are watching the scene that Luke the physician recorded in the first chapter of the book of Acts – after Jesus’ ascension, but before Pentecost. This is the time of waiting, of preparation.

In response to Peter’s speech, the group unanimously proposes two men, Justus and Matthias. The group prays and asks the Lord to show which man should become the new twelfth apostle. Next comes the pivotal moment that Luke later describes in ancient Greek, the trade language of the Roman Empire: “Then they cast lots, and the lot fell to Matthias” (Acts 1:26a, The Holy Bible, NIV).

The Greek word for “lot” here is klēros – a term that literally refers to the bit of wood, stone, or pottery that was used to represent someone. The lots were put in a bowl, shaken up, and the first one that fell to the ground when the bowl was tipped was the ‘winner.’ Symbolically, though, this same Greek word was used to signify the abstract concepts of portion, share, inheritance, allotment, and place in the fledgling ministry (see Acts 1:17, 8:21, and 26:18).

So Matthias has just received the first klēros, the first official ‘appointment’ in the Christian church – and therefore will become known as the first Christian klērikos: the eyewitness of life-changing events, with the job description of sharing this testimony with the world. But for now, you and I retreat unobtrusively, disappearing from the scene. We trade our sandals for overland boots and we hike toward Europe, centuries morphing past us.

We find evidence, from the spread of the term klērikos, that Matthias and his successors had a “Superman” beginning! In Italy, we hear Latin-speakers using clericus to refer to an ordained priest. A few centuries later and farther northwest, an abbreviated version is common, the Old French clerc. Sailing across the Channel and landing in Britain over a thousand years after Matthias’s initial appointment, we discover that the liturgical Latin preceded us here, gifting our pious linguistic ancestors with the word cleric.

In Old English, as in Old French, verbal efficiency triumphs as cleric is shortened to clerc in reference to the local minister, the one person in the village who can read and write. To the illiterate peasant, the clerc’s ability to write down the baptismal name of his child in the church records is almost magical. The recording of births and deaths, the reading of the mysterious holy book during Mass – the cleric’s literacy, as well as his vocational appointment, sets him apart in the eyes of the people. (I think fondly of the skilled monks who painstakingly copied many manuscripts, both sacred and common, through the Dark Ages and beyond.)

Should it surprise us, then, that as we trade our trekking boots for the tooled slippers of the Renaissance, that the record-keeper in the bank is also being called a clerk? Literacy is the common thread, the key component of the transfer. The tradesman watches the employee bending over a book forming meaningful ciphers with a pen, reminiscent of the scene of the priest at baptism – and applies the same term to signify the shared skill.

Throughout the next few centuries, the orthography varies from ‘clark’ to ‘clerk,’ reflecting speech trends and giving us the now common first name “Clark.” As literacy has spread, the word itself has become ubiquitous. Like Clark Kent, the mild-mannered reporter who chronicles local happenings for The Daily Planet, our modern clerks blend in with the crowd. Faceless fixtures behind counters, they keep our world turning by punching numbers and filing government papers, still tracking births, deaths, titles, deeds.

Now that we have returned to the third millennium, you may ask, where is the revelation? The new infusion of meaning? The Superman sighting? Reflect on what we have just experienced, and you may come up with your own.

The way I see it, the ability to tell your own story makes you a klērikos. Are you letting someone else decide your history? Will your sacred moments be forgotten? Or are you rising to the glorious occupation of chronicling what you have seen and heard? Are you using your powers of literacy to determine what future generations will know of you, of your time, of your people?

Find your pen (or your keyboard). The lot falls to you.

From one clerk to another,

Ety

‘Lullaby’ Part II – a universal music

The soft sound of falling rain outside gives us permission to stay in these cozy hearthside armchairs for the second half of our exploration. May I refill your mug? Did you know that the word “lull” was actually recorded in the mid-17^th century to mean “soothing drink”? Now, we can return to our study of lullaby while we sip our lulls! How fitting.

Last time we discussed the formation of the word from Middle English exclamations lulla! and by!, and heard that the pronunciation of lulla, according to the “Coventry Carol” of 1591, was probably “loo-la”: “oo” as in “soothe” as opposed to the short “u” sound we use today. We deduced that the original meaning of the combined exclamations was quite probably “the means you use to create calm (in someone).” But digging deeper, where does this lulla come from? This is what we have been waiting for: the root, the “final” key. I’m eager to see if you think I’ve found it.

The root of our modern noun “lull” is the Middle English lulle, a form of lulla (remember, pronounced “lool” and “loola”). As for its meaning, all I found is the explanation “imitative of sounds used to calm an infant.” So evidently, the parents of medieval England used these “lool” sounds to comfort their children. But here comes the exciting part: so do other parents, in other languages, in other continents.

Yes! I am grinning, because I can see your eyes widen – and I know mine are dancing. Comparative linguistics enters here like a shaft of sunlight breaking through the rain clouds, sparkling through the wet windowpane and illuminating the space between our feet. So let’s compare: Latin lallare means “sing to sleep”; Swedish lulla “hum a lullaby”; Dutch and German share the word lullen. But Zulu? Yes, in Zulu, the word thula (pronounced “too-la”) means “be silent/quiet” and is a common refrain used to calm children. Many artists have recorded the famous Zulu lullaby “Thula Mama” (I have a nice version by Sibongile Khumalo). If you know any other languages that use similar sounds to calm children, please tell me!

Now consider our use of the “oo” sound in related English words: soothe, croon, coo . . . Can you think of any others? What about Billy Joel’s “Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)”? I can hear the bridge in my mind: “Loo loo loo loo loo loo loo. . .”

And so it seems that we humans, regardless of language or culture, may use similar sounds to soothe our infants. That our “lullabies” are in fact loo-la-bies. Where then, you ask, did the short “u” sound in our words “lull” and “lullaby” come from? This would seem to cast a shadow on my theory.

My conclusion is that in this case, our spoken language may have been transformed by the written word: the orthography began to dictate the pronunciation. Follow me here: the noun “lull” used to be lulle – perhaps the “e” was dropped, and without the “e” to make the “u” sound long, it became short. One could argue that the reverse is true: that the spoken word changed and the spelling reflected the change. In any case, thanks to the endurance of the “Coventry Carol” and similar words in other languages, we have discovered our linguistic ancestors’ pronunciation and understand its true soothing power. (Just try repeating “lull” over and over; rather choppy in comparison, don’t you think?)

Well, thank you for acquiescing to the living room setting this week. Upon reflection, the many roads offered by our comparative linguistics study were like spokes coming out of a roundabout: if we had taken just one road, we would have missed the big picture. Lullaby behooved us to stay in one place and contemplate the possibilities. Now that we’re rested, we will put on our sandals next week and head for a distant shore.

In the meantime, don’t let your language lull you into a false sense of security. (Now, where did that meaning come from – is it related to nightmare?)

- Ety

P.S. - Do you hear what I hear? Here are audio files of the songs mentioned in this study:

Coventry Carol

	Loreena McKennitt - Coventry Carol .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Thula Mama

	Soweto Gospel Choir - Thula Mama .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel) by Billy Joel

	Billy Joel - Goodnight My Angel .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

'Lullaby' (Part I) - a gentler journey

Last week’s trek to the Dark Ages left me exhausted, so I’ve settled into one of these comfy chairs by the fireplace to speculate on this week’s word: lullaby. Please, have a seat – I left the better one for you. Would you like a mug of coffee or tea?

You have probably noticed our dream theme – we began with gossamer, the title of a recent novel about dreams, and then delved into the dark history of nightmare. So, exploring the path of lullaby seemed like a restful and fitting addition to our study of dream-related words.

I lay my head back on the plush upholstery, close my eyes, and begin this armchair journey by sinking into my own memories of lullabies. The crackling in this present hearth mixes with the crooning of past voices; the warmth of the fire with the remembrance of a warm infant in my arms. An infant who wasn’t always keen on sleeping, but needed sleep so badly. I was rocking, singing, bouncing, lulling.

The haunting refrain “Lully, lullay” from the “Coventry Carol” echoes in my mind. Written in 1591, thus one of the oldest carols to retain both its tune and lyrics, this song is a fascinating snapshot of the English language (and an excellent window into our study):

Lully, lullay, Thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Thou little tiny Child.
By, by, lully, lullay.

In the remainder of the lyrics, a woman agonizes over how to save this child from King Herod’s slaughter of the innocents (after the Wise Men visited the Christ child). Not a comforting lullaby – because we know the ending – but she at least tries to quiet the child so the soldiers won’t hear him. Regardless of the mournful topic, this refrain confirms the two major elements of today’s word: a combination of the late Middle English interjections “lulla!” and “by!”

Lulla seems to be a verb form of the late Middle English noun lulle, which is the ancestor of our noun “lull.” Let’s see what the etymology entry says for lulle . . . ah, yes, here it is: “imitative of sounds used to calm a child” (NOAD). Hmm . . . For the by part, we could assume that our linguistic ancestors meant goodby. But I’ve already looked that one up, so I can tell you: goodby is a contraction of “God be with you,” formerly common parting words. So, what do you think by could mean?

I know we’ve traded our walking shoes for the plush carpet today, but let’s imagine a cramped medieval peasant’s hut at twilight. The father and older children have had dinner, but not much of it; a mother is holding a screaming baby that is annoying them all. The father has had enough. “Lulla!” he yells. “By!” Translation? “Shut up and go to sleep already!” or, more tactfully, “Give us some quiet, right now!” His wife takes the baby outside and starts singing to it.

In this interpretation, the word lullaby may have been formed in an effort to say “the means by which (-by) one calms an infant (lulla-)” – which is usually singing. But there is more of a story here, I have a feeling . . . and my hunch says it’s hiding behind our modern word lull.

Please forgive me for this lull in our conversation – I need some more time to pull together my thoughts.

Feel free to stay and enjoy the lullaby that the hearth is singing. I hope to be finished with Part II before you awaken.

Ety

'Nightmare' - a path with no horses

Sometimes the path of a word’s story is darker than we originally predict.

Take the word nightmare, for instance. Imagine the following entry in a glossary of juvenile literature:

sin'-i-steed (noun) – a wild horse creature in Lois Lowry’s children’s novel Gossamer that inflicts nightmares upon sleeping humans. From sinister + steed, referring to –mare in ‘nightmare.’

Inspired by Lowry’s imaginative derivation, I looked up nightmare in my NOAD (New Oxford American Dictionary) – watching, of course, for an equine reference, but not really expecting to find one. After all, few of us wake up in a cold sweat over dreams of stampedes.

Unfortunately, I was right.

I suggest we button up our jackets, because a chill wind is blowing down this wooded path. The sunlight is suddenly veiled; night is falling with abnormal eagerness. You may want to mark the trail with pebbles or rocks, in case we lose our way, or need to make a fast retreat.

As we lean into the wind and press on against our better judgment, the question rises in our minds: what is the source of our nightmares? We know the signs: the pumping adrenaline; the struggle for breath; the body jerking upright in self-preservation; the sweat; the hand reflexively checking the chest, the center of life; the racing heartbeat. All humankind, regardless of language or culture, has intimate knowledge of this terror.

Our journey will reveal how our linguistic forefathers (and -mothers) explained this phenomenon.

Thick darkness has fallen around us now; there is no moon. We are in the Dark Ages in England; I can’t make out the time or place. The Anglo-Saxon domination of the native Britons is complete, down to the language that we now call Old English. Breaking through the eerie quiet, a woman's scream spits forth one word repeatedly in contempt and blind terror: Maere! The shadows shift palpably around us.

Old English maere means ‘incubus,’ a male demon that has sexual intercourse with sleeping women – not to be confused with the contemporary term mearh, ‘horse.’ We shudder in this place where people fear demons as a legitimate threat when their eyes are closed – or use them as an excuse for infidelity or deformity when their eyes are open. We turn back, hurriedly retracing our steps (thank you for marking it well) and search for the later marriage of night and maere, the spawn of our study.

The Middle Ages is where the official wedding takes place. We suspect the two were sleeping together long before this. But here we are struck by an interesting development: in place of the word nightmare, the people inhabiting England in this period are repeatedly referring to a “night hag." A peasant on a manor is trudging through the muck of a field, circles under his eyes, complaining about how the hag rode him all night. So now we observe that the ‘mare’ of nightmare has acquired a purely feminine meaning – that of a she-demon straddling a person’s chest to suffocate her victim’s breath, effectually trapping the soul.

Unsurprisingly, the Anglo-Saxon root maere has near cousins in other Germanic and Nordic languages – and so does our fateful word nightmare: in these countries today, the word for terrible dreams also means “she-demon of the night.” On our walk back to the present, the shadows retreat behind us and pale patches of sun hesitantly alight on the forest floor. Now that we are approaching safety, our inculcated superiority complex returns. We begin to dismiss our ancestors’ supernatural oppressors as figments of their uneducated imaginations. Dreams are just a product of our subconscious mind, we remind ourselves.

However, we are startled by a foggy trailhead hooking off of this path – the etymology of the word incubus itself. The Latin word incubo actually means – we stare at each other in disbelief – ‘nightmare,’ from Latin incubare meaning ‘lie on.’ Chilled by the implications, we hurry on toward the present . . . If peoples from various ancient times and cultures have perceived similar evil forces, could it be that our 21^st century senses are simply desensitized to a common reality?

Back in the shelter of our own era, we could distract ourselves by discussing the meaning of the word haggard, which surely is related to ‘hag ridden’ . . . or we could look at pictures from my European travels of Romanesque church carvings depicting demons attacking unfortunate medieval souls.

But eventually, we will have to close our eyes, as all our ancestors before us, and enter a dark world beyond our control.

Wishing you peaceful dreams until next time, no thanks to this journey –

Ety

“gossamer” – of medieval feasting, a humble saint and floating spider webs

The starting point for this adventure is Lois Lowry's children's novel by the same title. I found myself doubting my understanding of this word, gossamer. Filmy, transparent, yes . . . the phrase "gossamer wings" flitted through my brain. A friend of mine had applied the word to her recent dreams. Fortunately, I overcame laziness and rose from my comfortable, lap-blanketed reading spot to heft open my New Oxford American Dictionary. And here, Dear Reader, begins our first journey together. This definition with its concise etymological entry opened a door to an enticing, far-off world. I couldn’t resist stepping through. Would you like to come along?

Surprised to be standing at the edge of a rustic village, we feel our pockets for our beeping electronic gadgets, but they are gone. Instead, a chime of bells from the tallest tower proclaims the time. We see thousands of leaves in russets and golds, feel the warmth of the sun above them, and hear the sharp squawking and flapping of geese interplay with brusque, boisterous voices up ahead. A glinting movement catches our eye, and we spy strands of silk floating, revealing the gentle hand of the wind.

We have arrived in late autumn in medieval Britain, and as we enter the village, we hear joyful chatter about the turn in the weather: Use every minute to bring in the harvest, they say, before the second frost hits. Just look at those webs covering the bushes and grasses -- you can tell it’s almost St. Martin’s day. "This goose summer sure makes it easier to prepare for Martinmas," says one portly missus to her neighbor. "How are you going to cook your bird this year?" her companion asks. "With apples again, and onion," she replies.

And now you are turning to me for explanation, which I am bursting to share. For I myself searched for several answers to arrive here. First, though, isn’t it fascinating to be in a place and time where people mark life by the signs of nature and the nearest feast day? I imagine trading my literacy of the written word and my personal iCalendar for a literacy of the natural world, and a cultural adherence to the Church’s liturgical calendar. Mix in the anticipation of an annual roast bird, and we have the recipe for one deliciously complex word history.

St. Martin’s feast day is November 11, and that day, Martinmas (the mass of St. Martin), informally marked the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter. “St. Martin’s summer” is an old English expression for a period of calm, warm weather in early November after the first frost (as opposed to “St. Luke’s summer” which refers to the same type of weather, but in October near St. Luke’s feast day). The American term “Indian summer” has a similar meaning, without the harness to a particular month.

Now, St. Martin himself has an entertaining life story, for a fourth century cleric. A humble man, he refused to become bishop of Tours, and supposedly tried to hide so that his zealous supporters couldn’t crown him by force. Unfortunately for him, he concealed himself near some loudmouthed (or rather, loudbeaked) geese that promptly gave him away. Party for this reason, the goose became a symbol of St. Martin – the patron saint of geese and vintners, among other fortunate beings. And so, what better dish to serve on Martinmas, the main feast day before Advent, than a succulent roast goose (accompanied by wine, of course)!

Here is where the common people add their spice to the story. Looking forward to that main course, they dubbed a “St. Martin’s summer” the Middle English word gosesomer –“goose summer,” literally. (We have to remember, Dear Reader, that our new medieval friends probably don’t consume meat on a daily basis.) That warm snap in weather meant it was time to start fattening the bird.

But another element enters the scene, or rather dominates – the cobwebs of tiny spiders floating on the calm breeze. These were ubiquitous in early November in this region, and evidently more reliable than the fickle weather for indicating when to prepare the goose. How do we know? Because the people transferred the name gosesomer to these webs.

So now you nod at me with a knowing smile, and we turn to listen to the villagers verbally bestow the rich symbolism of weather, saints and feasts upon these filmy, silken strands. Our sojourn here complete, we turn back toward the present, meandering so we can witness the word’s gradual detachment from these symbols, tethers loosened by generations of speech and imagination. Then we watch as immigrants carry it to the New World, where only the symbolism of the webs themselves remains, and the linguistic transformation from “goose summer” to “goss-a-mer” is complete.

I am so glad that you joined me on my first adventure. I was tempted to wander off on some side trails, such as to the Basilica of St. Martin in Tours, France, where I once physically stood, and toward an understanding of the expression “my goose is cooked.” But for now, these paths lie untouched, hidden by the gossamer curtain that veils the unexpressed and unexplored.

Until next time, when we’ll clear more webs away –

Ety