VICTORY, a Glorious Cedar Bowl

Continuing from my previous post.  This is the comment I attempted to make on the MacGregor's post:

And  there's more "pattern-clusters"  found in the names and their meanings:
NICK and NIKA come from Greek νικη (nike) "VICTORY";  LAUREN and LAURIE come from the "laurel" tree, its leaves used to create VICTORS' garlands; ALEXANDER is  from Greek αλεξω "to defend, help"; HARWOOD is derived from Old English "Har" meaning "grey" and "wudu" meaning "tree/wood"; JANUARY (when Megan began her roommate hunt) also factors in, deriving its name from Janus, the god with two faces who looks to the future and past, he is associated with beginnings, transitions, time, doorways, and endings.  The "grey wood" is a cryptic way of saying, from someone who knows the past and future,  that VICTORY for the people is  bleak, if we can't turn the grey back to green.  My "Tou Sense Worth" interpretation. 

This is my final post and I'd like to dedicated it to this glorious tree that Cath and I cut down earlier this evening. The rings reveal that it lived for over 70 years-- a short span considering that white cedars can live up to 800 years in our climate.  The little plot of soil in my brothers back yard was just too thin for it to thrive any longer.  It was sickly, it's leaves withered and brown, it had done its time.

I'm reminded of a feminist poem, A Work of Artifice, by Marge Piercy:

The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creatures
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch. 

I read the poem for the first time over 30 years ago, it gave me courage to flee a "pot" of my own.  And so here I am, as magnificent as I dare to be in a world that has no place for me.

There's also a song.  You may know it: 

To everything, turn, turn, turn. There is a season, turn, turn, turn.   And a time to every purpose under heaven.  A time to be born, a time to die.  A time to plant, a time to reap.  A time to kill, a time to heal.  A time to laugh, a time to weep.

To everything, turn, turn, turn.  There is a season, turn, turn, turn.  And a time to every purpose under heaven.  A time to build up, a time to break down.  A time to dance, a time to mourn.  A time to cast away stones.  A time to gather stones together.
To everything, turn, turn, turn.  There is a season, turn, turn, turn.  And a time to every purpose under heaven.  A time of love, a time of hate.  A time of war, a time of peace.  A time you may embrace.  A time to refrain from embracing.
To everything, turn, turn, turn.  There is a season, turn, turn, turn.And a time to every purpose under heaven.  A time to gain, a time to lose.  A time to rend, a time to sew.  A time for love, a time for hate.  A time for peace, I swear it's not too late.

It's time to blow off the 22 year old dust that's piled atop the old wood turner and make a glorious cedar bowl called VICTORY!!