Today my father and I did go to a funeral of an old woman. But it was not a sad day, for she was old and the death was expected. Together we passed over the ford, the in-between place where the dead and living meet, a place that is neither wet nor dry, and we held a flask from the water of a ford in our hands. Oh, although it is only the dead that live in between, I at fifteen, neither girl nor women feel that I stand upon such a ford myself, unsure of where I am about to go, to either heaven or hell -- should I become a nun, a wife, or flee this life entirely and go to live amongst the fairy people. I intend to have fun, regardless, while I still can!

A must confess I cast my dream-fate not to be amongst that of the wedded women. But that is my secret, I write this only at night in my diary. Truthfully, I can barely watch the women spinning in the house, without their stillness making me sick. How I much prefer wandering outside of doors, almost like a man! That is what I love about the seasonal custom this time of year, of seeing the villagers go door to door in masks. If only I could be such a wanderer, even a beggar. The villages say that their masked figures represented the spirits of the dead and to refuse them food would be to invite their vengeance on the house. I always give them something. Of course, the priest says that because Christ came to the world, no such pagan worries should trouble our Christian heads, but I am not so sure and besides, I enjoy seeing the masks...

My best friend Tara told me to perform this ritual the last year I was a child -- I waited until midnight, lit a candle and ate the eight magical pieces of my apple, looking over my shoulder every time, for hopes of seeing the man I might marry. But I saw no man! Perhaps I shall never marry -- or marry a spirit! That is what she said, Tara, because I saw no man in the mirror. I did not tell that to my father. Tonight, when he said the blessing over dinner, he said this, half in jest "O Fox! Spare thou my lambs. This to thee, O hooded Crow! And this prayer to thee, O Eagle! Marry my daughter, for no man will have such a girl who is so headstrong, with such a wicked tongue!" do not see why he is always so worried about money I eat and why he is so critical of me, for our house is filled with harvest-barley, oats, wheat, turnips, and apples for the coming November. But he always says I am a lazy girl, the last one to finish cleaning the house every December before Christmas, not good for sowing seed, milking cows, harvesting corn, or doing anything of use that will make me a suitable wife. Good only for riding horses and dreaming, that is Janet. And for finding the last, hardy roses to gather long after the rest of the house thought the frost had killed them all. But one cannot eat roses.
That is all I have to say for tonight! I must say my prayers