The First Year Without Him

It had been raining for days. Slick, cold, stay indoors kind of rain. Not the gentle mist-like rain of the northwest that caresses as you go from place to place, but the heavy rainfall of the northeast that soaks you unmercifully, making you run for shelter. It was truly the April showers that bring May flowers, and I was visiting my family in New York. It was six months after my father died. Just eleven days before Samhain last year, it felt like the veil between the worlds had just begun to part and my father seized the opening to venture through to the other side. My widowed mother, my two older sisters and I had plans to honor Dad's wishes by spreading his ashes in the Atlantic Ocean.

At first we thought it should be off Coney Island, where he had spent time as a youth, where he and my Mother lived together in their one room apartment when they first got married. But logistically, that proved difficult. I had learned along the way of performing ministerial services that most state laws require this kind of thing be done at least two miles off shore for reasons of public health. Most folks think they can just go to the water’s edge, toss the ashes in and be done with it. But that is not true and not good citizenship. So we decided to rent a boat to take us out into Long Island Sound, not far from my sisters home, to release Dad’s ashes. Since the water of the Sound runs into the Atlantic, we figured it was close enough. The Atlantic in April is too rough and we are not practiced seafarers. Besides, the rituals for death are done for the living. This was a workable plan for us. Except for now with this relentless rain.

My eldest sister had wisely reserved the boat and Captain for either Wednesday or Thursday, depending on how other plans and the weather played out. We grew a bit nervous imagining a soggy boat ride if the rain continued, but then Thursday dawned clear, sunny and warm. We set out to the docks that morning feeling sure that Dad had orchestrated this beautiful day for us from the other side.

The Captain was a lovely man and it was a good sized motor boat with room to seat about ten comfortably, but there was only the four of us and a ten pound box of ashes, my father's cremains. We settled in the back of the boat beyond the canopy, sitting close, with the bright, morning sun on our faces as the Captain slowly brought us out toward the Sound. Once we cleared all the docks, the motor kicked up a deafening sound as we took up speed, heading north, the wind whipping our hair, my mother holding him on her lap.

Before long, the boat slowed and the Captain cut the engines. We floated in the center of the Sound, now the deafening silence broken only by birdsong. Due to the storm of emotions rising within, we were grateful that the water was calm. I was glad to notice that the port side was facing west, the portal to the Summerland. I knew this mattered solely to me, the only Pagan.

I opened the box and cut the plastic clasp on the bag of grey ashes inside. All that was physically left of the imposing man who had loved my mother till his dying day, all that was physically left of the lion-like man who had sired his now grown cubs, my sisters and I. One of us held the box as I lifted the bag out and placed it in my mothers hands. We sat two to a side facing one another on the benches, our hands found each others, all of us holding the man whose big presence in our world had imprinted us forever. The tears came but gently. We made eye contact in the most intimate moment I have ever spent with my family.

I brought a piece from my ceremonial repertoire and we listened as my father's first born softly read it aloud:

"As we look upon Daddy’s ashes, we know that his soul is now free and we are grateful that he is no longer suffering in physical form. We give our blessing to these remains. From water all life arises. As a stream flows into a river, as a river flows into the sea, may Daddy’s Spirit flow into the healing realms of the afterlife, and may his soul find rest. Amen."

Amen. And then we leaned over the side of the boat, tipped the bag and watched the ashes fall. They spread out on the surface, grey blotting out sea green for a moment, before they began to sink into the depths. We threw flower petals as we whispered good-bye.



At breakfast not long after, my mother said something that made all our forks drop as we stared at her. "I'm so relieved!", she said. We all nodded, thinking that she meant it was a relief that the deed was done. "You know how claustrophobic your father was." She continued, "The thought of him trapped in that box unable to breathe all this time was driving me crazy. Now he's free, you know?"

He has been free for a year now and that year has gone by incredibly quickly. I awoke weepy on the first anniversary of his death this past Wednesday, sadder than when he first died. At that time, I felt shock. I felt relief. I felt sad for my mother, alone after over sixty years of loving him. Then I moved into my Priestess role for his memorial in service to my family. Then I came back from the east coast and delved into the details and preoccupation of my life again, including a powerful Samhain ritual in which my father's photo took it's surreal place among the Ancestors for the first time.

But it's taken a whole year for me to truly arrive at my sorrow over his death. So, like a good Pagan, I did a ritual to commemorate the first year without my Dad on the planet: I planted Spring bulbs, burying some of my long held grievances about him, in the nourishing soil of the Mother as the syrupy, golden sunlight of deepening Autumn embraced me just eleven days before Samhain.

The Birds Will tell You.

The Birds Will Tell You.

Five years ago I took a cutting from a friend’s champagne grapevine and managed to successfully cultivate it in my front yard. Make sure you get enough root and give it something, like my chain link fence, to grow on.

The first year, no grapes. I wondered if maybe I needed two vines so they could make plant love in order to bear fruit. But the next year proved that to be untrue and I delighted in watching the tiniest baby grapes form a few meager clusters. When Autumn rolled around and they turned almost black they were so purple, I ate them with gusto, happily spitting out the seeds that I had forgotten were a part of them in our sad seedless day and age. The seeds seemed so big because champagne grapes are so small. I soon remembered all the good things I had heard about their potent antioxidants and went from spitting them out to crunching them down.

Year three was a bountiful one. First year sleeping, second year creeping, third year leaping! The vine was covered with dense clusters of deep amethyst orbs and like the crows, I watched them grow all summer. I wanted to harvest them at Samhain, and leave a bunch on a plate set out for my Beloved Dead on the Ancestor Altar. Autumn came and as it chilled, I came home each day and eyeballed the taut, tantalizing treats, growing fatter as their color deepened. And then one day in early October, I came home to an empty vine! The birds had feasted. Not a grape left in sight. Lesson learned. Harvest when the fruit is ready, don’t wait for a special occasion.

Last year I was so worried that the birds would rob me again that I took them in way too early. They had just turned purple, most of them anyway, but I was determined to have my harvest, sour or not. Well, yes, sour. Very sour. Can’t eat them sour. They sat on a plate on the windowsill looking pretty until before long they began to wrinkle. I let them dry out for weeks and at Yule ate the raisins. Not bad. If you like crunchy raisins. But the sour had turned to sweet with an afterglow of tart. And at least I was the one to feast on them.

This year? The vine is loaded with grapes! Fat clusters everywhere you look. The cool, wet spring gave them a great start and the vine itself must have grown about six feet in each direction. The last few weeks I’ve been sampling them, slowly getting sweeter. The other day I ate one that was pure sugar on my tongue. I'll harvest them this weekend. I’ve been thinking that I will search for a recipe and try to make champagne with them this year.

Today was one of those gorgeous Autumn days, cool, crisp with that quality of sunlight only this time of year offers. I was looking outside my front window when I spotted a beautiful Flicker sitting motionless on the top of the fence. It struck me how still she was and I peered more closely to see her marvelous markings, the red swath of color on her head, the hint of orange by her wing. And then I saw them! A flock of Flickers, all over the vine, guzzling my grapes. She must have been standing sentinel for the rest. The sound of my front door being flung open caused them all to flee. I didn’t even need to yell “Oh, no you don’t!” because they were already gone. I ran to get a basket and my clippers. This year I got it right. The Birds told me. And as I listened to them complain in the branches of my lilac tree, I sang their praises, both the birds and the grapes, as my basket filled-literally- to overflowing. And I left a cluster or two to thank them for letting me know.

The signs in Nature are clear to see when your eyes are opened to Her.

The Last Weekend in August

I would grow corn in my garden every year, and I do, whether I ever get to eat any of it or not. Even the crows seem to know that something special is on the way because I hear them screaming about it as they swoop above my kneeling form sowing the hardy dried kernels, alerting their flock. When conditions are right; ample sunlight, healthy soil, enough but not too much rain- a great trick to pull off here in the northwest- the strong seedlings make their appearance in about a week. No skimpy seedlings these. They pop up big and sturdy from the start, a foreshadowing of their future majesty. Like the tomato, their aroma is present from the get go, too, and it puts you in the mind of butter and salt.

I grow heirloom corn because I am politically correct. No GMO me. A few years ago I traveled to New Mexico and while there climbed into the amazing Anasazi cave homes in the cliffs. The history of these Native American people goes back 7000 years that we know of, so when I learned that their maize seed was discovered in ancient storage bins and that the Territorial Seed Company had its descendent seed for sale, well, it wasn’t long before I was happily sowing the jewel-like kernels of crimson, black, purple, blue and yellow in the rich brown compost of my garden. Because it was a very mild winter last year, it was a very cold and wet spring this year. I waited longer than I usually do to plant it because I know that corn likes the heat and light.

Anasazi corn must be particularly sweet because this year for the first time, I understood why there is the need for such a thing as a Scarecrow. In all my years of growing corn, the earwigs have gotten to them, the squirrels have had their way with the young cobs, the weather has not cooperated to bring them to fruition, but the crows have never done their mythical damage. About one moon into the growth of these beauties, I woke up to find all my rows of them pulled from the ground and lying there like so many blades of mown grass. A few sassy and shameless crows were walking around in this maize mausoleum as if nothing at all was the matter. “Corn? Oh, right, this. That was fun, thanks!”

I think if the crows had eaten the corn seedlings, I’d have felt better. But all they did was pull them up and leave them there to languish in the morning dew, walking around in them like Kali in so much blood. I became a Scarecrow then, whooping and yelling as I ran outside all too late. But I had another half a bag of the jewels and I’m no quitter. Round two.

These took quickly, and I helped them along by covering them with gauze until their roots were strong and set and even the strongest crow could be no match for them. But summer was slow to come and they weren’t even knee high by Lughnassad, much less the 4th of July. But cobs or no cobs, I am happy just for the sight of its tall, verdant beauty towering over the circuitous squash and huge horseradish. Two weeks ago we finally had a few days of true summer, temps rising to the 90’s, and my corn shot up. Last week, it finally tasseled and hope sprang eternal in my foolish heart.

Now here it is, the last weekend in Aug. and I woke up this morning and found, to my great dismay, complete corn carnage. Was it the possum I’ve seen lumbering across my back yard tripping the motion light on after dark? Was it the raccoons that made their way into my magick circle last Beltane night after all the revelers had gone? I’ll never know exactly who took them down over the night but it was déjà vu all over again, and this time on a much larger scale. All my beautiful spirit filled stalks, my strong ancient time keepers, my late summer delight, ruined. It must have been some kind of a crazed corn caper celebration because I found tassels and leaves and bits of stalk all over the back yard. An organic orgy.

I spent the day in the garden today deadheading the daisies, weeding, picking ripened blackberries, and red cheeked pears. I didn’t have the heart to even touch the prone corn. All day I walked past them like they weren’t there, aware that I was in denial, living in the land of wishes where my corn still stood, their middles fattening with cobs about to become ears. And then finally, as the day drew to a close, I carefully collected them, breathing in their sweet scent, petting and mourning the silky and colorful tassels, running their leaves between my fingers. Apologizing to them for predators.

And I kept them. They are drying in my garage and on the Harvest Moon coming, I will situate them standing up behind a few early pumpkins to usher in the season. There is no waste in nature.

Full Moon Magick

July’s Full Moon fell at 6:36 p.m. on a Sunday this year and I had a plan. I would make my own flower essence from the Evening Primrose growing in my garden. It had grown there every other year from the wildflower seed I had spread when I first moved into this little house with the big back yard over seven years ago. For the longest time I didn’t even know what this tall, lanky plant with the small clusters of yellow flowers was. Then one day, I happened to spot a drawing and explanation of it in one of my books on herbalism. It was only then that I learned to seek her aroma at twilight. She is pretty enough to look at all right, but she only lets her sweet aroma waft as the day wanes and evening approaches and I had never caught her delicate scent before. This is why she is called Evening Primrose and why my plan was timely on a Full Moon.

On this particular Full Moon, I arrived home after performing a house blessing, feeling happy with the work I’d done and filled with anticipation about my first ever attempt at making a flower essence. I am living a magickal life!

I’ve experienced the healing that flower essences offer from my dear friend who had given many a remedy to me over the years. Flower essences have helped me recover from traumatic experiences, ease my grief, strengthen my resolve, and remember who I am at a core level. Potent stuff.

This year I was determined to keep my water bill low, adding mulch to the garden to keep the moisture in the soil, watering only the vegetable beds every other day, leaving the flower beds to fend for them selves. At 6:25 I walked outside ready to begin; bowl of purified water and moonstone in tow. But when I walked toward the Evening Primrose, they were sagging listlessly; all blooms withered and hanging lifeless! These were plants that didn’t care about my water bill, they were dying of thirst. Literally. I ran to get the hose, all the while scolding myself for letting this happen. “Well,” I told myself to feel better. “You can make some on the next full moon.” But I knew by late August, she’d be past her seasonal peak. I stood there watching the spray of water sink into the soil below the plants, disappointment flooding my heart. It was too late. I’d missed the right timing to make the essence this year.

Something you learn as you garden: one thing gives way to another and there is always something more to do. As the Moon came on full, I spied my lavender ready for harvest. Full Moon lavender, perfect! I’d dry it to use along with tansy, lemon verbena, and Artemisia in my sachets as holiday gifts. I braved the bees, too drunk on the lavender to notice me, I think, as I clipped the slender stalks about a foot below the fragrant blossoms. Soon I had a few armloads of them and brought them to the table on my deck. I sat there placing each stalk against the next, positioning the blooms together in bunches. I took each bunch to the compost pile and clipped the ends uniformly. Then I placed a rubber band around the bottom of the stems and hung them on little wires from my drying rack. I followed this routine for about half an hour, maybe forty five minutes as the sun began to sink in the west.

As anyone who has worked with lavender for an extended period of time knows, you get as drunk as the bees on the scent. I was stoned before I knew it and all was right with the world. My mind floated back to the flower essence I had wanted to make. I glanced back over to the Evening Primrose and gasped! There they were, totally rejuvenated, standing tall once more. Precious water. A lesson in resilience and hydration. I ran over to them, praising them verbally as I counted the 13 blooms that had miraculously opened! In the growing twilight, their keen yellow looked absolutely neon, and the air was thick with their delicate perfume. Who needs recreational drugs? Learn your flowers, man.

I pulled a few strands of my hair out and dropped them in the soil as an offering of gratitude. Then I picked the flowers from their calyxes and gently placed them into the bowl of moonstone water. Back at the table, I wrapped my hands around the bowl and breathing their scent, I gazed unblinking at their beauty, my heart filled with gratitude for nature. It did not escape my notice that Evening Primrose brings rejuvenation to menopausal women. Like me.

It's a calling.

This is not the first lifetime I have spent as clergy. I am certain I have been a High Priestess before, and a Priest, a Monk, a Hermit, and a Nun. I am certain I have built churches, cleaned mosques, presided at the temple, kept the grove. I am certain I have dedicated my life, my body, my voice, my soul to that unnameable force we have for centuries called by names now laden with connotation and import; Goddess, God, Spirit, Creator, the One. I am certain I have jumped through hoops and endured ordeals and served and slaved and gone insane and been sacrificed, all for the depth of my faith and the belief in the evolution of the soul from lifetime to lifetime. And this one is no exception. Although I am relieved to know there are no blazing stakes or nooses in my future and so far, I believe, I have kept my sanity intact. I am certain this is not the first life I have experienced the joy and deep contentment that true faith promises. And I am also certain that this is the life in which it has been the most fun!

This time, I am doing it under my own auspices. I answer to my calling. And perhaps non profit laws and state tax regulations but those are the nuts and bolts of business, not the essence and nature of faith. I serve Her. The Divine Feminine so desperately needed in the forefront of our consciousness and the strength of our hearts in these times. The compassionate and nurturing Great Mother whom we have so long abandoned but thankfully, She Who Did Not Return That Favor.

I simply took all that I loved to do and cared about and sought ways to manifest them. And in one inspired moment, on the heels of securing a beautiful office I knew was my sacred space, I chose to offer my first Goddess Worship Service. That was close to ten years ago and during the ensuing years, my ministry has watered not only the once dry plains of my soul, it has cultivated a thriving spiritual community, it has developed and supported a great understanding and reclaiming of the Ancient Goddess, She Whom We Had Forgotten For So Long.

I am certain that all those other lives in the clergy have led me to this one. I am certain that persecution for one's faith in past lives makes one bold enough to forge their own faith in the next one. After all, once you loose your life what more do you have to loose? I am certain that experience in obedience and penance and scarcity in past lives makes one brave enough to refuse that monotony and pain in this one. I am certain that the Fates have spun the thread of freedom for me this time around. I am so grateful..

Join me in Gaia's Temple and let's take good spiritual care of the Earth together.