Sunday, September 5, 2010

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.