Yule!

It’s 11:36 on this cold Winter Solstice morning. At the Summer Solstice the sun would be reaching His zenith in the sky right about now, reaching the reason we call it ‘high noon.’ But it’s the other Solstice today, the one where the sun barely skips over the tops of the old pine trees in my neighborhood, slanting His light into my window. Should we call it ‘low noon?’

The frost has not melted on the grass still in shadow. Sunlight will not vanquish that shadow today. He is too weak. At twilight, only about five hours from now, He will sink below the horizon into the realm of the unborn, for the longest night of the solar year. And in that lengthy darkness the Cosmic Mother will labor to bring the new born Sun King to birth. She will journey to the edge of death to bring life. And we will gather in circles of loving community to hold vigil, to rekindle our own light, to mark this earthly holy day.

Tomorrow will seem just as short a day, really. But we will know in our hearts that daylight will linger for a few moments longer. We will nurture and protect our rekindled flames as we would any newborn, with tenderness and love and welcome, dreaming of the future, grateful for beginnings.

A Trip To Faeryland

I spent Thanksgiving with dear friends in sunny California. A welcome respite from soggy Seattle. Friday after the feast, I met their friends about whom I have heard many fabulous stories, and it was good to put names with faces after all this time. It was also good to sit with more artists, even ones I had just met, and feel such an unspoken kinship.

Beyond the dead end of their street, a sign at the entrance of a narrow boardwalk says “Welcome to The Elvin Forest”. Of course, there was a picture of a small, open-handed Elf with pointy ears and shoes. I felt a familiar tug in the center of my palms, a sensation I have come to understand that alerts me to the proximity of a numinous experience. I had been told about the Faery Oaks that lived in this forest, some for at least a hundred years, and I was excited to meet them.

The boardwalk turned this way and that at a slight decline toward the water, and at times it felt as if I was walking through a labyrinth, unable to see where I had been or where I was going next. Which did much to confirm the presence of the Fae for me; who doesn’t know that their realm is one in which time runs differently and disorientation is the lay of the land?

A cool breeze blew through the tunnels the boardwalk created and as I walked, I kept searching the vegetation that grew on either side for oak leaves. Artemesia, some kind of sagebrushy kind of shrub and even poison oak, but not an oak leaf was to be found. I did see some of the most amazing spider webs; dimensional, like gossamer cubes with odd angles shimmering in the sunlight. They made me stop and stare. I wanted to see what kind of spiders had spun these into being but none were to be found. Maybe they only come out at night.

Around one corner, the boardwalk stopped and the banister on either side joined together to form a barricade. And beyond it, there they were. A grove of the Faery oaks! Their tops formed an umbrella above their long and winding, low growing limbs, some of which barely skimmed the soft looking forest floor, beckoning as a comfy sofa. How clever of the Faeries to grow them without leaves mortals would recognize as oak!

I couldn’t help myself! I climbed through what was intended to keep me out, drawn beyond my capacity to resist. The light inside was truly otherworldly. The air was easy to breathe. Spanish moss hung everywhere softening the already curved lines of the flora. I could sense the sentience of the old oaks. I could feel the presence of magick throbbing like my joyous heart. It was all soft green and dove grey above a carpet of faded yellow, sweet smelling leaves.

Then, that weird way of spying fleeting things out of the corner of your eyes began to happen, where no matter how quickly you turn to look, there is nothing to see. The itch in my palms threw currents to my shoulder blades, right where my wings used to be. I knew I was among Them. I felt I had come home. I didn’t need to close my eyes to pray to the Fae. I sat perfectly still, feeling tiny and grand, and softening my gaze, prayed with my smile. Thanksgiving, indeed.

My friends back on the boardwalk wanted to move on. Tearing myself out of the grove felt physically painful. Achy like. With a pang of sorrow. And a side of dizzy.

The triumphant destination of the boardwalk was a vista of the estuary that snakes through the mud flats toward Morro Bay. Where the late afternoon sun sparkles on the mirror of the water. Where hawks circle silently, the edges of their wings like the graceful hands of ballerinas. Where, off in the distance, long legged birds peck at the damp and delicious earth.

But I knew the triumphant vista was one that can’t be seen with our determinate eyes. It was back in a thunderously silent grove, thick with magick, and luminous from an invisible moon.

This Little Light of Mine

Winter is in. If I didn’t know it by the dropping temperatures and holiday trappings everywhere, I was sure of it when I checked email the other day and found this:

What Holiday Is That?

T’was the month before Christmas, when all through our land,
Not a Christian was praying nor taking a stand.

See the PC Police had taken away
The reason for Christmas - no one could say.

The children were told by their schools not to sing
About Shepherds and Wise Men and Angels and things.

It might hurt people's feelings, the teachers would say
December 25th is just a ' Holiday'.

Yet the shoppers were ready with cash, checks and credit
Pushing folks down to the floor just to get it!

CDs from Madonna, an X BOX, an I-Pod
Something was changing, something quite odd!

Retailers promoted Ramadan and Kwanzaa
In hopes to sell books by Franken & Fonda.

As Targets were hanging their trees upside down
At Lowe's the word Christmas - was no where to be found.

At K-Mart and Staples and Penny's and Sears
You won't hear the word Christmas; it won't touch your ears.

Inclusive, sensitive, Di-ver-si-ty
Are words that were used to intimidate me.

Now Daschle, Now Darden, Now Sharpton, Wolf Blitzen
On Boxer, on Rather, on Kerry, on Clinton!

At the top of the Senate, there arose such a clatter
To eliminate Jesus, in all public matter.

And we spoke not a word, as they took away our faith
Forbidden to speak of salvation and grace

The true Gift of Christmas was exchanged and discarded
The reason for the season, stopped before it started.

So as you celebrate 'Winter Break' under your 'Dream Tree'
Sipping your Starbucks, listen to me.

Choose your words carefully, choose what you say
Shout MERRY CHRISTMAS, not Happy Holiday!


Please, all Christians join together and wish everyone you meet
MERRY CHRISTMAS

Christ is The Reason' for the Christ-mas Season!



Wow.



I am not a Christian, so the call to action at the end of this poorly written rhyme is not intended for me. But in addition to making the mental correction that Mother Nature is the reason for the season, it made me wonder. Is our faith really taken away if we don’t hear it spoken about or exalted in public? Is our spirit so uneasy that it must trump all others in order to feel secure? I thought faith resides in our hearts and souls. And why does being inclusive and sensitive and honoring diversity intimidating?

Lest we forget, “Yule” means Wheel, and refers to the Wheel of the Year, a Pagan model for the passing of time. That tree hanging upside down at Target derives from an old Pagan practice of associative magick: the evergreen brought into the home at midwinter is a metaphor for life surviving through the fallow season. Amulets for protection to ward off illness and hunger were hung on this tree, much later becoming Christmas ornaments. The trees' branches would be used to keep the home fires burning through the long, dark coldness, its trunk becoming the Yule Log to start next year's midwinter fire. Why, even the wreath on the door was a representation of the Wheel of the Year, the portal through which all life enters into the world. In my faith, the story goes that at the Solstice, the Great Cosmic Mother gives birth to the sun. We can easily see how that story morphed into Mother Mary giving birth to Her son.

But I don’t expect that school children everywhere, no matter what faith they were raised in, to sing about it. And it doesn’t take one tiny bit away from my faith that everyone doesn’t walk the same path as I do. I love that the Solstice and Christmas and Hanukah and Kwanzaa are all celebrated close to one another in time (by the way, Ramadan is observed in the Summer!) because at the foundation of all of them is the celebration of the returning light!

Perhaps allowing this little light of mine to shine is the best way to observe Christmas. Correct me if I am wrong, but wasn’t it Jesus who said love thy enemies as thyself?

A Silent Supper

For years I have included the tradition of the Silent Supper in my teachings about Samhain. The idea is to partake of a feast of old family recipes, without talking, as a way to honor your Beloved Dead. The closest I have ever come to participating in this tradition is to ask my congregation to hold a few moments of silence at the end of the October service, offering prayers in their hearts instead of making them verbally. But that is a far cry from the true silent supper I experienced on Samhain this year.

The day dawned with perfect weather for Samhain; cool, crisp and most of all and especially here in the northwest, dry! My circle had planned to partake of a true Silent Supper as part of our ritual and I spent the day preparing for it, cleaning the house and setting the table with all my Witch Ware and linens. Each of us were to bring some family favorite to contribute to the meal. I made my first ever 'Grandma Fay Salad'.

Grandma Fay's salad has been a staple in my family for as long as I can remember. It appears at just about every family gathering in the big silver bowl, and in all these years I had never made one myself. I think that is because once I grew up and went out on my own, I looked down my nose at iceberg lettuce as something deplorable and Miracle Whip never entered my fridge. Funny how my judgments never stopped me from eating it whenever someone else made it! Well, it's just so damned tasty.

Nothing all that special really. A basic garden salad complete with tomato, cucumber, radish, celery, red bell pepper, onion. But it must be iceberg lettuce. Romain just won't do. Iceberg! Hard boiled eggs. Miracle Whip, (not plain mayonnaise), kosher salt and a little bit of garlic powder. Unusual ingredient for a salad but there it is.

I called my mother for a review and was delighted with her specific pointers about her Mother-in-law's dish. Push the eggs through the grater we use for potatoes when we make latkes, use a little Miracle Whip at a time (you can always add more but too much will ruin it), same with the kosher salt, and "use your hands. Get in there and mix it up!" Use my hands? Oh! Ok.

When I asked her if she knew where the original recipe came from and when, I thought for sure she would tell me that Grandma Fay found it in a cookbook in the 1960's or something. But although my mother wasn't sure where the recipe originated, she said Grandma Fay was already serving it when my father took her home to meet his family in the 40's! I didn't know that Miracle Whip was around that long!

My guests arrived and we did a simple ceremony of creating sacred space, naming our Beloved Dead, explaining the dish we each brought and why, and then a bell was rung to signal the beginning of holding ritual silence. Next, we bundled up and journeyed outside my back door to the magick of my garden, where my big cast iron cauldron had been set up, ready to go. Earlier the week before, I had created the Samhain 'portal' using cast iron torches wrapped with mullein stalks and poppy heads in the northwest of the circle. Now, we each ate a few pomegranate seeds there before walking through to the realm of our Ancestors.

The night was clear and cold, the stars sharp, Diana's bow low and bright in the sky. Once the fire was lit, we threw handful after handful of dried lavendar, rosemary, and sage into the cauldron, watching the smoke take our prayers of love to our Beloved Dead. When all the herbs were burned, we stood close to warm ourselves, holding hands, watching the embers for a while. Keeping the silence, we walked back through the gate and inside the house to fill our plates and take our seats. I made an extra plate with a bit of all the dishes and placed it in the center of the table for our Ancestors. When everyone was served, we began our silent supper.

I have eaten this way before; not talking or distracted by a book or the TV, mindful of each bite, conscious of my gratitude. But this was different. Each morsel was acutely delicious; the carrots sweet and soft, the chicken and pork tender and flavorful, the mashed potatoes creamy and comforting. Eyes met and smiled across plates. The clink of silverware, music. I felt an unexpected bubble of laughter rise and then fall in me and somehow I knew it was the delight of those on the other side.

I took a forkful of the salad. It was Grandma Fay's all right! Needed a bit more salt but that was easily remedied. I thought of her eyes that always looked at me with love. I touched her earrings in my lobes, the necklace she gave me on my thirteenth birthday around my neck. I will always miss her honey voice and unconditional love. But sitting there in silence at the table, she felt so close I just couldn't be sad.

When all the plates were empty and all the forks laid down, I rang the bell once more and as agreed, we took a deep breath together and let out a collective sigh to bring our voices back from the thick deep. We closed the sacred space and then consumed coffee and dessert amid great conversation and lovely laughter.

This beautiful tradition is not one to be missed! How magnificent to sit at a table with those you love and trust, nourishing yourself on family favorites, not having to utter a word to feel a deep and intimate connection, even across the mystery to those who have gone before us.

A Harvest of Red

The full moon in October is called the Blood Moon because it was the month when the Ancients would give death to and preserve some of the animals in their herds, ensuring the survival of the clan through the cold and dark months of fallow. Over time, I have come to believe that since it is also the month when the veil grows thin between the living and our Beloved Dead, that the name Blood Moon also refers to our bloodline, our lineage, the legacy we carry in our veins from all those who have gone before us.

October is a bountiful month. Even this year, when so much of what I planted did not bear, I still found myself eager to gather the last of whatever graced my garden as the days grew shorter and colder. Luck brought a quintessential Autumn day last weekend and I went blissfully out in the cool, crisp, dry and breezy weather, my garden clippers at the ready in my back pocket, a big basket under my arm, ready to see what was what.

Before long I found that everything I was gathering fell somewhere in the color spectrum of red; burgundy blackberries, deep garnet beets, voluptuous tomatoes -cerise cherries, pink heirlooms and the crimson romas-, ruby hawthorn berries and the one and only scarlet cayenne pepper. Even the carrots I grew this year are the kind that were supposed to have dark purple skin, but mine came out of the ground red, red, Blood Moon red!

It might seem silly to make meaning like I do. Yet I stay happily connected to the world I am living in this way. And while I am here, while I am not yet an Ancestor, I want the cardinal life force coursing through my veins to support a purposeful life. I like to think my Beloved Dead are watching from between the worlds, proud of how I have picked up the thread of long ago farmers and herbalists somewhere back along the fractured lineage of my family history. That I am reclaiming and healing the lost story of my perhaps great, great, great grandparents who lost their land to the conqueror of their day, and that as I pull up each blood red beet, my ancestors are savoring another spirit bowl of borscht.

A Naked Moment

I was enamored and enchanted and somehow reminded, when I read in Marian Zimmer Bradley’s The Mists of Avalon, how the cycles of nature coursed through the very blood of the Priestesses on that holy isle because they were so magickally tuned in. It filled me with longing to return to that deep a relationship with nature as fervently as one yearns for a lover; to feel the silent rush of energy that signals the exact moment when the moon flips from dark to new, the exact moment of an equinox or a solstice.

But I am a modern day Priestess, who relies on her alarm clock to wake her, her calendar to track the passing of her days, her ephemeris to note the planetary changes. I live in a time when electricity keeps our world illuminated long after dark, cooks our food in seconds and brings the madness of the entire globe into our homes on television and the internet. Still, I get my hands in the earth as often as I can in my urban garden, I keep the Sabbats holy, I worship the Moon. I make do.

Between the last of late summer’s heat carrying on into the night and my own hot flashes, uninterrupted sleep has become a thing of the past. Usually I awaken between three and four in the morning and get up to drink a cold glass of water to bring down my internal heat in order to fall back to sleep. But on this September Full Moon night, my eyes flew open at 2 a.m. exactly, a trickle of sweat sliding down the side of my face. I tossed and turned for about 20 minutes, trying to still my mind, to think cool thoughts, to slow my breathing, anything to seduce slumber. Alas, it would not be won.

So I arose, and when I stepped over the threshold of my bedroom door, the dining room was flooded with moonlight! She was so high in the sky, I had to crane my neck to see her through the window; a luminous spotlight in the cloudless, inky blackness, beckoning.

I could not resist. Opening my back door, I gazed at the Faery land I have sensed my yard to be, now made visible to any watchful eye under the Moon. Each blade of grass, each petunia in her pot, each pear on her tree, bathed in luminescent shimmer. It was otherworldly quiet- no barking dogs, no playful shouting from the neighbor’s children, no distant hum of a lawnmower- just me and the Goddess. So quiet I could hear the nightshades singing. Their song carried me between the worlds and with the bravery found only in extraordinary moments, I stood, the cool breeze caressing my body in that naked moment of eternity, drawing down the Moon.

In the solar light of day hours later, I checked said ephemeris to learn that the Moon had reached Her fullness at exactly 2:27 that morning. She woke me up to come out and play! Apparently, the tides of the Moon still course through my veins despite electricity, despite menopause, despite sleep. The Goddess is alive, and magick is afoot!

Rock My World!

I have a theory about rocks. I believe they can move from one place to another on their own. How else can you explain the appearance of stones where none existed before? Squirrels don't carry and bury stones like they do bulbs and acorns. I believe the rocks move when they know we are not looking.

I love them and began keeping a rock collection as a child. I remember finding the perfectly hamburger shaped stone that I kept in a box in the basement, the square box of a rock with the white stripe through it, the sparkly piece that made my heart stand still, whose beautiful name I learned was Mica. Next to English, Earth Science was my favorite class. At the word 'igneous', I was hooked. Over the years I have collected stones from all the more distant places I have been, and then began asking folks who were traveling to bring just any little stone off the street back for me. I have stones from as far away as Australia, Greenland, Russia. Baskets of rocks adorn my home, my office, my deck. I've never met a rock I didn't like.

Eight years ago when I moved into this home and began to cultivate a garden, my shovel found rock after rock. As each garden bed was created, I painstakingly removed them knowing that they might obstruct what I wanted to grow. I piled them here and there making sedentary designs. It seemed no matter how many I picked from the soil, there were always more. I am sure this area was a river bed thousands of years ago and these dense minerals are evidence of that. And even though I have worked these garden beds over and over, it amazes me that I still find them in places I am sure I have filtered through.

One day I found a sizable stone in the middle of my compost pile. Now, wait a minute! That pile had been created from nothing but food scraps, leaf mulch and grass clippings! How did it get there? I started to think that just as plants have consciousness, the rocks must too and they must want to relocate from time to time. After all, they don't have roots like plants. There is nothing to keep them in any particular place except, of course, that they don't have legs or wings. But curiouser things have happened.

This theory of mine began to solidify in my mind when I found one about a foot deep in a raised bed that I had filled with nothing but compost! I can see a stone perhaps falling on the surface somehow, but a foot deep? Come on. It must have made it's stony little way there.

And then a few days ago I had a mystical experience that has proven to me that my 'rocks can move' theory is true. There I was, innocently and finally weeding the overgrown garden beds in the front yard. In the bed under my huge, old lilac tree (the one who gifts me such fragrant, dark purple blossoms in early Summer that are so big they border obscene), the weeds were just about taking over. It had been so long since I'd given any attention to this area that the daffodil, tulip and grape hyacinth skeletons from early Spring still splayed out, life and colorless on the soil.

I set the empty wheelbarrow nearby and began happily pulling weeds, tossing them in, filling it up. I find weeding very therapeutic. I remove the useless thoughts that can take up too much space in my mind as I remove the biomass that steals the nutrients from plants I want to thrive.

And then it happened. I walked toward the wheelbarrow with my hands full, and I saw something small and grey move. Jump, really, from the top of the weed pile down into it. I had the fleeting thought "is that a mouse?" but then just as quickly I saw that it was a rock! A small grey rock. And it jumped down and in and out of sight!

I stood staring, trying to make sense of it, telling myself that I was not crazy, I really had seen a rock jump. Then the questions: how did it get in that pile of weeds to begin with? I hadn't been digging up the soil, just pulling from the surface, and I had encountered no rocks. And then, and more importantly, what made it move? I had been no where near the wheelbarrow when I saw the rock jump. Before I concluded that I had truly lost my mind, I decided to relay to my friends in the back yard that I had seen a rock move of it's own volition. As I turned to do so, WHUMP! The wheelbarrow fell over on it's side, spilling its contents on the grass, and I just about jumped out of my skin!

This is not the first time I have pondered whether my sanity is intact. But I saw what I saw! Whose to say what is sane and what is not? Maybe rocks do perambulate. Maybe it wanted me to see it move because my strong belief in its ability to do so warranted the gift of witnessing it with my own eyes.

When I righted the wheelbarrow again, I found the rock. It looks like it might be granite. You bet it's in my collection. In fact, this one sits right on my desk at which I am writing this piece. I keep glancing over to see if it is still in the same place as the last time I looked at it. It is.

For over a year now, I have been engaged in Soul Craft, which is a body of work that comprises specific nature tasks, or exercises performed engaging in the wild, created by Bill Plotkin. Google him.

Plotkin created this work, in part, because he realized that western society is in dire trouble because of how far we have come from a deep and spiritual connection with Nature. He cites this lack of conscious interconnectedness at the root of what we find going so desperately wrong in our world. Essentially, we in the west have never matured as a collective. Our behavior is adolescent.

Soul Craft is amazing, magnificent and necessary work if one wants to grow up. Soul Craft is not for sissies or the faint of heart. It is deep and difficult work because in order to get to our core, we must release our ego identities that might keep us safe, yet often keep us stuck. And immature. And it will take you right to the heart of what is unhealed within, allowing nature to become an ally for growth, maturity, and your mental and spiritual health.

Let me know how that part goes for you.

Because for me? It’s been one battle after the next as my familiar way of life continues to unravel, as all I thought I was certain of comes up for re-evaluation, as I recognize the enormity of what is inside crying out for attention. And I am not kidding when I say ‘crying’. It strikes me as ironic that on the path to maturity, my inner child seems to be at the helm. She has not been a happy camper. This unraveling has not been pretty.

I am working with a mentor doing this work and if you plan to engage in Soul Craft, I recommend you do, too. The terrain is too unfamiliar and you cannot read the map yourself. You are going to need someone else to be your eyes, your witness, your guide.

I meet with her about once a moon. We spend some time talking about how I’ve done with my homework since last we met, how the journey has been for me, and then she always asks what my ‘edge’ is at the time which informs the work of my next step. She then gives me a soul task and sends me out into the forest to do it. An hour or so later, we meet up and process the task, and I scribble as fast as I can to preserve every pearl that comes out of her mouth so I can savor it again and again in between our sessions.

Just recently, after a particularly tumultuous emotional time of things, I got a chest cold that turned into pneumonia which took me down for the count. It’s over a month since I recovered enough to return to the tasks of everyday living and I still don’t feel I have regained my former energy level. When I say ‘down for the count’ I mean just that. I couldn't even read I was so woozy. I spent over two weeks unable to do anything but lay on the couch and watch television. That to me, is really sick. In more ways than one.

If you want to shed the last shred of your ego identity- who you think you are based on what you do- get really sick and watch how it slips away. And then watch how you try desperately to hang onto it-standing dizzy at the stove waiting for the soup to heat up until you finally surrender, barely making it back to the couch without falling over after a coughing fit so deep and painful, you literally see stars spinning in your peripheral vision. But don’t doze once you get there. Because the next thing you know the fire alarm awakens and deafens you all at the same time because the soup is burning at the bottom of the pot, smoke is billowing everywhere ( which is great for your fragile lungs) and you end up too exhausted from getting it all under control that you just skip it anyway. And the pot sits in the sink for close to three days because you don’t have the strength to scrub the cooked on blackness.

Guess what?? Dirty dishes don’t matter.

I have amazing friends, who knew I was alone for this ordeal and brought me food and those drinks that have a lot of electrolytes. All of them called to check on me and asked if I needed anything and I told them all, no, no, I’m fine!

Listen up, Peeps! If someone you know is sick enough to miss work for over a week, much less closer to three, they are not fine. They tell you that because they want to convince themselves it is true by speaking those works out loud so they can hear them. But they are not fine. Visit anyway. Bring food anyway. Plan to sit with them for a while. Tell them how brave they are. Hold their hand. Thankfully, my friends didn’t listen to my cheerful but out and out lies, and came with help anyway.

Where was I? Right, Soul Craft. When I next met with my mentor it was not long after this bout with pneumonia. It was a typical cold and rainy, northwest day in early June and I was reluctant to be out in it for fear of relapse, but there was no way I was going to miss our session.

I tell her how I need to take it slow and so we walk up the gentle slope instead of the steep switchbacks to the top where we usually begin our time together. She leads me to a shelter on the land so we can stay dry while remaining in the natural setting. We sit on one of the benches and I begin telling her about my recent illness and the insights it has yeilded for me, when I look out at the tree standing maybe 30 feet from us and gasp! “Is that real?!?", I exclaim. Because it looks like one of those fake owls people buy at nurseries to put on their roofline or in their garden. As soon as I ask this question and as if to answer, the owl swivels its head and looks right at me. I am seen!

I have never been this close to an owl that was not in captivity and, of course, I cannot tear my eyes away. My mentor asks if Owl has any special significance to me and giddily, I tell her that Owl is my Power Animal in the upper world when I do Shamanic healing work for others. She asks me what Owl brings to me and I reply that she lifts me up to see the bigger picture, where I can often spot unhealthy patterns from the lofty perspective.

There are no accidents and everything we encounter in nature during Soul Craft informs the work. So today my task is to write a letter to myself about my recent dance, albeit a prone one, with pneumonia and all the preceding events that led me to that dance floor. To have a conversation with Owl about the patterns in my own life. The reason for this letter is to have a record of the intensity of my recent experiences. Time can dull them as we recover and life normalizes again. It’s so easy to forget how we have been changed because we go back to a life that has not changed, a life that expects us to return as we were.

I begin my letter with this, “I am afraid to tear my eyes away from you and look at the words I am writing on the page for fear you will fly away!” I didn’t want to miss seeing its wing span or in which direction it would fly if it took off. I continue to write a few words at a time, constantly looking up at it, until I finally decide to stop and allow myself to just feast my eyes on this enchanting bird. I do as I know to do; begin a conversation by asking a question. I mentally ask Owl, “How are you, Beautiful One? Is there anything you want to tell me, anything I should know?”

I have read accounts on interactions with Power Animals and unless and until you experience them yourself, they all sound hokey and contrived. I expect this account might sound the same but I swear to you it is true. As soon as I asked my question, Owl looked directly at me and we locked eyes. Soon that kind of 3D thing began to happen where the owl seemed to loom closer in sharp contrast to the lush green that softly fuzzed into the background. I don’t remember anything but taking in the detail; its feathers of brown and white stripes, the blackish eyebrows that seemed to frame its dark gold eyes. The Barred Owl, also known as a Hoot Owl, is about 20 inches tall. A magnificent creature!

I wish I could say I received a clear and conscious transmission of esoteric information, but I didn’t. All I remember was finally looking down at the page and writing these words: “All the mistakes I have made don’t matter. What matters is right now. “ And when I looked up from the page, Owl was gone!

Gone! I jumped up and ran out into the rain to see if I could catch sight of it in flight. No luck. Damn! I looked beneath the tree. Maybe it left a feather for me. No luck. Damn! Disappointed, I came back under the shelter. I picked up my journal, read what I had written and realized my question had been answered. Don’t dwell on past mistakes. Just be here now.

Walking back to my car after the session, my heart leapt when I spied it again, sitting in another tree nearby. I stood there looking up hoping it would look back. But it didn’t. It was no longer my Power Animal, it was just an owl in the woods I was lucky enough to spy during daylight. Good thing I had written myself that letter, although I doubt I will ever forget this encounter.

The Scent of Happiness

I would be hard pressed to choose a favorite flower. I like them all. Lilac has always been up there as preferred petals to poke my nose into. There is something about the singular turban headed tulip that has always delighted me, and I like their scent too. In the last several years, poppies have sprouted in my heart and sprinted to the head of the line. (I can remember the exact moment it happened. Last spring, when the first huge, bright and fiery red poppy opened, I ran outside to get a better look. Her petals has just burst forth from it's casing, but had not fully opened. The blossom looked just like an eye, the petals her eyelid, what would later become the poppy head was now her iris. I had the otherworldly and mystical sense that she was actually looking into my soul. We stood there looking at one another for the longest time!)

But today I am reminded of my all time favorite flower. Really and truly. The Apple Blossom! I can stand sniffing the flowers on my apple trees for hours. Like a junky. More, more, more. Their scent just makes me happy. No matter what frame of mind I am in, no matter that everything has gone awry, no matter that the best laid plans have fallen through, no matter what is going on around me, one inhale of apple blossom and all is right in my world.

I grew up in a home about an hour northwest of New York City on what had been an apple orchard before it was developed into suburban sprawl. Three Delicious apple trees remained in my back yard, and I remember many happy days spent up in one particular tree with Lisa, my childhood friend. We climbed our tree in every season; in Summer the leaves hid us, in Autumn, we stripped the branches of apples, even in Winter, we pretended to blow smoke rings with our frosty breath as the cold branches froze our little butts. But the tree was most magnificent come late Spring when she bloomed delicate pink, and it was intoxicating to sit in her branches, enveloped in her light, sweet perfume. We'd shake her limbs and watch the petals fall like a flurry of snow.

The house I live in now is very small, but the property is pretty big which was the biggest selling point. They don't zone them like this anymore. The old, dark purple lilac in the front and the Transparent apple tree in the back were bonuses. I planted two more apple trees, and until I sat here writing this, I hadn't realized that, once again, I have three apple trees at my home. Today is one of those sunny days in Seattle that almost makes you forget about the rain. I just went outside to catch some rays and walk around my yard to see how my newly planted garden is doing.

But really, who am I kidding? Going outside to check on anything is just an excuse to make myself happy and sniff the Apple blossoms. Delicious!

And The Wall Comes A Tumbling Down!

My garden wall is crumbling like a middle eastern government, like my resolve to post at least one blog per moon, like feta onto a candied walnut salad.

It started when I came home from a weekend away six years ago and walked into my back yard to find that the new neighbors had taken down the ornamental cherries that provided the privacy between us just above the retaining wall that separated our properties. She assured me that the new trees they planted were fast growers and we’d have our privacy back within a season. She was right. They grew fast. But so did their strong roots. Three years ago I noticed the crack in the corner wall, but only because of the huge spider who ran into it when I disturbed her with my garden trowel. Last year, the crack had widened about an inch and this spring rocks and concrete are falling onto my emerging echinacea, astragulus and monarda. It’s only a matter of time before we all fall down. Home ownership is an interesting adventure. Upkeep never ends and as soon as one repair job is complete, another surfaces seeking attention.

I am not looking forward to the huge job of replacing this wall! Just like the crumbling of a middle eastern government, it will be messy, expensive, time consuming and a bit dangerous. It will require the dismantling of the existing structure, the removal of the existing garden, finding places to move the perennials, clearing away the debris. Most likely it will mean a growing season sacrificed in that part of my garden. It will require selecting the new material, the building of a new retaining wall and then the creation of a new, raised garden bed. I am looking forward to that very last part, but not what must happen to get there. The control freak in me does not care for chaos and mess.

This is where my metaphoric thinking really serves me. Like when the frozen pipes burst the very first winter here and it took fifteen months until the restoration was complete. The floor had to be replaced several times before they got it right, and I couldn't help observe that the foundation of my life was changing completely. The thinking goes like this: The wall is crumbling and it must come down. What have I been holding back that is so strong it has been trying to break through and must now be freed? The perennials need to be moved. What is important enough to relocate and maintain? The debris needs to be cleared. What no longer has value? New materials need to be selected. What will serve who I am now? A replacement wall needs to be erected. What new structures do I need to put in place? Create a new raised garden bed. Won't that reward for having endured the ordeal be fun!

The whole thing is a lesson in impermanence. Nothing last forever. I get that. I am sure that whoever built that wall orignally, thought that concrete was forever. And although I wish the money I'll spend on this job was going toward my long desired pilgrimage to Eygpt instead, I find a secret delight in knowing that tree roots are just that strong.

Super Moon

Cosmic context:

The Moon, like most celestial bodies, has an elliptical orbit. When it is closest to the Earth it is said to be at it's perigee. When it is farthest, it is at it's apogee. The gravitational pull of the Moon is powerful and we all know that she rules the ocean tides. The last perigee of the Moon was almost 18 years ago. There is no doubt in my mind that when the Moon is full and at its perigee, her gravitational pull increases. This is why it's called a Super Moon. And it happens on my 52nd birthday this year, March 19th, at 11:10 a.m. Pacific time. (Actually, my time of birth is 11:50 a.m. but close enough for Jazz.)

Uranus, the planet of sudden and revolutionary change, moved from dreamy Pisces to fiery Aires on Friday March 11th, and we know the rest: a 9.0 earthquake causing a devastating tsunami causing a nuclear fright causing unthinkable tragedy.

You say you want a revolution? Well, you know, we'd all like to see the plan.

Spiritual Context:

In Gaia's Temple last weekend I told the Vernal Equinox story of the brave Maiden Goddess Persephone who returns from the Underworld bringing with her the regenerative power of new growth in Spring. (When I tell the story, Persephone chooses to throw her crown of poppies- her crown of innocence- into the fires of Autumn to descend into the land of shadow with Hades when she recognizes him as her beloved. She and Hades adore one another. No abduction. No rape. No coersion. No bargains. Just love.)

During her time in the Underworld she learns the mysteries of love with Hades. She learns the mysteries of death as Grandmother Hecate teaches her how to welcome and orient the souls of the newly dead. And she learns that these mysteries are one and the same.

While she is gone, Demeter, the Great Grain Mother, is bereft without her daughter. She refuses to let anything grow, and Winter freezes the land.

Six moons wax full and wane away until one day shortly thereafter, Persephone awakens with the impulse to return to the surface of the planet. Hecate is there to show her the portal back, and when she steps through she immediately feels the cold, moist slap of Earth on her skin. Or was it her skin? It felt stiffer than skin, like a shell of some kind, as if she was encased. She tries to move but the Earth all around her resists her every attempt. The impulse to return is strong and she tries again. This time she feels something shift and slowly, bit by bit, like a babe making it's way through the birth canal, Persephone works her way through the soil.

Now she feels growth beneath her, and what was once her feet and legs are long roots that branch out. She realizes with a start that she is starving and she hungrily gobbles up nutrients from the soil. As she does, fragments of teachings from the Underworld flood through her-memories of experiences touch her soul, flavors of wisdom nourish her growth; a hint of comforting the newly dead, a touch of karmic completion, riding the crest of an ecstatic wave, the taste of pomegranates. Suddenly, she knew that her experiences in the Underworld were the rich nutrients feeding her new life, and with that knowing, she breaks through!

Suddenly, Persephone is standing on the Earth, a Maiden again looking down at a tender green shoot that had just broken through its seed casing. She suspects she had been that very seed and knows one thing for certain. Death is not the end. As she looks up, Demeter is there to greet her and Mother and Daughter embrace in a fierce hug of reunion and renewal. Everywhere on the Earth, life blossoms once more.

The end.
Until the cycle continues.
Because there is no end.

Emotional Context:

We are living in those predicted interesting times. There is even more revolutionary trouble in the middle east, and Earth changes are bringing tragedy just on the other side of the Pacific, and the release of nuclear radiation has us all panicked,and right here at home our unions are threatened, and we are still trying to clean up the oil spill in the Gulf, and our families are still dysfunctional, and our relationships are challenging and the economy is still shakey, and on and on and on. So we put armor around our hearts to make us feel safe because we believe our hearts are too fragile and we won’t be able to take it. But that armor does more than just protect the heart, it imprisons it.

My sister likes to send me cartoons from the New Yorker magazine and my favorite is a picture of a King in an ermine robe and crown lying on the psychiatrists couch. The King has a rather stunned looked on his face, and his doctor is sitting beside him, holding his pad and pen. The caption reads, "Enemies, yes. But doesn’t your moat also keep out love?"

It is the attempt to avoid or deny our feelings, block our compassion for the suffering of others and ourselves, that has brought us to this state of the world; apathy and disconnection and the demise of civility.

When we swim our own moats to look into our hearts, we need to be able to find it behind its armor. A loving heart is strong! Love strengthens our hearts. And here’s a secret no one likes to believe: so does heartbreak! Heartbreak strengthens our hearts. Because it is natural for us to love. And even after heartbreak, we can’t help but love again. This return to love makes us resilient, which strengthens our hearts. It is our resilience that makes us strong, not our impenetrability.

It makes sense that we want to protect our sensitive hearts. But the armor we put around our hearts can be likened to the seed casing in Spring. It has protected us through the cold of winter, but now, unless we break free of it there will be no new growth. And what will that mean for our future harvest?

So. Let yourself weep for the suffering of Gaia. And our sisters and brothers in Japan. And the Congo. And Afghanistan. And Wisconsin. And the wildlife and water in the Gulf. And the homeless. Let our tears cleanse our sensitive hearts, over and over again if need be, and see how much stronger we actually feel. Let the Super Moon pull and tug our heartstrings, and Uranus revolutionize our ability to empathize.

And when I blow out my birthday candles, I'll make a Super Moon wish for us all.

Bridging the Seasons

Each year, I play a little game I like to call “How Long Throughout The Winter Can I Stretch My Fresh Home Grown Food?” I am acutely aware of my privilege that this can be a game and not, as my Ancestors knew, a dire need to keep myself alive. Blessed be the ease with which we feed ourselves!

A few years ago I had a plethora of tomatoes. I let a few of the plants continue to flower through the summer so by late autumn I was able to harvest many green ones still on the vine. They slowly ripened in the waning sun on my windowsill, and I ceremoniously consumed the last one mid January. But that was an unusual year.

Make sure to grow root vegetables for this reason, as well as for how delicious they are. They keep. I had a good crop of beets and carrots last year. I pulled the carrots as needed from late Summer through Autumn and in early December-after the first frost which they say makes them sweeter- I harvested the last of them and smugly placed them in the crisper. Game on!

It is late February as I write this and recently I ate the last of the beets. Small, beautiful, earthy and sweet, they stained my cutting board and then graced my plate. I never tire of how wonderful it feels to eat the food I have grown myself. I've been thinking how I will add one carrot at a time to my salads, strategically saving them until early spring brings forth the first spear of asparagus in my garden. And then I will win my internal game that no one knows about because I will have bridged the seasons with my garden’s bounty. Silly I know. One last carrot will not sustain my body, but it sure sustains my soul. It keeps me ever mindful and grateful for the food I am about to receive.

Last weekend I opened the fridge and reached into the crisper in preparation for salad making, carrots in mind. I spied the bag of bright orange; five small ones left. But when I picked them up, I could feel through the plastic that they had turned to mush! My stalwart carrots had failed me! And it was still too early for the asparagus. Game over. Oh well. Good thing it’s just a game.


This morning, as I wiped the kitchen counter, my eyes rested on the fruit bowl I keep there. Focused only on my root crops, I had forgotten about the volunteer pumpkin and four delicata squash I had harvested from the soil spread out of the compost pile the year before! There they were among the apples and pears- cheerful and bright and orange, hardy and ready to be cooked. Guess I am going to win my little game this year after all.

I know it seems witless to write about something that many would consider so insignificant. But I am an urban woman who longs for a deeper connection to the earth that sustains her. I am an urban woman whose ambitious garden is the thing that keeps her sane, whose little food stretching game keeps her reverent, whose delight and disappointment in something as simple as a carrot reminds her of what it means to be human.

Today, the northwest rain keeps shape shifting to and from snow. The brave sprouted bulbs in my garden shiver intrepidly but manage to stay green in the cold. Early crocus and primrose splash color on the landscape. Tonight? Baked squash! I'm going to save the pumpkin and see if it lasts through March.

Seed Lust

I’d put my garden beds to bed mid November last; planting bulbs for the Spring, mulching the mountains of marvelous maple leaves from my neighbors overhanging tree, using them as blankets, tucking everything in nicely with a prayer and a song of farewell. Then, in all the indoor focus on the holidays, I watched through my windows as Winter took up my garden in Her cold hands. She squeezed the color from the landscape like it was Her dishrag. She shriveled plants till they became skeletons. She stole the green scent of nature like a thirsty thief. This is Winter’s wisdom, Her purpose.

Knowing that cycles are continual makes it easier to embrace Winter's stark beauty, to live the few months of abstinence from my garden. Easier, but not easy. I would willingly jump off that Winter wagon with just no provocation at all.

Then, two weeks past Winter Solstice, the first modern sign of Spring arrived. Why, the very next mail day after Christmas it came! I entered my office and immediately spotted it, splayed out for all to see, its wanton pages gaping wide open on the floor beneath the mail slot. I could have felt marketed to. My first thought could have been ‘Well, they don’t waste any time, do they?’ Instead, I was instantly seduced and my lust for All Things Garden surged through me with a geyser's gush!

My breath quickened as I lifted the Hallowed Seed Catalogue. My pupils dilated as I brought it to the table. There, I slowly and lovingly turned the first page. “Hello Gardeners!” I read, like it was a love letter. Promises of even better seed than ever I have grown allured me further, deeper, savoring each lick of my finger to turn yet another page. I ogled photos of juicy red tomato, seductive orange marigold, bold yellow sunflower, thick green cucumber, flirty blue borage, mysterious purple eggplant; here was the promise of the future before my lusting eyes! All of a sudden I am transported, and the warm sun is on my legs, my knees are dirty, dirty, dirty, sweat trickles down my neck and between my breasts and my hands gently probe and caress the fertile soil to make room for my seed. I mean the seed!

The catalogue does exactly what it is intended to do. It works me. I sneak peeks again and again as the days pass, marking pages, bargaining with myself- I can buy this if I forfeit that. I can't get enough and dreaming about this year's garden becomes the thread that weaves all other activities together in the fabric of my life.

When the day to put away the holidays arrives, I happily remember that I was gifted with a pretty, reindeer embossed, tin table centerpiece at Yule. Delighted to find that among the dried cedar and spruce, two small winterberry plants, still in their little black plastic holders from their nursery, are thriving. My minds travels to the new planter I bought late last year that sits waiting for me in the garden shed, open, ready, willing.

I can see my breath and feel the frozen ground crunch beneath my feet as I walk across my yard. My garden desk is exactly as I left it, like a loyal lover. The potting soil excites my hungry hands, the smell of it intoxicates. Tenderly, I plant the winterberries in their temporary home, promising them a spot in the Earth come Spring. They sigh as their roots spread out and I feel momentarily satisfied.

Back inside, I stand admiring them in the afterglow. The deep red berries are eye candy on my windowsill, but they don’t begin to slake my lust...for seed!