Blessing the Seeds and the Blossoming Year

There is a world I had forgotten. Beyond snow and ice, frigid temperatures and howling wind. That world has been slowly slipping into this one, and over my winter-ravaged spirit, thawing even the most cold-bitten parts of me. The vernal equinox arrived in the northern hemisphere four weeks ago heralding a bright new season, but the warmth of spring has taken its time settling in. The sun that lights up our valley shares space with fast-moving clouds, cold rain, and blustery winds. The eternal early-spring dance twirls on.

Spring rain coaxes out a different perfume from the earth than autumn rain does. The last time my valley was blessed with precipitation that wasn't snow, it was late November and the land had concluded its sickly-sweet dance of dying and rot, putting that haunting season to bed barren and still. The rain returned at the dawn of this month and the earth is rising to meet it, flushing with the sharp medicinal bouquet of greens and yellows. The buds on the trees are growing fat (and in a very few instances, popping open), and the grasses are pushing up from under last year's leaf compost. This is not the sugary scent of spring bulbs and blossoms - that will come soon. This is the hint of ginger and citrus, the pleasant balm of sunlight-awakened earth, that is the first welcome home sign of spring's return.

I am still stirring from my long winter's slumber, stretching and yawning. I've begun walking with my umbrella by the river as the Canada geese pair off and gorge themselves on the new grass on the path. The sheep have lambed at the small farm beneath the hill and the little ones race around their mothers. Crows soar past carrying nesting material in their beaks. The last of the snow melted away from the shadowy corners of my yard only two weeks ago, and now I'm keenly aware of how much work I have in order to clean up all the garden beds for the new growing year. It will move fast now that the cold season has finally loosed its grip.

This year I am making more of an effort to watch the moon and charting the astrological signs so I might put the age-old wisdom of well-timed planting to good use. I have my trusty Old Farmer's Almanac and a journal to mark this year's experiments, successes, and inevitable failures. My peas and lettuces went into the ground under the waxing moon in Cancer last Friday, and I'm hoping to get some spring flowers in today or tomorrow while the moon is lingering in Libra. (I've long planted under the particular moon phases, but I've never been especially vigilant about planting under specific signs.)

If you too want to give your crops a leg up, why not try to correspond your planting and tending to the moon's movement through the constellations? Here's a quick and easy list for reference, or you can always pop over to the Farmer's Almanac site and check in on their moon planting calendar each month.

ARIES (head & face): Dry and barren. Never plant. Best sign for plowing, tilling and cultivating.

TAURUS (neck): Earthy and moist. Plant here to withstand a drought. Excellent for root crops and okay for crops above the ground and flowers. 

GEMINI (arms): Airy, dry and barren. Destroy weeds, kill trees and prepare soil.

CANCER (breast): Watery and very fruitful. Plant here to withstand a drought. Excellent for above and below-ground crops. Time to graft. 

LEO (head): Fiery, dry and barren. Never plant; destroy weeds, kill trees and prepare soil. 

VIRGO (bowels): Earthy, dry and barren. Destroy weeds, kill trees and prepare soil. 

LIBRA (balance): Airy, moist and semi fruitful. Excellent for flowers (beauty) and okay for above-ground crops. 

SCORPIO (loins): Watery and fruitful. Excellent for above ground crops and flowers. Okay for below-ground crops. Time to graft. 

SAGITTARIUS (thighs): Fiery, dry, and barren. Destroy weeds and kill trees. 

CAPRICORN (knees): Earthy, moist and productive. Good for root crops and okay for above ground crops. Root cuttings and make grafts. 

AQUARIUS (legs): Airy, dry and barren. Destroy weeds and kill trees. 

PISCES (feet): Watery and fruitful. Plant here to withstand a drought. Excellent for below ground crops and okay for above ground crops. Root cuttings and make grafts.  

If charting the moon's course isn't enough magic for you, there are a variety of folk charms, historical customs, or familial traditions that you can employ while preparing your gardens for the new growing season. 

* Ask the elders around you what practices were their favourites for successful growing. My 86 year old friend swears that you must bury a fish beneath your tomatoes and pumpkins for the best possible harvest (I prefer to use a good quality fish fertilizer).

* If you created a corn or wheat dolly last summer or autumn you can put it to bed in the garden or field now to re-plant the spirit of that fetish back in to the earth. Some folks will burn or bury their dolly upon creating a new one each year. You may have your own charms or magics to tuck in your garden as the growing season begins. Perhaps you've written out petitions of things you'd like to come to you slow and steady as the spring progresses, or you may bury a coin or two with the beans in the hopes of 'growing' your bank account. 

Wildlife-safe, biodegradable or retrievable offerings to the land can be made at the start of your growing season and/or throughout the year. I routinely share local wine with my gardens and their good spirits, and chocolate-free cookies or cake make their way into a specific corner of the perennial garden to keep myself on the sweeter side of the mischievous creatures that wander by that shade-dappled place full of strange, flickering lights in the dark, and odd volunteer plants.

* There are a number of seed-sowing charms and songs.  The Consecration of the Seed from the Carmina Gadelica is a beautiful example. Children's gardening songs are easily found - often creatively crafted to the tunes of older songs a child has learned. I create my own as I move through each variety I'm planting. It's a delightful trance to be in, singing or chanting to the seeds as you tuck them into the earth, wishing them fruition.

The old saying "one for the rook and one for the crow, one to die and one to grow" has many incarnations and is found all over North America and abroad. Being generous with your seeding was wise as it meant more chance of germination, especially when planting seeds near the surface of the earth where hungry critters could nibble them up. In a similar bent, "two for the devil and one for the garden" speaks to successive sowings of plants that might be finicky about sprouting. Sometimes this is temperature related (sowing too early) or might be a result of sub-par seed stock, or simply a crop that takes its sweet time germinating.

* Special days, hours, or time markers that have meaning can be worked into your planting rituals. In different regions, towns, or even spiritual communities there are sometimes special days/times that signal optimal planting opportunities. Perhaps you always plant a certain flower or herb on a beloved's birthday. In my valley we consider the May holiday weekend the safe-zone to begin planting crops that are less cold-hardy. Good Friday was once considered a beneficial day to plant as the devil was thought to be powerless on this date. (Of course, this is going to depend on your climate.)

Sowing above-ground crops as the day dawns or as the hands on the clock work their way up (from 6 to 12) might be how you symbolize your wish for the plants to grow tall and strong, and planting root crops in the waning hours of the day or when the clock hands are moving downward may bring to mind healthy tubers reaching deep into the earth.

However  you bless or begin to plant this year's gardens or patio pots or wee windowsill terrariums, I am wishing you the utmost joy as you step into spring and the blossoming year!

Sweet month thy pleasures bids thee be

The fairest child of spring

And every hour that comes with thee

Comes some new joy to bring

The trees still deepen in their bloom

Grass greens the meadow lands

And flowers with every morning come

As dropt by fairey hands

- John Clare, The Shepherd's Calendar, "April"

The Great October Herbal Giveaway

October 11/18

The folks taking home herbals this month are:

Liz D - Botanical Folktales 

Mel - Southern Folk Medicine

Sharon from October Tea Society - Blackthorn's Botanical Magic

Thank you so much to everyone who stopped by to enter. If your name wasn't drawn this time, don't fret...the next giveaway is ready for you!

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When I was around eight years old I went camping with my grandparents. It was the height of summer and I excitedly ran through an open grassy expanse of land that was dotted with red clover...and bees. I inadvertently stepped on one poor creature and it stung my foot. I limped back to the campsite, tears streaming down my face, and my grandfather attempted to get the stinger out, to no avail. My grandmother took one of the potatoes we were going to be having for dinner, cut it in half and placed it over the wound. Within minutes the sharp pain had lessened and the stinger came right out. That was the moment I discovered that plants were magic.

A few years later my grandmother would teach me about gardening (weeding first, which I never enjoyed until much later in life), and the joy of growing my own food. Aside from the potato miracle of my youth, there weren't too many other folk cures that I can recall in my short number of years with her, except that a cup of orange pekoe tea made everything better (as did ginger-ale). There was always a sugar bowl on her counter (even though she would rarely let us near it), a box of Borax in the entryway, and a kitchen witch hanging in her window. I knew that there were uses beyond the mundane for these things. I wish I'd had her around longer to ask more questions of, but she gave me enough of a start with gardening to encourage a lifetime love of growing things and wild curiosity of herbal medicine and magic.

I bought three books this year that speak to the wonder of plants, their history and lore, and their potent personalities. And of course I picked up a copy of each for you too.

The first book is the absolutely enchanting Botanical Folk Tales of Britain and Ireland by Lisa Schneidau.

I’ve written a collection of folk tales with a difference: all the stories involve trees and plants. 

Botanical Folk Tales of Britain and Ireland is a story journey through the growing year, with folk tales of the land and the wild trees and plants that surround us through the seasons, in countryside, town and city. 

A lot has been written about modern and historical British plant folklore. Most of this is fragmented: for example, we know that the elder tree has always been associated with witchcraft, or that nettles should be grasped by the stem. These are interesting connections, but they are not stories. It’s my search for these stories that has led to this project.

The next book is one I have been so excited to get my hands on, since the wonderful Amy, of Blackthorn Hoodoo Blends, first announced it. I've been working with essential oils in my small apothecary for almost ten years, and I'm always thrilled to learn more about oils I adore, and to have an introduction to a handful of oils I've not used before. I love the lore, recipes and myriad uses laid out for each entry in this delightful collection!

Blackthorn's Botanical Magic by Amy Blackthorn.

Here is the first contemporary guide to the transformative powers of essential oils for use in spellcraft and the cultivation of ritual power. From rose-scented rosaries to the lingering aroma of frankincense, and the cleansing energy of white sage, Amy Blackthorn— the woman behind Blackthorn Hoodoo Blends —will take you on a journey beyond the soothing, healing power of scents into their hidden realms and their use in prayer, meditation, and shamanic journeying. One of the very first of its kind, this book includes:

• The rich history and lore of scent-related magic

• Over 135 essential oil recipes and craft projects

• An explanation of how magical aromatherapy can enhance divination with tarot and runes

• Practical information regarding the purchasing, blending, and storing of essential oils

The final book I gathered up for you is Southern Folk Medicine by Phyllis D. Light. There is a healthy emphasis on medicine in this book, with wonderful personal stories, history, and folklore of the Appalachian peoples. 

This book is the first to describe the history, folklore, assessment methods, and remedies of Southern and Appalachian Folk Medicine—the only system of folk medicine, other than Native American, that developed in the United States. One of the system’s last active practitioners, Phyllis D. Light has studied and worked with herbs, foods, and other healing techniques for more than thirty years. In everyday language, she explains how Southern and Appalachian Folk Medicine was passed down orally through the generations by herbalists and healers who cared for people in their communities with the natural tools on hand.

Any of these tomes would be a treasured addition to your bookshelves. There is deep wonder here and a true appreciation of nature and its magic, mystery, and healing touch.

You have until Thursday, October 11th at 9pm Pacific to drop your name in the witch's hat, via a comment (and be sure I have a way to contact you if you win) or send off an entry with the "make contact" tab above. You can let me know which book you prefer and I will do my best to pair winners with their choices, if possible.

Legal Bits:

* This giveaway (or "sweepstakes") is open to all residents of Canada, (exluding Quebec residents) the USA, Great Britain, Europe, South America,  who are 18 years of age or older. This giveaway is void where prohitibited by law.  Please be aware of the contest/sweepstakes laws in your area.

*  Canadian residents will be subject to a skill testing question before being able to claim their prize (this is standard law in Canada).  The skill testing question will be in a form similar to: 1 + 2 - 1 =

*  This giveaway is not for profit and no purchase is necessary to enter.

*  This giveaway is sponsored/administrated solely by this blog/blog author and is not affilitated with or sponsored by Blogger, Facebook, Twitter, or any other entity, nor can they be held liable.

* By leaving a comment intending to enter into the draw for the giveaway (or "sweepstakes") you are knowingly agreeing to these rules/conditions.

I have chosen all the books/cards featured this month myself.  I have not been paid to feature a book, nor have I been asked to advertise for anyone.  This giveaway is not endorsed or sponsored by anyone other than Rue and Hyssop

The Delight of Decay on an October Eve

I moved my coffee mug around my desk all day, placing it so that it captured the late September sunlight that crept out between the rains. I didn't just want the caffeine this day. I wanted the golden light filling me, the blessedly cool air flowing over me, and the clicking and barking of the crows by the river echoing through my bones. There is no stopping the flood current of autumn now and I for one am wading out into the incoming tide, delirious under flame-leafed trees and the wanton scent of the land as it begins turn toward decay.

I am ready for this time of year. I am welcoming the picturesque death and rot. I wore my nerves thin on heat and smoke and wildfires this summer. Now I'm reveling in ridiculous gourds, tomatoes flaunting their multicoloured heirloom-ness, and the haunting songs of geese flying overhead. Dress me in apples and call me Pomona.

If you've been around Rue and Hyssop in the early autumn you'll know that there's a foolish amount of fun that unfolds each year in the month of October. I've grown a small garden here in the blog-verse over the past nine years and I like to share my harvest with those that stroll by my neck of the woods. When I'm out wandering and I pick up something that makes me especially happy, I grab an extra copy for one of you. I also encounter wondrous creatures who create enchantment and wish to share it, and I'm lucky enough to get to pass those gifts on to you too.

There has been, in the past three years especially, a moment's pause whenever October approaches. There is a part of me that wonders if this conviviality that I throw myself into is appropriate in a world where there is so much unrest, pain, and political and social discontent. There are protests to attend, politicians to contact, and injustices to call out. I believe in those things, in standing up, in caring for each other, in saying "no more." I also believe that sometimes we could really use some peace, some joy, a friendly moment with another human with no expectations.

I'd like to think that the October silliness I engage in each year gives folks something small to grin about. I hope that it introduces people to authors and artists they may not have stumbled across. I know that the people that get something cool in their mailbox from the festivities aren't unhappy they came by to toss their name in the hat, and I am always tired-but-smiling at the end of the month. So I think that until it feels really off-colour to pass along some joy each October I'm going to continue doing it as long as I am able (which I hope is a long time). This blog, even in its quieter state the past few years, has been a true delight for me. I've met wonderful people, made incredible friends, and grown my strange, thorny heart so many sizes since beginning this journey.

For those who know the routine by now, grab a cup of your favourite autumn-spiced beverage and put your feet up. If you are new around here, welcome. It's easy to get the hang of things, and everyone is very friendly. (Mind the one grumpy cat though. She blows raspberries instead of hissing but she will still swat at you if you get too close.)

Can you feel the excitement as the last hours of September slip away? Have you caught the intoxicating scents of woodsmoke, ripe apples, or the slow withering of the final summer flowers?

Let's do this October thing again.

PS - if you are not into giveaways then I'll catch you in November - no worries. I'd like to say that I'll drop off a bewitching autumn post here for your reading pleasure but this month is also the beginning of a big work project for me each year, so I won't make any promises I can't keep.

PPS - Rebecca from Kings Road Apothecary sent out a very helpful post, Self Care in Triggering Times that is brimming with ideas to ease your heart and body in these days of troubling news and media. If you are having a difficult time, please take care of yourself, call a friend, and/or ask for help. 

Pumpkins, Protection, and a Mad, Mad August

Summer 'Dog-Days' are from mid-July to mid-August. Our ancestors noticed Canicula, the Roman dog star, was in conjunction with the Sun - attributing mad dogs, irritable shedding snakes, and all sorts of vile behavior to Dog Days. Ponds stagnate, poison-ivy thrives, and the fetid air maddens us now with gnats, hungry mosquitoes, and flies; all of us enveloped in a humid miasmic cloud that hangs over these hills.

-Linda Ours Rago, Blackberry Cove Herbal, Traditional Appalachian Herbalism

I counted eight pumpkins, and felt a flutter of excitement in my belly. There were years when I wouldn't grow them because my allotted garden space was minimal and pumpkins were impractical - the plants took up too much room and their many fruits were more than I could use. But as the years raced by I arrived at this magical age when I realized that what was practical was less important than what brought me joy. I decided that life is too short not to grow pumpkins.

The tomatoes that were in my basket a moment ago are as crimson as the sun in its attempt to shine through the wildfire smoke. How many suns and moons have burned red this summer...I've lost count now. The wind changed direction and blew a thick haze into town this morning, like fog rolling in off the ocean. It settled in, right to the ground, and I can barely see the neighbour's house across the road. I'm covered in falling ash as I pick my way through the garden beds, examining the crops and tugging at invading grasses.

I've been having my breakfast in a cornfield since the beginning of August. It somehow seems right that the first day of the golden month would mark my appearance in the middle of an acre of corn, crawling through rows on my hands and knees, talking to the plants and the birds who watch this strange creature moving through the field. My farmer friend is losing her battle with weeds this year. Black nightshade, and a few other vigorous self-sowers, took over the spaces between the cornstalks and some of her successive plantings are being dwarfed by the invaders. She can't keep up so I've volunteered my first hour or two at daybreak, until my back gives out or until the sun rises too high and hot - whichever happens first. Then I wander back down the hill into my day, stopping at the small help-yourself farm stand to buy eggs for my breakfast.

In the last week we've come through another eclipse, a half dozen planets in retrograde, and meteors streaking across the night sky. In my area there are forest fires, large festivals luring the masses into our small towns, and hundred-degree days which, when all stirred up in the cauldron of The Valley, serves up its own sort of madness. I've had trouble getting enough sleep, have found my brain a bit foggy, and, courtesy of the smoke, I'm waking each day with squeaky lungs and a sore throat. These dog days are wearing on me, but I'm making my way through them with as much easy living and small, meaningful magics as possible.

Though we now identify the 'dog days' as the most stifling weeks of summer, most folks understand that the phrase originated with the yearly reappearance of the dog star, Sirius, which some ancient peoples associated with calamity and ill luck. The length of these days of discomfort (and possible devilry) could be anywhere from three to six weeks and could start as early as the beginning of July or run into late August.

Here in The Valley, we are weary from the smoke and ash of wildfires (though thankful that the flames did not swallow peoples homes like they have in previous years). The creeks are dry and the hillsides brittle, and we could sorely use some rain. Our dog days are not over yet. But we do what we can to keep our spirits up. It's a good time to keep up with your spiritual work too, refreshing the wards on your home and land. I keep my altars fed and watered, the spirits I work with honoured (even on the days when I'm too tired to think of ritual or libations), and there are a few protections that have been employed, both to thwart the 'mad-dog' energy and to shield from some of the more criminal activity that increases in our area during the tourist season.

Your favourite floor wash recipe is a wonderful helper for stagnant energy (and can only benefit the house after a dusty summer). If you are feeling 'bitten' by the summer blues or working to bump up your spiritual safeguards, tossing some dried, crushed-to-powder eggshells in your mop water might be in order (if you are unsure about this practice, research Cascarilla and the folklore associated with eggs). I keep any broom-straws that shed from my working broom and I will add one to my mop bucket when cleaning with floor washes to prevent any unwanted guests treading over my floor.

If you are not against calling on saints (or in this case, saints who are also angels) then Saint Michael can be petitioned for protection. Some practices involve hanging or tucking his image over your front door (slipping a small prayer card behind the lintel can be an inconspicuous way of doing this). There are also various amulet-type charms such as equal armed crosses fashioned from particular trees (rowan crosses with red thread, for example) that can be enlisted for their protections on homes or persons. I like to make use of what the land around me offers up. Last year I listened to an insistent prodding to twine some late-season raspberry canes into a delightfully prickly swag that lives over my door. It has been a wonderful guardian ally for my home.

The land is beginning to pull back its energy, no longer bursting outward in fireworks of colour and lushness but plodding along through scorching sun and the floating soot from wildfires. There are signs, in the tansy and goldenrod nodding on the roadsides, the deepening hours of darkness, and the quail families coming together now, legions of them running down the road or pecking and scratching through the underbrush, that speak to cooler days and the deep amber light that late summer brings.

I'm hoping for an early autumn this year - rains and winds to quench the fires and dry land. The charms or protections you weave now will see you into new seasons, and you can add to them with the next tide's harvests or found treasures (a door wreath or swag is perfect for this sort of work).

How have you fared this summer? Were the balmy months friendly to you, or did you wilt and melt and find solace in shade or swimming holes? The weather man reports that the heat has not had its last run at us. The hundred-degree afternoons should be finished now, but the days still linger in the nineties and we are yet moving very slowly during the mid-day hours.

I'm wishing you so many more pleasant days of summer - less madness and more ease. And if you are one of us who attempt to court the fall days in with apples and home-grown pumpkins, who tempt the cool breezes to come soon, then I wish you all the brisk mornings and crisp nights you desire.



Witch Notes: Further Reading

This beautiful post, from Hecate Demeter on her August days.

A good look at spiritual house cleansing with plenty of floor wash ideas, from New World Witchery.

Spiritual Cleansing, Draja Mickaharic

Protection & Reversal Magic, Jason Miller

Communing With the Spirits, Martin Coleman
*Though this may seem like a strange recommendation, it references ancestral spirits (which some of us work with in our homes) and charms and such for keeping trickster spirits away.




All photos mine except the photo of the night sky, courtesy of Robert V. Ruggiero via Unsplash.

The Marriage of Spring and Summer or, Listening to the Land

I walked the five-mile length of land often, in all weather, keening my senses to the activity of snakes, toads, deer, and trees on rainy and cloud-filled days, I came to recognize the place of each stone, tree, and being that lived in the area, and my own place within, rather than apart from this sacred terrain.   

- Judith Berger, Herbal Rituals

I am listening to grasshoppers singing for the first time this year. In early spring I caught the thrumming of pond frogs echoing across the river, and have been serenaded by assorted song birds since late winter, but those big old grasshoppers don't usually start sawing their legs until the heat ushers summer in. We are at the precipice now, hastily tipping toward those months of sultry breezes and sweltering, slow-moving afternoons. I've been feeling 'in-between' for a few weeks now. Spring is not yet over, but summer seems about ready to set up camp at any moment. I'm all spun around, but rather contented about it.

It might have been the strange heat storms that were pacing along the valley hills just over a week ago, circling my little town but not pouncing (something we don't usually experience until July). It felt like the hot season had arrived. The temperatures climbed to the high 80's for almost two weeks and we were peeling off clothing and drinking icy beverages. The hard work of planting the gardens being finished, I was able to loll about in my yard weeding here and there, deadheading spring blooms and sipping my morning coffee in the shade while the cats clucked at the birds visiting the feeder. But last night there was a cold wind spinning its fingers through my hair as I moved through the rows of peas and lettuces. The day had been warm though there was just enough briskness to remind me that, despite the feverish tease in the middle of May, spring was not finished with us. My family in Ontario lost half their new tomato plants to frost a week ago and only a few mornings after that, at the eastern edge of my country, startled Canadians awoke to snow. I find myself hanging in the balance, the land I walk upon too far gone into ripeness to call it spring anymore, yet not quite radiating with heat and crackling with summer energy.

As gardeners, homesteaders, farmers, wild folk or witches for whom the turning of the year has a level of importance, marking time and tide is much more intuitive than looking at a date in your daybook and trusting that is when the weather will change and the next agricultural marker will be upon us. Most people live in areas that don't suddenly feel different when the solstices and equinoxes arrive, despite the calendrical announcement that it is the first day of the next season. Whether you are fond of the Old Farmer's Almanac or the Wheel of the Year, there is a still a flow to the way the land and climate metamorphose. Your area will tell you when the next season is arriving. Your trees, local flora and wildlife will give indications of the transitions and you only need to allow yourself to observe and note those messages to feel the tide of the year shifting.

The liminal time between seasons always makes me so deliciously dizzy. I feel almost tipsy, picking up on the increasing buzz of the incoming energies, while giving a nod and a farewell to those still hanging on - watching them dance and melt into each other like tendrils of woodsmoke or streaks of stardust across a meteor-showered sky. While I make note of grasshopper songs, where certain constellations are winking above me each night, and which garden flowers are blooming now, I also plug in to the deeper pulse of my land base. I know where the water is running and where the ponds are shrinking back from their spring flood. I can see the wild plants that are flourishing and tell by the animal signs who is moving through an area. I can feel my temples tighten when a low pressure system is approaching. Our entire bodies are a sensitive gauge that can observe and chronicle our experiences while translating the language of our environment into clear symbols that allow us to connect intimately with the land we live upon.

Start with knowing where you are. What's the geography? Do you live by the sea, in the high desert, in the middle of a great city? How many seasons do you have and how long do they last? What is your FDA planting zone? What animals and plants are natives there and who lived on the land before you?

Treat the land like a new lover. Learn what it is, what it likes, how it is threatened and who protects it. "Land" isn't only soil. It is wind and water. It is history and legend.

-H. Byron Ballard, Asfidity & Madstones

When we are in-between seasons, with one foot in each, feeling neither here nor there, it's good to set your sights on something to anchor you. For me, keeping my hands busy in the gardens or the kitchen calms my whirling senses. I'm a tactile girl, so having a task I can touch brings me a great deal of peace and pleasure. Here are some ideas, based on my own activities and current to-do list, that might assist or inspire as the veiling between spring and summer begins to slip away.

Late spring projects and nearly-summer tasks:

* The spring rains are fading now, so be kind and create a water source or bath for birds/bees/animals.

* While the weeds in your yard are lush and green, harvest them for food, medicine, and magic. (I know you have a good field guide and can identify your plants accurately.) Tincture fresh herb material, dry your harvest for infusions, toss freshly picked young leaves into salads.

* The May and June observances of Beltane and Midsummer are considered particularly fae/otherworldly (even though you can tap into this energy in every month). Have you cultivated a connection with your land and the others that live there? Do you offer gifts or thanks when you harvest or pass through an area? Is an altar, offering or burial place something you might wish to bring into your yard or practice?

* In my area this is the last chance to collect the soft and citrusy spruce/fir tips. Yarrow, wild rose, and elderberry bushes are seen blooming now. It is early berry season, and strawberries, honeyberries (haskap berry) and Saskatoons (service berries) can all be found. The medicinal herbs that are thriving with vigorous growth at this time of year, such as mugwort, vervain, calendula, and St. John's wort show up in folklore and magic as midsummer herbs and are traditionally harvested in mid-June. I'm out wandering the land and my gardens with my basket as often as I can be. My valley hills will begin to dry up soon, and the vibrant plants will fade with the fierce heat of summer.

* Midsummer (on or around June 21st up to and including St. John's Day on the 24th) is considered the height of green energy and there is magic afoot! There is a plethora of folklore on the merits of picking herbs/flowers around this date. I make sure my yearly Florida Water mother tincture is created before or on the solstice, and I purposefully harvest a small selection of midsummer plants for magical work.

For many years it was believed that witches picked their herbs at the summer solstice, and that they did it naked in the middle of the night. The farm women also made a bouquet of midsummer herbs, a summer solstice bundle, from one of the countless versions of nine herbs - a magic number. To increase the healing power of yarrow, wood betony, or other herbs the women peered through the bundle and into the fire and spoke a charm, something like the following: "No boil shall come upon my body, no break to my foot." 

-Witchcraft Medicine, by Müller-Ebeling, Rätsch and Storl

If you've moved recently, or are new to conversing with your land base, why not introduce yourself to people and places that might offer you sources of seasonal wisdom. There are few locales these days that don't have a farmer's market of some kind nearby. Talk to the farmers and herb-crafters. See what is in season and what they are expecting to harvest in the coming months.

Visit your local farm and feed shop. Even if you aren't a farmer there is always something wonderful to be found in a supply store and more importantly you can glean tips, tricks, and seasonal lore from the regulars as well as the person behind the counter. Don't have a farm store around? Hit the garden center. Someone there is going to be knowledgeable about the weather and growing conditions in your area.

Talk to your neighbours or folks who you know have been in your community for a long time. Most people don't mind a good chat, so ask them how the seasons have shifted since their early days in the area. My grandfather would have talked your ear off and told you all kinds of stories about his summers as a boy working in the local orchards (gods, I miss him).

Summertide is calling out a greeting now, with cherries beginning to spill out onto farm stands and snap peas fading to gold (even as the shelling peas still offer up a lovely harvest) and I am trying to taste the last kisses of spring before I run into the next season's embrace. I'll dance a while longer in this delicious in-between, gardening in the soft rain and grinning as the wind tries to make off with my big sun hat. I won't have to wait long for the heat - the grasshoppers are singing it in.



Witch Notes:

The quotes included above are from wonderful books that you might wish to seek out. Judith Berger's utterly charming "Herbal Rituals" is sadly out of print but is available as an e-book. It takes you through each month of the year, and presents the author's observations of the shifting seasons and the herbs and flowers that speak to her at those times.

I can highly recommend Asfidity Madstones, an enchanting workbook (both working with your land and a good helping of magical work too) and Witchcraft Medicine (pages 10-19 speak of midsummer specifically). I also want to point out author Tristan Gooley who has a handful of books on the joy of reading nature's signs (his website is wonderful and you could get lost there happily).

And for those who find themselves somewhat overcome with seasonal tasks and malaise, this is a lovely article about dealing with seasonal overwhelm, from One Willow Apothecaries.

Edited to add:

I neglected to mention a wonderful email-course called Be A Local Witch, from Lady Althaea. I received the course because I'm a Patreon supporter of hers and though I've been running through my own forests and meadows since I was a child I found it a fantastic read with wonderful ideas and actions for a deeper relationship with the land and its spirits.

As for me, I'm currently digging through these gems:

The Enchanted Life: Unlocking the Magic of the Everyday by Sharon Blackie

Six Ways: Approaches & Entries for Practical Magic by Aidan Wachter
(I've read this wonderful book and am circling back through it, marking it with dozens of sticky notes - I'll have more to say about this tome soon! In the meantime, grab it - it's fantastic!)





PS - My apologies to the southern latitude folks, for whom this post will offer little. I know you are moving from autumn into your winter season now and I wish you warmth, comfort, and plenty of hygge!

Dirt and Stars and Spring Awakenings

There is dirt under my nails, a microcosm of minerals and organisms and organic material huddled under the crescent moons at the ends of my fingers, and I can't stop smiling.

Until this week the spring winds have been stern, not letting me get too ahead of myself in the gardens. I'm apt to wander out, dropping layers and shoes and socks and rolling up pant legs, but it's not yet that kind of temperature. I'm kept somewhat corralled by the chilly morning dew and the late afternoon breezes, but in between the dawn and dusk I find moments to get my hands in the soil, the warming earth now parting eagerly for me.

I made a fantastic error in judgement late last autumn when I hung a feeder for the birds. It was too close to one of the vegetable beds and now the fallen seed has created an oasis of grass at the end of my rows of peas. The new pea shoots are happily leaping up without hesitation and so, in order to ensure they are not choked out by sprouting birdseed, I've been on my hands and knees for a while each day pulling the unwanted grasses out one at a time. This meditation, this devotion to the growing of things (and I suppose, for the grass seeds, the killing of things) makes me feel alive again after a longer winter than I am used to. I don't mind prostrating myself before the earth and its burgeoning green. It's a holier worship than most, this bowing and bending to the land and its life.

There was such beauty to be found while the snow fell and then melted, and then came again and again right into April. I kept good company with books and warm mugs, twinkle lights and candle flames flickering, and cats snoozing on my legs. Now the cats are chewing on grasses and stalking the first bugs of the season. The frogs are awake too, rejoicing in the rains and warmer days. I can hear them a mile off from their marshy ponds. I can't think of a more beautiful chorus for this month of stirring and growth.

Dainty white and purple violets dot the yard now, they were the first blooming thing save the neighbour's forsythia and its blossoms of pure sunlight. Violet leaf and flower can be tossed into spring salads alongside young dandelion leaves, chickweed, small leaves of common mallow, cleavers, and a number of edible 'weeds' that pop up this time of year. My favourite way to bless myself with violet is topically, and I wilt the flowers and then infuse them in oil for a lymph massage rub, as well as create balms with them for skin healing.

I've begun to harvest the first dandelion flowers too, which makes me giddy. I left the inaugural blooms for the bees but when the mass flowering began, weaving yellow brick roads all through the property, I began to pick and dry flowers daily for teas and oils. There will be dandelion flower syrup soon too. I'm near faint at the thought of that heady liquid on my tongue.

The perennial flower bed, which houses long-established plants as well as new herbal additions, has finally been weeded, amended and blessed. There is a corner that has always had a very fae element to it - no matter what I planted there it would thrive as long as fairly consistent offerings were left on the earth. Plants that had no business in half shade and moist soil became glorious beasts and flowered profusely in that spot. I've been negligent of that strange corner for the past two seasons, forgetting the wine, whiskey, or homemade cookie offerings. Unsurprisingly, the forget-me-nots I loved so deeply disappeared and the delphinium faltered and never returned. I spent some time leaving offerings there last week and I reset the small altar. I'm hopeful for a resurrection of lushness and life in that area.

On the last night of April (Walpurgisnacht, for some) after my own revels indoors and out, I awoke in the night to the patter of rain on the roof. I wandered into it, that early May morn shower, feeling grateful for the moisture that my land is lacking at the moment. I returned to bed after being blessed by the sudden storm, and dreamed of devils and carousing with beasts around balefires.

April was all dizzying weather, shooting stars, and woodsmoke on the wind. I found magic in the visits of coyotes and mysterious gifts unearthed in the garden, among the daily whispering of my land and spirits. May has brought with it warm winds and summer-like weather, the trees and flowers that were biding their time for sunnier days have all burst open, leaf and bloom.

I hope you've weathered your first calendar months well. I'm awake and rejoicing now, but gods I loved the long, quiet winter this year. All of this brightness, birdsong, and lushness is almost over-extravagant and I find myself wishing for rain, not just because the land needs it but because I'd not be unhappy to have another afternoon to curl up inside with a book and some tea. But we walk into each season, open to whatever comes, knowing that despite the changing world around us, we can at least do good work wherever we are. On our land, in our communities, and within our homes and magical practices.

Welcome May and Beltane season! Welcome herbs and flowers and new leafy greens! Welcome warm, starry nights and kisses by campfires and lake shores! Cheers to our awakening!

Of Summer, Sacrifice, and Sacred Places

The frantic movement of bee and wasp tonight has given me pause. Are they drunk on summer still, or are they vigorously preparing for the lean seasons to come? My late summer garden offers more for them this year than last, and I suspect they are grateful. The foxgloves have bloomed heartily and the sweet peas, though fading, are yet putting on a ruffled pink show. The insects whirl around the purple hyssop flowers and encircle the second crop of blossoms on the raspberry bushes (the very things I cut to the ground early this spring thinking it would tame them, and now they are nine feet tall). 

The winds and rain we've been calling on to sweep away the wildfire smoke blanketing the valley arrived for one brief evening on the weekend and blotted out the view of the peak of the Persieds meteor shower. It also pushed over all but two stalks of my corn and most of my sunflowers but I can see the sky tonight for the first time in weeks and that's a small price to pay for stars. I've missed watching the summer sunsets more than I can say. 

I can't go out to the gardens anymore without crushing a leaf of this or that in my fingers. Tonight I am redolent with the essence of hyssop and mugwort and lemon balm. The grasshoppers are ticking away in the long grass and the mild temperature is a blessed relief from the mid to high nineties we've suffered through for the better part of a month. The wind is rousing again, and I'm warily eyeing the corn that I've propped up with pieces of poor garden fencing. I'll know in the morning if my meagre fix has been successful. 

The tomatoes, onions, and peppers are being plucked now and I have a constant dance of nightshades in the fridge at all times. I like to cut up the four different types of tomatoes I grew this year, along with whatever peppers and onions are being harvested and have this salsa-of-sorts at the ready to toss into omelets, salads, or onto crusty bread for bruschetta. The corn is coming in handsomely from my friend's ranch. My corn dolly has been created for the year but I cannot kindle a blaze to burn last year's doll, so her offering will have to wait until the fire ban is lifted for my area.

I gave the most valuable sacrifice I had to offer on August eve, my beloved black cat who couldn't find his sturdy legs any longer, and it seemed that the world understood how difficult a parting that would be for me. It presented me with an opportunity to heal my heart, and I flew off to New Mexico and spent the better part of a week in a high desert of juniper and pinion pine and red clay. I fell asleep to the sound of coyotes calling, yipping and howling across the wilderness outside my window. I watched sunsets and moon-rises so stunning I gasped, and stood on a balcony feeling the swell in my chest as a storm blew in and lightning flickered on the horizon.

I walked the side streets and plaza of Santa Fe, my senses seduced by whiffs of leather, cigars, fresh corn tortillas, and sweet perfumes I couldn't place, all pouring out of shop fronts. I admired rows of steer skulls and pottery, paintings and sculptures at each turn, and turquoise in almost every window. I was more entranced by the Catholicized spirits and symbolism than I thought I would be, collecting up a pocket shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe and a charm covered in milagros to bring home with me, but beneath the grand basilica and religious top notes of the area, a deeper flavour emerged. I could feel the hum of something older beneath my feet. I slept in a bedroom that was partially submerged in the earth of the countryside and I dreamed deeply and awoke feeling more myself than I had in a very long time. 

I gathered with a group of amazing women, spent time with two soul-friends that I'd never met but who felt like home, and learned the song and fragrance and spice of an area that seemed so right that I can still taste it on my tongue. There was laughter and bone-deep sharing of lives and loves and losses. There were candles lit every day, from the simple to the most sacred. There was holy water from historic churches partaken of, and used to anoint places on me that would surely have caused the pious to blush. There was guacamole that caused a ripple of elation usually reserved for more carnal situations, and there was deep fried ice cream. And on the way home, after maneuvering through airports late into the night, there was a thunderstorm viewed from 30,000 feet and a moon so red that it might have been a pinprick of my own blood somehow left hanging in the sky.

These last few days as I reoriented myself to hazy skies and a valley situated at a much lower elevation than the high plains that skirt the mountains of New Mexico, I've been feeling like there are things coming to a conclusion in my life. I can't quite flesh it all out at this moment, but I suspect it has something to do with the last four years not really unfolding the way I had planned, and how I've sailed through the high waves and windless seas, and how it's all brought me to this moment. A dear friend asked a few weeks ago about my plans for the upcoming solar eclipse and I hadn't answered his question because I didn't know that I was feeling moved by it in any particular way. Only two days ago, I wasn't sure I even cared about the eclipse. But now I'm sensing that there will be some work or observation of note. I'm left wondering if this impression of things coming to completion is respective of the World card from the tarot. Or perhaps the Death card. Or something more prosperous, like the nine of pentacles (yes, please). Time, and eclipse, I suppose, will tell. 

As I plunge ahead into harvest tide duties, jamming, drying, pickling, and freezing my garden gleanings and gatherings-up of local crops and wild plants, there is also less tangible work being attended to. The altar has a simple new addition of a Mercury working and my local spirits are being tended to as I find my way back to wandering in the woods and beside rivers. I've not been neglectful, but the heat and smoke of the past month has kept me closer to home than I would have liked, and that means all my libations and songs have been gifted to the valley floor and not so much the hills and wilds. I know they haven't forgotten me though. 

I hope your summer has been kind. I hope you've had play and rest and are finding that a satisfying harvest is beginning to come in. I wish whatever blessings you long for upon you as the sun disappears and then rejoins us on the 21st of August. (If you have solar eclipse plans, I'd love to hear them.) The languid late summer days aren't over yet, though twilight and pre-dawn are stretching out their dusky fingers and settling deeper into our hours of light. Welcome them with me, won't you? We don't have to say goodbye to the sun yet. But oh, those dark-kissed early evenings in the garden, or curled up on outdoor furniture under twinkle lights with others, are some of my favourite hours of this time of year.

Witch Notes:

~ Though I am Canadian, I am, like everyone else, nursing a deep heartsickness over the events in Charlottesville (and those that have occurred since the US election). There are a number of things that can be done by those who have means and energy to give. Everyone will attend to these things differently, but if you rally or donate or weep or open your home to others or pray or curse, I support you. Process and engage in the most healthy way you can, and please take care of yourself.

There is only so much I can do from here, but I've donated to a local Charlottesville charity doing good work in the area, and I've got some wicked thorns from a lightning-struck black locust that are doing an entirely different sort of work on the situation. In the meantime, soak your spirit in these beautiful words from HecateDemeter, Southern Pride in a Time of Terror. 

~ Briana Saussy has opened registration for Spinning Gold, her gorgeous foray into fairytale, magic, and the Sacred Arts. I participate each year and adore Bri's heart, spirit, and work. Check it out, here.

~ October is just around the corner (yes, really) and the Great October Book Giveaway will be back for the 7th year. I couldn't put on such a fantastic event each year without the generosity of some of the authors and artists I feature. I have a nice selection of goodies stacking up for my readers already, but if you are an author (or know one) who wants to participate by sending along a tome or two to some lovely readers, please feel free to message me. The giveaway was originally a book-only event, but it has now grown to include card decks and art/talismans. The theme each year is geared toward the varied things I blog about - witchcraft, folklore, herbalism, cartomancy, and associated ideas, so if your work falls into those realms and you'd like to help out, let me know.