A Brief Note on Supporting Ourselves and Supporting Each Other

The world has changed. For now. And likely, in some ways, for always. There is no right thing to say at this moment. No perfect phrasing, no prose that will settle on everyone's shoulders like a warm embrace. We are going to mess this up - this distanced communing and communicating with each other - because we aren't flawless, graceful creatures at all times, and everyone needs/wants different kinds of connection. We are likely going to say something that doesn't jive with what someone else thinks or believes. We may get testy after being corralled together (or alone) for an indefinite length of time. Mostly, though, I think we are going to help each other, and love each other, and do the best we can. I believe in us.

In a perfect world everyone would be provided for. No one would worry about feeding or clothing themselves and no one would wonder if they could pay their rent, utilities, healthcare, or monthly expenses. But we don't live in a perfect world, and people are concerned about how they will survive. (We've always been concerned, but now things seem much more dire.) People are going to be asking for help. They are going to be offering up what they have or what they do, as a way to provide for themselves. They will be trying to save their business, their livelihood, or attempting to bring in some money to help at this stressful time.

When someone asks for help, or promotes their business online, or shines a light on their accomplishments, or posts their fundraising links on social media, please don't shame them. Don't say "too soon," or assume they have the worst motives. Most folks are going into a time of massive uncertainty surrounding their lives and incomes, and sharing ways that you can support them isn't the same as trying to profit off a pandemic. Some folks won't be as eloquent as you would like. They may make mistakes, or misspeak in their attempt to communicate. Allow people some extra wiggle room. Be patient.

There are those who will try to take advantage, be dishonest, hoard and then price gouge, or outright steal. These people have always been out there (and there is a huge discussion here that is so necessary, about privilege, access to physical/mental health care, housing, and community care, that I don't have the space to even scratch the surface of) and we do our best to be aware of those situations. If someone seems to be taking unfair advantage, or preying on other's fears, then you can report their posts, or perhaps reach out to them if you are able to kindly offer them some help on how to steer their efforts to maintain their income in a more appropriate manner.

Please don't demonize those who are attempting to keep their existing online businesses afloat, or who are now moving their storefront to an online or a more easy, safe, accessible model. I've been seeing this happen on social media in the last few days and it's very disheartening (the wondrous Britton posted a story about this topic on Instagram as well). Please don't shame the people who will begin to post fundraising links, or who start up sites to sell what they make or offer a service they provide, so they can meet their needs. Support who you can, if you wish, or share their links if you feel moved to.

If you feel overwhelmed (and so many of us do) then pace yourself, take time off-line, feed yourself and your family, move your body, breathe. Help yourself stay safe, strong, and at peace, and then you will be able to more greatly help others.

There are so many people sharing helpful information that it can make you feel dizzy trying to keep up. I'll start attaching some of the articles I've had the chance to read in the past few days, that made me feel hopeful, and some of the ways I've been keeping well. Pop in and read them if you choose, when you have time. My brilliant friend Briana Saussy likes to quote Fred Rogers, and I could not agree more at this time:

Look for the helpers

And I would like to add, be one of the helpers. When, and if you can.

I'll say it again...I believe in us. Hang in. Hang on. Reach out. We've got each other. We can do this.

Briana has a free, ongoing, healing and protection ceremony that you can join.

Rebecca Altman of Wonder Botanica has a free class that just started called "Surrender + Magic."

Joanna Powell Colbert, of the Gaian Tarot and the Herbcrafter's Tarot, posted a beautiful love letter about how she is caring for herself and others.

My favourite local studio is offering free, online fitness and yoga classes three times a day via Facebook.

I'll add more links in time here, but I wanted to start you off in few good places...

(All photos on this post are from my recent walk to gather poplar buds - you can read about poplar and its magic here.)

Hazy Days and The Blessed In-Between

I am finding, more and more over the years, that the deep breath between the notable points of the seasons is where I feel the most inspired. It is the softer spaces, the blurred boundaries between one tide of the year and the next, that spark a swelling in my heart and spirit. All seasons have their beauty. Even the fierce heat of the last several weeks, the height of summer's fire before the sun's rule over the day began to slip, has had its own charms. But it's these in-between times, when one portion of the year looses its grip and another season begins to whisper of what is to come, that I feel my pulse quicken and my mind swirl with musings and enchantments.

It's been a difficult summer for many of us. My compass has been spinning since May and I've managed to chart my course only when I shifted my focus to my own work and well-being. When my gaze lingered on others for too long, I faltered. When I chose to expend all my energy taking care of folks, it became a too-heavy burden instead of a gift I could offer. I had to reach for my heart like I did the summer peaches, find comfort in my own arms and hands, and sweeten my spirit with staggering sunsets, meandering waterways, and the call of osprey.  

I found solace in the shady spots of the yard and gardens these last few sultry months, in books and poetry, in fairs and farmers' markets, and in a brief escape to the ocean. But mostly I managed to thrive in the way I always do. Dirt under my fingernails, walking beside the river, eating food right out of the garden, and transforming my herb harvests into teas and balms and magics. Right at this moment I've got calendula flowers set out to dry, a basket on the counter of scarlet paste tomatoes and basil still warm from the heat of the day, and I'm slipping goldenrod into a jar to make an extract to assist my lungs should I fall to a cold this winter. I haven't harvested all the plants I wanted to this year, didn't reseed the garden beds that were available after the spring crops came to fruition, and I haven't been out in the woods nearly enough. But I've done what I could do, and I don't have much care for running myself ragged anymore. I'd rather run through cornfields.

“At some point in life the world's beauty becomes enough. You don't need to photograph, paint, or even remember it. It is enough.”  - Toni Morrison     

Virgo season is my season. It's the sweet sigh of relief after a frenzied summer in the valley. Though the frogs and crickets still sing each night I can hear the low murmur underneath those songs again. The whisper of trees making less chlorophyll as the days shorten. The nesting and gathering of animals preparing for the colder months. The owls were calling the other night - a haunting chant I haven't heard since late winter. The sumac is blushing, the rowan heavy with berries, and the geese are gathering in the fields and lakes to prepare for their long journey.

I'm feeling wildly sensual of late. Electric. My skin is the velvet of flower petals and my hair is perfumed with herb blossoms. I am cat-mint and raspberries, the fragrance of ripe garden tomatoes, and the delighted surprise of a wild apple tree found in the forest. I am the opening of evening primrose in the dusk. I can't stop smelling my skin. I've been working with damiana and kava, infusing massage oils and sipping elixirs and reveling in their magic. I want to press pause on these too-short twilights so I have more time to roam between bats and dragonflies, nibbling the last offerings of the ever-bearing strawberries while my feet press sigils into earth and grass.

There are exciting things on the horizon. Fall fairs, a birthday, and an enchanting journey. I'm slowly planning October fetes, mulling over harvest tasks, and pulling out sweaters from the back of the wardrobe. But this year I'm trying not to get too far ahead of myself. I'm soaking in these moments that are bookended by summer and autumn, enjoying the hazy days and cooler nights, knowing that this liminal time has a deep magic all its own.

May the magic find you, too.

Pizza for a Kinder Mind

I'm feeling raw and broken-open, of late. It's okay. It's part of being human - being me. I've grown, and have developed healthy ways of softening and easing the panic or despair that rises from my gut and tries to squeeze my chest, lungs, heart. I like this being older. This feeling of still being a feral girl (which is how I feel every day if I don't look too long in the mirror), but having the benefit of experience and whatever small amounts of confidence I've mustered up over the years.

My brain isn't always a friend. It brings up old stories sometimes. It says "they don't like you," or "you'll never fit in," or "your best isn't good enough." It says "that thing you did fifteen years ago is shameful and you should still feel awful about it. Remember. Remember all those mistakes. All those times you should have done better. You should have been better."

Several years ago I began treating that voice like a frightened child. A shivering animal. Talking kindly to it. "Yes, yes, love. I know. You're safe. Shhh." When it won't quiet down, I go for a walk, or go out to the garden, or drive along the lake, or bake something that reminds me of my grandmother.

I'm in love with the scent of yeast. The feeling of dough stretching out and softening between my palms as I knead, makes me soon. Whirling around in the kitchen in the late afternoon while sunlight and sweet breezes dance through the window, is one of my favourite ways to unwind. I speak blessings to the dough, sing or chant to it, and as I go through the ritual of pressing and folding I find that my tension, fear, or anxiety slips away.

I don't purposely set out to eat wheat anymore (when I do bake it’s more often with gluten-free blends or a wheat & grain free ‘flour’) though it finds its way into my world from time to time. The sexy coupling of yeast and wheat is singular - nothing else really smells or feels like it. Sometimes it’s just the only thing I want.

This ridiculously easy thin crust pizza dough is what I've been playing with lately. ‘Pizza for a Kinder Mind’ is a movement I could happily start. Do you have your own tricks to lower the volume of a shit-talking brain? What things happily derail a train of not-so-helpful thoughts, for you?

Quick and Easy Thin Pizza Crust

1 teaspoon of traditional yeast

pinch of sugar

3/4 cup of warm water

1 and 3/4 cups of flour

a pinch of salt

- add the yeast and sugar to the warm water and wait 5 minutes or so for bubbles

- place flour and salt in a bowl, add yeast-water mixture and toss with a fork

- turn out onto floured surface and knead for 5-10 minutes, adding more flour if too sticky

- press dough into a non-stick or greased pan, top with your fave ingredients, bake at 450 for 10-13 minutes

Witches For a New Year

"Come here, my bird! I will give you the dangerous black night to stretch your wings in, and poisonous berries to feed on, and a nest made of bones and thorns, perched high up in danger where no one can climb to it." 

That's why we become witches: to show our scorn of pretending life's a safe business, to satisfy our passion for adventure. It's not malice, or wickedness - well perhaps it is wickedness, for most women love that - but certainly not malice, not wanting to plague cattle and make horrid children spout up pins and - what is it? - "blight the genial bed." Of course, given the power, one may go in for that sort of thing, either in self-defence, or just out of playfulness. But it's a poor twopenny housewifely kind of witchcraft, black magic is, and white magic is no better. One doesn't become a witch to run round being harmful, or to run round being helpful either, a district visitor on a broomstick. It's to escape all that - to have a life of one's own, not an existence doled out to you by others...  

Excerpt from Lolly Willowes, by Syliva Townsend Warner

I think a great deal about my existence at the end of each calendar year. Whether my presence has helped or hindered others. How I might have added to the joy of the world, or where I might have washed entire universes away with my tears. I used to be very hard on myself. As the last days of December slipped away I would replay a list of my faults and failures. All the things I could have done better. The ways I should have been wealthier, healthier, wiser, or more loving. Though the unkind voice might still slither in at times, I'm done with tearing myself apart. It serves no good purpose. I'd rather take a look at what I've done well, and how I might slip into the current of those successes and swim toward the things that bring me more satisfaction and a sweeter life.

There were times this year, in moments of pain or fear, I spoke curses and blights that made me ashamed and I did my best to take them back as soon as possible. Curses can be useful but carry a weight with them that can bear down even the lightest spirit if used haphazardly, and I've learned that my own agony is not lessened by inviting pain on others.

I've come to a uneasy truce with a brain that is changing as it ages. No more multitasking, or trying to balance several spinning dishes in the air at once. I work better these days when I focus on one task at a time. I have discovered that jumping and wiggling makes my body really happy. Not running, or swimming, or biking. Jumping. I have learned that there is, sadly, such a thing as too much coffee. I know now that sunrises and sunsets - as many as I can glimpse - are an absolute necessity and not something I'm willing to go too long without seeing. We get too used to living indoors, I think. The woods miss us.

I have discovered that I'm not willing to be still. To be obedient or nice. I have very little interest in what others want for me or from me (though for those I love, there is little I wouldn't do). There are places I want to go, places I've waited to see, and I'm not content to wait for the right time to go, or the right person to go with me anymore. I've had my heart torn apart a hundred times and it always grows back in some funny sort of way, so there no longer seems to be much to lose. I am planning adventures that I will actually take this coming year, one way or another.

Life is not a safe business. And it's not long lasting. Even my beloved grandfather would have happily kicked around many years more than the 99.9 he was allotted if he'd had the lungs to let him keep going. I imagine my year ahead and it is all about how I will create a life of my own - one I can be proud of, blush at, and cackle loudly while recalling my journeys. I will satisfy my passions and my thirst for adventure. I will make magic and grow wicked things and revel in the roses as well as their thorns.

I'm wishing you a fierce 2019. Wild in all the ways you want it to be. Kind and soft as you like. Brilliant, love-filled, and so full of laughter that you have sore cheeks most days. May it be magic.

Happy New Year

photos courtesy of unsplash.com

Making a (Magical) Effort

“Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty… I have never in my life envied a human being who led an easy life.  I have envied a great many people who led difficult lives and led them well.”   
~ Theodore Roosevelt

Sara wrote a post over at Candlesmoke Chapel this past week about her difficulty connecting to the deity/spirit that she feels has been calling to her, and I'm thankful that she chose to share her frustration - and here's why:  Sara does the work.  And the work isn't always easy.

Sometimes our practice seems more accessible.  After you've put in the time.  The meditations, the journeying, the crafting, the circle casting, the dirt digging, the ecstasy - the roads open faster.  You don't have to wait at the gate anymore.  You've done the work and the door is wide for you. And those on the other side are expecting you. They know you. You've lit the candles and whispered the prayers or shouted the chants, and you've left the offerings.  And they've been accepted. You have been accepted.

It's convenient to stay in that place, where everything is safe, and you create the same charms and speak the same words, and the door always seems to be open.  

But I don't think this path is supposed to be easy.

Sometimes new spirits approach, and you aren't sure how to connect.  Or you end up on a new land base and are left with the task of introducing yourself.  You may seek to learn new work (or likely old work), and feel defeated when it isn't so effortless.  Your divinatory tools or skills may wane or fall flat.  Your full, fiery, never-tiring heart may just burn the hell out.
  

At times, it's going to be ridiculously, agonizingly, difficult.  And struggle isn't reserved for the newbies.  The old hands, the hereditary lines, the ones who found a book at ten years old and never looked back - they don't get a free pass.  Experience doesn't mean it will never get challenging.

I am still new.  I've been actively working at this strange, enchanted path for a little less than seven years.  And most days, I feel like I know nothing.  

Two weeks ago, during the dark moon, I was planning a particular working where I felt that a circle would be beneficial.  I don't always use a circle - it often isn't practical for the work I do. But in this case, it seemed like a good idea.  As I was getting ready, I felt a very real fear.

What if they don't come?  What if no one shows?  What if I'm just standing here while the spirits are off partying somewhere and they don't want to lend a hand or sing backup?

I didn't forget how to throw up a circle.  I had left my offerings and done my due diligence, and practiced my little witcheries.  But I'd been ignoring some things too.  I'd been holding up the "I can't see you" hand, trying not to look through my fingers at the messages coming my way all summer. 

The spirits are not your dogs.  You don't get to kick them and then expect them to show.  You can't ignore them and then throw a lasso up in the hopes of catching one to work with you.

In the end, my circle was perfect and those I invited, came through.  But it was a great reminder that the work is never done.  There is no resting on your laurels or wearing a "Hecate Is My Homegirl" t-shirt and expecting the spirits to be constantly riding shotgun.

Do the work, culitivate patience (as Sara says), and don't be surprised if it sometimes feels a bit like swimming upstream.  The effort is worth it.




picture courtesy of wiki commons
"A Visit to the Witch" by Edward Frederick Brewtnall (1846-1902)

Midnight In The Garden of Last Harvests

Ms. Mugwort

After a good month of warm sun and rain, the gardens looked refreshed today.  The vegetable garden is fading and many of the perennials are nodding off to sleep, but the perfect climate these past few weeks has allowed for a last burst of growth for some of the herbs.  The catnip, mugwort and even the raspberry canes are flourishing.  I gladly brought in a handful of clippings from the mugwort - a final gift from the generous plant - and hung them next to the long stems of hyssop waiting to become something marvellous.

Tonight, as the hour grows late, I've had to rush out to the bed of tomatoes and tuck them in under blankets like a nervous mother.  The temperature has dipped further than expected tonight and the forecasted rains for the next few days are said to become snow on the valley hills.  If this is so, it will be one of the earliest snows we've seen here.  And the tomatoes will all have to come in tomorrow.  I have enough boxes and newspaper to create a makeshift ripening environment, but I'd prefer them to linger on the vine a bit longer.

These last harvests are always bittersweet.  Truthfully, I'm thankful for the rains and the cooler weather. Hauling water each morning to all the gardens becomes a real chore by August, and keeping up with the ripening veggies can lead to much hair-pulling and passing of baskets full of produce over the fence to the neighbours.

Still, I love coming inside with fresh tomatoes and green onions and making some brushetta for dinner.  I love the smell of just-picked herbs sprinkled on my meals.  So many carrots became spiced carrot cupcakes this summer and were passed around to friends and co-workers.  Golden beets were roasted, zucchini was shredded and frozen for winter soups and sweet loaves, and cucumbers were made into tzatziki.

Now, as the very last of the harvests are coming in from the garden, I'm looking around to see what I'm letting linger in my life, that may need harvesting too.  Decisions put off too long.  Habits that have become stale and meaningless.  An unhealthy friendship that needs pruning.  Lessons learned this year that need to be implemented.

As I prepare to settle in for the winter (which may arrive earlier than I'd hoped,) I know the freezer is well stocked.  I want to be sure my mind and heart have gathered a healthy harvest too.  The cold months are not for snuggling up with the spirits of things I wished I'd accomplished, and the elephant in the room makes a poor bedfellow.  Best to put those things to sleep with the gardens.

These "last harvests" we mark or celebrate, are never really the last though.  Some plants grow through the dark months, even under the snow.  There are still feasts and festivities to be had.  And we always have the opportunity to bring an idea or lesson home and either carry it out or compost it, as we see fit.

As for Ms. Mugwort and I, I think I'll tuck a bit under my pillow tonight to aid in dreaming and perhaps keep a pinch in my pocket for protection if I'm wandering through the gardens again at midnight.  After all, the Wild Hunt will be doing some harvesting of its own soon.

A good and safe harvest to you!

Please Touch

This morning I was walking beside the river, stopping to look closely at the plants just now blooming, and those releasing seeds or fruit, and I was struck at how strong the need to touch is for me.  I ran my palms over rabbit brush and long grasses, stopped to roll rose hips and wild grapes between my fingers, and pet and murmured loving words to the beloved mullein.  I delight in sight and get giddy with scent, but touch is intoxicating to me.

Rabbit Brush

We see children like this - exploring everything with their hands.  Being told "don't touch!" by their parents (or by well-placed signs) whenever they wander through stores.  My parents tried to teach us to keep our hands glued to our sides, and then they just gave up. They took us to the hills to touch and play and get dirty.  My brother had a rock collection as a child, and I was forever bringing home pine cones.  I'm sure my mother threw out buckets of each, every year, and we simply brought home more.  I never seemed to grow out of it though - that need to pick up things, touch them, and bring them home.

There is a long tree branch with a forked end that stands in the corner of my bedroom.  One day it will become a stang, but for now I admire the texture of it, having been stripped of its bark by a beaver.  I found it by the river on Christmas morning.

There is a wand, also a piece of beaver-stripped wood, that I oiled with blessed blends of oil and herbs, that sits on my altar.  There are found, shed antlers and a portion of long ago evacuated wasp nest that share space with roots and dried plant allies.  Stones picked up, pressed leaves and flowers, and still, pine cones...always pine cones, find themselves tucked into any space that will hold them.

Milkweed gone to seed.

I wanted so much today, to bring home milkweed seeds.  I lingered over them, just barely touching their silky 'wings' while a beaver slapped its tail in the river just beyond.  I longed to harvest some of the remaining Oregon grapes I spotted, but knew I wouldn't have time to process them.  I touched everything I could - barely containing myself when a gentleman and his pups walked by with raised eyes as I hovered over the edge of the riverbank reaching for the goldenrod.

There is, in humans, a biological need to touch other humans.  But in some of us - the ones who hear the plants whisper and the marsh reeds sing, and who fall prey to the sharp taste of wild mustard and the thorns of wild roses - there is nothing quite like the touch of leaf and grass and flower on our skin. Nothing like the cool hardness of river rocks. Nothing ever like the strangeness of pine tree bark and the ghostly tickle of dandelion turned to seed.

I've always imagined that at the entrance to parkland and wild spaces, there should be a sign that reads: "Please Touch."

The Deeper Places

Today, while pondering when I might get some time to do some magical work, I whispered blessings and thanks to the garden as I harvested vegetables, I chanted while I made cookies for my nieces, I napped and dreamed strange dreams, and I mowed a rune into my lawn as I was cutting the grass.

I speak often about daily practice because it is important to me.  I've not spent much time meditating this summer. My yoga routine has completely fallen by the wayside. I haven't sunk deeply into ritual in quite a while. It pleases me that it is almost habitual to imbue my daly activities with enchantment - it does lend to a very magical-feeling life. But those little fascinations don't actually replace the practices that have always anchored me. And today I felt a bit...adrift.

 As the season slowly begins to shift, the gardens wind down, and the nieces return to school, it will also be time for me to re-commit to my own praxis. It is time to return to those daily observances that offer me a firm foundation when the winds (or the full moon, or moody teenage girls,) press against my sanity.

 Tonight I'm going to spend some time with the gorgeous crow rattle that a friend of mine made, and see where the rhythm takes me. There is much that needs to be done around the house, but those things can wait one more day. I'm in need of a little communion with the deeper places that have been waiting all summer long for some quality attention.

Does My Shadow Make Me Look Fat?

My 'personal year' runs from September to September.  That month, being my birth month, sets off a new life year for me and is generally a better time for me to look at resolutions, life changes, and charting growth than January is.  September 2011 to September 2012 was an ass-kicker year for me. It was truly suck-worthy.  It was also the year I learned to love myself completely.  Go figure.

I've spent the bulk of my life not particularly liking myself.  I wasn't thin enough, pretty enough, smart enough, rich enough, and on and on.  Sadly, plenty of people are familiar with this I'm Not Enough type of existence.  I started realizing that there was something wrong with how I saw myself, back in my late twenties but it took me ten long years to really dig all the crud up and toss it aside.  I'm not a therapist and I've never seen one (excepting my best girlfriends and too many blenders of daiquiris to count,) but something happened last year in between the crippling sadness of losing my beloved kitty to an illness the vet could do nothing to help and the financial worries and the moments of fist-shaking at the sky.

I finally saw myself.

I finally saw my strength, my awesomeness, my silliness, my fierce love, my wild imagination, my optimism, my sheer joy at living in the valley where I make my home, and I finally, finally saw my beauty.

All I could think was WHY DID THIS TAKE SO LONG?

It's been a great ride so far with these new eyes, but something funny happened about a month ago. My niece got herself a new phone and started playing with the camera on it.  She started snapping candid photos and texting them to me.  Photos of me.  Photos of me on my cell phone, or chasing the cats around, or eating lunch.  And I was horrified.

Who the hell is that person?!  Do my thighs really look like that?  I really need to do something with my hair.  

And the criticisms kept coming as if they'd never really gone away.

April was another shaky month.  A few things in my life that I've been neglecting or ignoring completely have shown up and demanded to be noticed.  This new development (or old resurgence) was exactly the thing I needed to trigger me to take action and change my attitude.

That person in that picture is me, and she is amazing.  Yes, those are my luscious thighs.  My hair is long and gorgeous and yes, sometimes looks like I've been caught in a tornado, and I love it.

I am taking a firm gorilla-grip on my life and owning my awesomeness.  I might be face-deep in a daiquiri later, but I will get my ass back up again and go out into the world tomorrow, thighs and all, and keep building and creating and bibbity-bobbity-booing this life of mine the way I want to.

I will love myself.  I will love the wild animal of my body, and my delicious spirit, and my crazy mind, and I will create a life of joy and magic.

Bring on the candid photos - I dare you.

You Are Not A Pagan

I’m not sure how the conversation started…something about an uncle who likes to proselytize.  I mentioned that if he ever found out I was a Pagan, I’d be the new black sheep in the family.  To which, my mother said: “You are NOT a Pagan.”

“But, I am Pagan,” I said.

“No you’re not,” she replied.

I was a taken aback.  I was sure my mother knew I was Pagan.  We’d had conversations about witchcraft, plant and herb magic, folk traditions.  

My friends, bosses and my local metaphysical community know I’m Pagan.  Although I don’t talk about my spirituality with my extended family, as most of them are pastors and deacons in their churches, I had been sure my mother understood my path.  It didn’t occur to me that I hadn’t been clear.  And then I thought, what if I’m not clear, myself?

If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you might have noted that it is rather eclectic.  My interests are fairly all-encompassing.  Myth, folklore, herbalism, witchcraft, gardening, farmers markets, travel, kitties, camping, seasons, celebrations, movies, yoga and chickens.  Theses are just a few of the things that flicker in and out of my mind, teasing me and sending me running to read more books and try new recipes and find more blogs to subscribe to.

I was diverse at birth.  Wandering and having my interest peaked all over the place is in my genes.  I have Ukrainian/Roma/German blood on my mother’s side where there resides a rather colourful story about my great-grandfather the con-man/gigolo.  On my father’s Scottish/Welsh/English side, there were some charming sheep-thieves and pirates in the family.  Oh, sorry - they called them “privateers.”  (Which is just a nice name for pirates.)

I grew up spending half of my weekends running through the woods up the hill from our home and the other half of my weekends were spent in a car, just driving wherever my father felt like taking us.  We were always going somewhere or doing something.  There was no room for being bored.  

I took an interest in growing things when I was eleven.  My grandmother was living on a large piece of land with an orchard on one portion of it and a wonderful stretch of garden on the other.  I started my gardening life weeding between her rows of veggies.  Back-breaking work in a garden that size, but I was hooked from that moment on.

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise for me that I would visit my pastor so many years later and tell him that I just wasn’t finding god in church.  In the hills, the garden, by the river and in the eyes of my nieces and the love of my dog, yes.  But not at my church.  

“Perhaps your church isn’t a building,” he said.  And that statement changed my life.

I’m sure he didn’t mean for me to leave Christianity all together.  And yet…

I left the church fairly quickly after that - ten years ago now - but it would be a couple years before I figured out where I was headed.  

I think I’m still figuring it out.  I use the word “Pagan” because it ties me to a certain community of belief systems that resonate with me.  But the word doesn’t necessarily feel right all the time.  Same with the word “witch” - it conjures a certain feeling, but to some that feeling is wisdom or comfort and to some that feeling is fear.  Part of the problem is, I’ve always shunned labels.  I’m having a hard time finding one that fits me now.

The word “eclectic” is a dirty word in Paganism.  It’s indicative of someone who picks and chooses belief systems, gods and practices with no regard to cultural propriety.  But what about those of us who have a genuine interest in many different subjects, societies and crafts?  I took two years of fairly structured Wicca training and enjoyed it, but it was very difficult for me to train myself to forget the more free-flowing way I practiced, and focus on a more rigid approach.  Now I’m back in the dirt and the rocks and the green and touching and tasting everything with little regard to structure.

I like the word “liminal.”  It speaks of a threshold.  And I feel this way.  And this word feels good.  But how long can you be on a threshold before you must go through it one way or the other.  I’d like to be a Liminalist (which is not a word - except that I just made it one.)  But again - how long could you be a Liminalist before you would have to move?  You cannot always stay ‘in-between,’ can you?  And yet…  I’ve always felt ‘in-between.’  I think that is part of what draws people to Paganism.  Feeling like they don’t quite fit in the other places.  Not quite here.  Or there.

So here I am, wondering how right my poor mother is.  My beliefs have not changed.  This is not a dark night of the soul.  But I do believe a large part of her struggle today was with the word “Pagan.”  And I think I may have to do something about that, because I’m struggling with it a little too.  It’s an easy word to use inside our own community, but does it really paint an accurate picture of who I am and how I practice outside the coven/online groups/conventions and festivals?  I don’t know.

I’ll ponder a while in this liminal space.  And when it’s time to cross that threshold, I will.

Florida Water

My Florida Water ingredients for this year

A refreshing scent, a stirring room, linen, or body splash or spray, or a spiritual tool? Florida Water is all these things and more. Debuting in the early 1800's as a his-or-hers cologne, the stimulating liquid created by Robert I. Murray gained popularity and was eventually re-created by other enterprising companies, though the Murray & Lanman brand is still one of the most recognized. The name is said to be a nod to the old tales that the Fountain of Youth might be hidden somewhere in Florida. The base word of Florida, flor, the Spanish word for flower, also alludes to the floral qualities of the liquid.

Florida Water has a varied history of uses. It was proposed to be not only a perfume, a tonic and something that might restore youth, but medicinal and curative. I can't speak to some of those applications here (and I'd never recommend ingesting anyone's version of the water) but Florida Water has become a popular ingredient in many people's spiritual and folk practices. There is a great deal of debt owed to the southern African American spiritual communities (from practitioners of Hoodoo, Voodoo, and Lucumi, to Catholics) for bringing the devotional and magical use of the liquid to the forefront.

As a spiritual tool, Florida Water is said to be pleasing to the spirits. Its traditional floral and citrusy scent is attractive and it is often employed as a holy or blessing water. There isn’t one specific recipe for Florida Water. I've come across blends that can include any number of ingredients, including the following:

Bergamot
Rose
Lavender
Clove
Orange
Lemon
Neroli
Cinnamon
Jasmine

The process of making your own splash or spray can range from simple to complex, depending on your ability to do the work and source the ingredients. For an easy blend, combine purified or distilled water and add the essential oils of your choice from the above list until you find you have a pleasing scent. Bottle, and bless your creation according to your spiritual tradition.

One of the selling points of some personal Florida Water blends is that they have included several different waters collected from locations considered sacred, such as holy wells or specific natural or man-made fonts or streams. You may include these waters in your blend, but you will need to add a high-proof alcohol to the mixture in order to keep the blend from turning rancid.

You can also make Florida Water with plant material, which is more labour intensive but really gives you a connection to the end result. This is the way I like to make my blend. I wild-harvest local flowers, roots, and other herbal material from a well-known area (and I often add some plants that I've grown). Employing flora from areas that I have a relationship with feels good to me, and I will usually ask to be led to the plants that want to be involved the creation of my water.

I place all the herbal material in a glass jar (it should be loosely full - not stuffed) and then fill the jar with a high proof alcohol. This is my Florida Water mother tincture. I may add different items to it if I am called to. Each year my mother blend is unique. There are times I may add tree resins, or a stone or a piece of silver or gold to the mother, though this isn't considered traditional. This tincture sits on my altar, often getting moon-baths under full or auspicious moons, for at least three moon-cycles, though I've had one blend that infused for almost a year.

When I'm ready to decant the water, I strain off the solid material and save the liquid in a labeled bottle. This tincture is potent, so it is diluted by at least half with purified water when added to smaller bottles. I like the convenience of having a spray, so I use mister-caps on my bottles (pictured below). Depending on the year, I might add sacred waters that I have collected and preserved. My last act is to add to the bottle a blend of essential oils that I created, to make this spray my own. This blend ensures that, despite the differing ingredients in the mother tincture each year, the spray has the spicy, citrusy scent I desire. 

Whether you make Florida Water simply, using some of the more traditional ingredients and essential oils, or whether you forage for natural materials and create your own inspired mixture, enlisting the help of plants is very rewarding and the resulting water is truly a blessing. Use it to feed your altars or ancestors, bless spaces or tools, or simply to refresh a room or your own spirit. Enjoy!




Please note: this article was heavily edited on July 6, 2017 to reflect my current Florida Water process. Aside from a few cringe-worthy punctuation errors, the previous incarnation of this post was an accurate snapshot of my process when I first set out making this water, but I've adapted and grown over the years and my working has shifted. Because this is an often-viewed post, an update was long overdue.

If you don't want to make your own Florida Water, I sell bottles of my blend here.