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!

Dog Days and Wild Roses

What befell June, only the gods know now. I have shut my eyes to the passing of time because it is more uncomfortable for me to note it, than to simply keep putting my hands in the dirt and taking in the sunsets. Watching what was pass away doesn't feel as satisfying as noting what is. And for the first time in a long while, I am feeling a ripple of excitement about what is to come.

There are disturbances in the force. A beloved cat is faltering, and I'm unsure if he will completely right himself again (even with veterinary assistance). His illness means I have to miss meeting a friend I've been waiting years to hug. I have nieces trying to navigate fresh-adulthood and finding it a bit more heartbreaking than they had hoped. I wish I could scoop them up under their arms and swing them in circles again until they forget how cruel the world can be. But we cultivated a love of the land in them too, and so they run off to the woods to camp and they swim in the lakes and revel in the gardens, and those things can ease an ache in such refreshing ways.

My aches are all welcome, for they are familiar friends. There are talkative muscles in my thighs, groaning from all the squatting between garden beds weeding and pulling up one crop to plant another. We had one brief afternoon of rain a little over a week ago, and the light but lingering moisture was exactly what I needed to dig my fingers under the grass making itself at home in the beds. I could push my fingers down, and find the roots, and pull them out without disturbing the plants around them too much. I have dirt under my nails that may never come out, but I also felt more at peace that night, weeding in the soft rain, than I have felt in quite a while. They say that bacteria in soil can be beneficial for humans, and I don't know that I've ever been so happy to share my body with another being.

There are other twinges that I'm breathing through, one gorgeous summer day at at time. Ripples of the heart and spirit that can only be assuaged by heat lightning, and the sight of growing ducklings, and Jupiter winking down upon me as the sky lets the light slip from its shoulders each evening. Those pangs are the exquisitely human ones. The gifts-with-purchase. There is nothing to be done about them but let go. And you can always burn.

I burned brightly in June. I danced around the midsummer's eve fire, and then again a few nights later on the eve of St. Johns' day. I blessed my body with rainwater and herbs, censed myself with the fragrant smoke of wood and sacred plants, and softened and perfumed my skin with a balm created from this spring's violets. I lit candles, called to my spirits, tossed cards and gained insight. I walked deep into the woods, harvesting wild roses, yarrow, self-heal, and silver wormwood. I made offerings as I went: herbs and waters, local fruit, and one particularly expensive bottle of local wine I had hoped to keep, but a certain guardian of my favourite three-way crossroads had other plans.

I have also offered up more blood this year than I would have liked, but the impassioned spring rains flooded the valley and the mosquito population has flourished. I don't mind giving portions of myself to garden or beast. I've felt more maenad than human these past weeks. The lushness of June was so erotic that it's a wonder I wore clothes at all and didn't bite everyone I came into contact with. I have been listening intently to the land and the places just beyond my fingertips. The realms I can see, the plants and animals I encounter, speak to me of how to move through these mid-year months. They whisper of herbal blends to turn into new balms and suggest undertakings that might stretch me further along the path I wander.

My working altar is spilling over with glass jars full of elixirs, oils, and a potent Florida Water mother tincture, all from wild-harvested and home cultivated blossoms, roots, and leaves. The kitchen sinks have been overtaken by lettuces, peas, strawberries, and assorted herbs. The rafters are hung with bunches of fragrant and healing flora. My visits to the farmers market have yielded the season's first cherries and apricots, as well as bundles of just-picked lavender. But now the heat of summertide is upon us and the energy shifts from the explosive growth and green of June to the languid and somewhat dangerous days of July. We've already had wildfires locally, and only a couple days ago the next town up the lake suffered the loss of two homes and an orchard after a fire started and was exacerbated by the wind. 

We move carefully in July and early August, conserving energy and water. I attempt my yard and garden work at dawn and dusk, and we gather in the twilight hours on patios and tucked into cool spots in courtyards. The beverages are more icy, the fare lighter, and the laughter echoes long after the stars have appeared. Magical work is more quiet and focused. The fire ban means no more exultant work around outdoor flames. Things get buried or tossed into moving water. Talismans and amulets are formed out of found root and wood and feather and bone. A good portion of my practice becomes as simple as listening and roaming with sharpened intent (which is always how I endeavor to move through the world, but there is something about the careful placement of foot and attention during the most unforgiving times of the year). When it has become so hot that you cannot pack enough water with you and exertion can mean heat-stroke, you are forced to rethink the way you plot your course.

Still, the Dog Days have their charm. Some may yet be watching fireflies. I've been taking in sunsets that streak the sky with purples, and waiting each night on the dragonflies and bats that soar past chasing their dinner. Soon my friend's corn will ripen and we will have our yearly first-harvest celebration at her ranch, but for now I'm trying to encourage my late planting of pumpkins to stretch out, and bemoaning the catnip that jumped its container last year and is marauding through the perennial beds.

I hope your summer has made itself at home in such a pleasing way. I hope you have had bright things to raise your eyes to, whether you are a fan of fireworks, stars, or sunsets. And I hope you find your own groove, your own magic, to dance with on these hot and heady days and nights.

Witch Notes (like field notes, but with extra magic)

~ I made a pesto with the wild onions I harvested recently, and it was spectacular tossed into a delicate angel hair pasta. You can make pesto however you prefer, but this recipe from Hank Shaw is how I roll.

~ I keep a canning jar of locally made apple cider vinegar in the fridge that I toss fruit into all summer long. This is the strange delight that becomes the shrubs I drink, sometimes with the addition of a simple syrup when I'm mixing it into a cocktail or soda water, or I simply add a tablespoon of the vinegar to an icy, sweetened soda like gingerale for a refreshing libation on a sweltering day. Emily Han wrote a fantastic book focused on creating your own unique cocktails (these work for alcohol-free beverages too) but you can also check out her fruit shrub syrup recipe here.

~ Summer reading:

I'm still making my way through The Witching Herbs by Harold Roth (not because it isn't wonderful, but because my own gardening and wild-crafting adventures have eaten up most of my time of late).

I'm also trading off with Byron Ballard's newest tome, Embracing Willendorf, and to feed my ghost-story appetite, a gifted copy of The Bell Witch of Tennessee sits beside my bed and gives me a thrill each night. I can't speak of the stack of books waiting on me to complete these three, because I will feel guilty and stop buying books, and we can't have that.

~ Briana Saussy has her next Feast Day for the Radically Reverent approaching.

~ I'm in mad love with Renée Magnusson and her Sunday Sin missives that show up in my inbox each week. They are amazing, hilarious, and sometimes heart-wrenching. She holds nothing back.

Through Bush, Through Brier - A Midsummer Eve Visit

I followed the honeysuckle and grape vine hedge until I found a small opening. The vines had grown up over the fencing and the gate was hidden well.  I pulled gently at the vines and they offered me just enough room to slip underneath them and through the fence, all the while being serenaded by the buzzing of countless bees that were working on the flowers in the hedge.

The vines were likely planted to soften the view that the neighbours observed when they looked out their windows. The old cemetery was stark and harsh to look at. A small plot of land with no greenery to speak of, covered in a layer of white rock and tiny coloured glass shards. It was hardly displaying any romantic, gothic charm.

Undaunted by the glare of the sun and the heat radiating up from the white rock, I wandered the rows looking for the right headstone. It had been a while since I had been there, and my return was long overdue.

It took little effort to notice that the grave sites had no adornment. No flowers or statues or other such benefactions were left for the residents there. Perhaps the hedge was also meant to deter visitors, save for those whose will to pay their respects was stronger than the vines.

As I wandered closer to my destination, I noticed two large glass jars at the head of a grave. Each jar was open, and contained what looked like small bits of folded paper. I had a moment of biting curiosity, but I moved on. The papers were not my business. I was there to find Gladys.

A more well-cared for, well-loved cemetary that I like to visit.

I found her grave, beside that of her husband's, and wondered at the date of her death. She was only 55 when she died, passing two short years after he had.  I had brought water to wash her headstone and I set to work,  noticing that one of the coins I had left for her at my last visit still remained there. Who or what may have wandered off with the others, only Gladys knew.

I returned what I had borrowed, with thanks, and left her a bouquet of gladiolus. I appreciated the word play between the plant and her name, and I imagined that she might have liked the flowers quite a bit when she was alive. 

I walked back to the living, buzzing gateway - the perfect liminal space to separate the cemetery from the residential area beyond. 

There were dimes deposited at the threshold, a moment of being neither here nor there, and then I was out in the world again.

My fairy lord, this must be done with haste,
For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast,
And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger,

At whose approach ghosts, wand'ring here and there
Troop home to churchyards. Damned spirits all
That in crossways and floods have burial,
Already to their wormy beds are gone.
For fear lest day should look their shames upon,
They willfully themselves exile from light,
And must for aye consort with black-browed night. 

~ Puck, to Oberon - A Midsummer Night's Dream

It may seem an odd thing to mark the shortest night of the year by visiting a cemetery, but if we dare to believe that the unseen is more visible or here, at this time of year (and at its opposite on the calendar) then why not give thanks, honour, or commune, while the connection is a bit more clean. The months of intense heat have come, and that can create some static for those of us who don't operate well in the sweltering weather.

Until the cool breezes return, be well good spirits.