Riding Goats into May - A Nod to Walpurgisnacht

The wind has been howling at the windows for three days, and although the sun has done its best to shine in between spring rains its heat cannot compete with the biting cold that the tempests have blown in. I don't mind the last gasps of winter, the final shake of Frau Holle's feather blanket that resulted in rain-snow-hail this past weekend. In my mind and dreams the Wild Hunt is riding a frenzied race across the skies to the peak of the Harz to celebrate winter's end and the coming of summer. I need a fast goat who likes altitude, because I want to go too.

We have arrived in the season of lush festivity. And let's face it, in days of old if you made it through the winter without succumbing to disease or starvation there was definitely something to celebrate. Feasting on spring greens and shoots, lighting bonfires to chase off the winter and to cense your livestock, jumping brooms and fires (and jumping each other - it's a very fertile time of year after all), were some of the activities that folks embraced as the days grew long.

The last day of April marked Hexennacht, when it was said that witches rode to their sabbath at the Brocken in the Harz mountains of Germany. The saint Walpurga/Walburga who was called upon to aid in protection from witchcraft was canonized on May 1st, conveniently overlapping her eve with the night of the witches. Walpurisnacht (Walpurga's night) became both the time when witches were out on their revels and when people would employ protections for their homes and livestock to keep them safe from witchcraft. It's a wicked merry-go-round, isn't it?

If May dawned and you made it home from the mountains or your woodland frolicking, then you might bathe yourself in the morning dew to ensure youthfulness for another year. You could find yourself spinning ribbon around a maypole with village folk, guising or dancing in a parade through the streets, or preparing to lead your cattle between two bonfires to bless them with vitality.

There are more stories of folk practices and debaucherous frolicking than I have time to tell while the hours of April slip away, but I wanted to share a few words from others here - snippets from people and books I enjoy that speak to the spirit of this celebratory time. I'll be out by the fire tonight (if the wind cooperates) and I'll lift a glass to see the Old Woman of winter off. If you hear me howling, send a howl back. I know you're out there bringing in the May in your own way.

Bernard Zuber

"Some call it Walpurgisnacht or Beltane or May Day, and the days of observance may shift minutely, but the general celebration remains the same. It is a grand day of festivity and rejoicing, an ode to vanquishing the dark and looking forward to a green and glorious future. It is a time for joyous feasting and the encouragement of growth, a time for lovers and life.

In Blacktree, however, we see Hexennacht as a night when witches fly to their own gatherings and revels. On this night, we also acknowledge and honor our genus loci and other land spirits. For us, Hexennacht is literally a night of witches; it says so right in the name. On this night, we howl at the moon, wild in our power and in love with our very nature as witches. We connect deeply with the land and spirits around us."

Besom, Stang & Sword, Christopher Orapello and Tara-Love Maguire

"Although officially sanctioned by the church as the feast of Saints Philip and James, May Day celebrations in England smothered religious veneration with fertility rites suggested by flowers and fires. The notorious lecher, King Henry VIII, took great pleasure in his court's floral masquerades and the sexual license of Mayings. The common people had fun with setting up maypoles, lighting bonfires, playing football, running races, morris dancing, and flirting. Villagers were sent into the woods where they would cut down a maypole (that most obviously phallic symbol) to erect in front of the parish church, and many young couples, it appears, got "lost" for the night in the woods to enjoy semi-clandestine love."

Ritual in Early Modern Europe, Edward Muir

"Beltane rituals are still held. Traditionally bonfires are lit. To heal infertility, people creep through bonfires, jump over them, and run between them. Once upon a time, they also made love amongst the bonfires, although to avail yourself of this power you may have to build private, personal fires."

Beltane Bonfire Spell, The Encyclopedia of 5000 Spells, Judika Illes

"Walpurgisnacht" by Albert Welti 1897

"A Munich vesper from the fourteenth century mentioned a Brockelsburg as being an abode of nocturnal ghosts and witches. Such "buck mountains," "hay mountains," or "heathen caps," where the last heathen festivals took place, were found throughout Europe. The most famous of these is the Brocken, in the Harz mountains of Germany. The "witches" usually gathered there on Walpurgis night. They danced the last winter snows away in "participation mystique." In the sagas they danced so vigorously that they danced through the soles of their shoes."

Witchcraft Medicine, Muller-Ebeling, Ratsch, Storl

Bernard Zuber

This charm may well be the 'vesper' spoken of above. I've included a small snippet here if you are the sort to quake at witches flying overhead and want a few words of protection to whisper as you drift off to dream. (I'll try not to wake you as I streak by on my goat.)

May the supreme Numen divinium,

may the holy sanctus spritius,

may the sacred sanctus dominus,

again protect me this night

from the evil creatures that roam the darkness

and I sign myself

against the black ones and the white ones

whom people call the Good ones

and who leave from Brockelsberg

- excerpt from a 14th-15th century charm,
published in Lecouteux's Phantom Armies of the Night

I wish you wildness and firelight. Frenzied joy and good feasting. Kisses and dances and all the merrymaking you desire. May your earth and home and family be fruitful.

Happy Witches' Night. Happy May!

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 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!

The Dead Don't Need Flowers

Today I drove up to the cemetery on the hillside overlooking the lake, where my grandparents ashes reside. I wanted to bring my grandmother some flowers for Mother's Day. It was quite pleasant this afternoon, warm and bright, and so it was unsurprising that when I arrived at the cemetery it was bustling with people paying respects to their own mothers and grandmothers.

It was a delight to see all the fresh flowers on the gravestones. An array of colours and arrangements flowed here and there across the manicured land - a wandering river of plants that spoke of fondness and remembrance. I saw everything from a simple posy of fresh-cut lilacs placed on a plaque, to elaborate floral vignettes set up just-so. 

A red-tail hawk circled overhead, and a small mule deer, shaggy and shedding its winter coat, grazed on the hillside while those of us below went about our duties. From the look of the tulips I left for my grandma last week, I suspected the deer must roam through the cemetery, nibbling, after everyone has left their tasty flowers behind. I brought an oatmeal cookie for my grandpa on my previous visit (he always had a sweet tooth) but that was long gone, possibly scooped up by birds or squirrels. I bring him simple treats (no chocolate) because I'm fairly sure the local fauna clean it up after I leave and I'm not interested in poisoning anything. 

Several folks were hanging out on or near specific markers. One woman had brought herself a chair and a picnic basket and was eating and chatting with her gravestone of choice. A gentleman was leaning against the bank, making time with the sunshine and occasionally looking down to gaze at someone's name. After my usual ritual of washing my grandparents' plaques and setting up my grandma's flowers and having my visit, I followed the winding road through the large property and nodded and smiled at those who looked up to note another embodied soul passing by. 

I always pay my way through the cemetery gates, in both directions, usually with as many dimes as I have in my purse. I'm fairly inconspicuous when I let the coins slip from my fingers at the threshold but today with the crowds of folks around I'm sure the tinkling of silver was heard by someone. I didn't mind so much. Though I couldn't help but notice them today, the living aren't really who I am interested in when I cross through that land. 

I glanced at the lake as I left, and I saw sailboats skimming along the water taking advantage of the wild spring wind. They always remind me of my grandfather. He would fold boats out of any piece of paper he could get his hands on. Newspaper sheets became large vessels and captain's hats, and sugar packets transformed into tiny ships. Sometimes, when I miss him so terribly, I fold joss paper into a sailboat and burn it on my altar for him. It will take me a lifetime of practice to make perfectly folded boats as quickly as he did, but gods-willing I've got some time yet to improve my technique. 

I don't go to the cemetery to feel close to my grandparents. I have an ancestor portion to my altar that gets concentrated care and offerings, and I feel my grandparents with me often. I simply like visiting that large piece of land on a bluff with the stunning view of the lake, and it gives me the opportunity to actively do something with my hands and attention. The dead don't need flowers or cookies. They don't even need cemeteries. But sometimes the living do.

The Kiss of Cottonwood & Amber: On Poplars

When the wild rose thorns catch your hair like a lover,
and the rain is but a mist that kisses your face,
and the cottonwood buds gift their aroma of honey and amber,
you will know that your heart is forever lost
to the forest and wetlands and overgrown places.

I've been running away. I have grown tired of waiting on spring, and so for the past couple weeks I have driven over to the next valley and kidnapped a friend who led me off-trail into a wetlands area where we got lost and felt our winter-weary spirits lift. The red willow was showing off its crimson bark. The wild roses were grabby and glorious, their bare, thorny limbs revealing little pockets of bird's nest treasure and strangely weathered strands of milkweed fluff that had caught there in some autumn wind and never escaped. We were watched by a mating pair of bald eagles and made eyes at them in turn until they grew shy and moved to a tree across the river. We picked up rocks and sticks, and then put them down again because we each have too many rocks and sticks in our collections.

Meandering our way through the floodplain, our fingers became sticky as we picked a few cottonwood buds here and there from each tree. We would stop from time to time, and take long breaths of the late winter air and swoon at the scent on our hands from the resin. The first time we went out wandering, a few weeks back, the snow was low on the hills and the buds were still closed tightly. Only a short time later the ice had melted from the river's edge and the buds were starting to burst open. (If you live in a climate where spring comes especially late, you may still find some buds to harvest, but time is running short.)

When the world is behaving badly, and your spirit is parched from a long, cold winter, and your green-soul knows that there is always something alive and speaking if you just pay attention, a walk in the wilds in early spring is the very best medicine. I have needed the outdoors so much this winter, so when the cottonwoods called, I answered.

In the interior of British Columbia, we use the terms "cottonwood" and "poplar" fairly interchangeably. Both cottonwood trees and balsam poplar can be identified as Populus balsamifera, though you will more often see black cottonwood specifically identified as Populus trichocarpa (and as you head east you run into variants such as plains cottonwood and eastern cottonwood, among others). The cause for the confusion is that the trees are nearly identical to each other and are known to hybridize where they meet in their environment. However, the sticky resin contained in the late winter buds is the same stuff-of-the-gods whether you stumble across black cottonwood, balsam poplar, or eastern cottonwood. Black cottonwood is sadly much maligned in my area due to the prolific downy seeds that fly through the air and coat our small town in whorls of white fibrous fluff.

If you listen carefully, cottonwood will whisper to you of thresholds and magic. A liminal being, it chooses to grow close to a water source, stabilizing the banks of rivers and offering shade.  It is prolific and grows swiftly, a benefit in our area where trees often fall to the beaver population along waterways. In my high valley desert (an unusual combination of rolling hills and mountains stuffed with pine and fir, and a valley floor dotted with lakes, with an arid region boasting desert sagebrush and bitterroot) it gets very dry from mid-May to mid-September, but cottonwoods are drought tolerant and laugh at the heat while their roots reach into the water table.

The resin found in poplar buds (sometimes called balm of Gilead) is a gummy, sweet-scented miracle. I usually infuse my harvest in oil and put it to use as a sore-muscle rub, or a chest rub when I have a cold. You can also add some local beeswax, and now you have a lovely balm you can employ for minor cuts (poplar is antibacterial as well as pain-relieving) or to pack around in your gym bag for a spot treatment for overworked muscles. I also cut a small amount of the poplar oil into my after-bath oil blend because it makes my skin smell like it has been blessed by some kind of heady temple incense. 

Magically, the honeyed resin has been used in healing and apotropaic work as well as in situations regarding love or reconciliation (likely owing to its sweet scent and sticky/binding qualities). There is also evidence that poplar was either added in kind with, or played host to, other psychotropic herbs in salves that would likely have been used as medicine, though would also have been considered 'witch's ointments.'

Possibly due to the goodly number of metamorphosis myths that the Greeks attributed to poplar, the tree whispers of shape-shifting and transformation, and the myths surrounding its connection to Hades (including his love(s) Leuce/Persephone) among others, hint at the tree's underworld connection. Poplar was also reputed to be one of the plants in the garden of Hectate. There are references, as well, to cottonwood being used in ceremonies for the dead within several First Nations tribes, and a rather fascinating belief of at least one tribe that the shade of the tree might host a spirit that could be willing to offer assistance if entreated respectfully.

Spend some time with the poplars in your region, if you can. Let them teach you about moisture and transformation while you watch the sticky buds burst open. Mind your allergies, but do delight in the snowy 'cotton' of the cottonwood seeds as they alight on the spring winds. Consider how these trees that stand at the mingling of land and water might offer insight into your own work surrounding balance, and the in-between places. Approach the shade of these great hardwoods with respect and perhaps you'll make an ally, or at the very least have a place to rest on a hot summer's day.

 *Please avoid using poplar if you have any aspirin allergies - like willow, the trees contain salicin which your body converts into salicylic acid.*

Of Interest:

Kiva Rose has a lovely post about cottonwood medicine here.

Gabby Allen writes her story of cottonwood here.

I've been gathering red willow (also called red osier dogwood) during the last month, and this post from Erin about the shrub is pure poetry.

Sources:

Edible and Medicinal Plants of Canada - Lone Pine Publishing

Wildlife and Trees in British Columbia - Lone Pine Publishing

Tree Book: Learning to Recognize Trees of British Columbia - Canadian Forest Services

Greek myths - see Leuce, Hades

theoi.com
Hidatsa history and culture
Witchcraft Medicine - Claudia Müller-Ebeling, Christian Rätsch, Wolf-Dieter Storl Ph.D.

A Toast to Spring: Rhubarb Whiskey Sour

Yesterday, as I walked though my little town, I became light-headed with the scents of spring. Every tree and shrub seemed to have exploded into shameless bloom almost overnight, and the air was heady with sweetness. The days have warmed considerably and the peas and lettuces I placed, with petitions of strength to weather the frosts, in my garden not quite a month ago, have shot up through the earth and are happily drinking in the sun and occasional moisture.

While I was partaking of my first iced coffee of the season at my friend's cozy shop, a woman came in with a basket of rhubarb. Grown in a spot perfect for catching sunlight, her rhubarb was already rapidly producing, and she had come to share her first harvest. (My own plant is still in its alien stage, pushing creepy, red pod-like growths out of the earth.) My friend and I looked at each other and started gleefully listing the things we might do with the fruit (which is truly a vegetable) and after discussing my mother's rhubarb muffin recipe and assorted compotes and sauces, our minds turned to alcohol (as they do).

Rhubarb lore ~ serving a piece of rhubarb pie to your love will ensure their fidelity.

As we had already arranged a gathering of the wild ones last night, and our farmer friend was bringing samples of last autumn's corn for us to taste and vote on the best variety, we thought the beverage of the evening should be something that celebrates spring and contributed to the theme of locally grown ingredients. It was obvious that we should make rhubarb whiskey sours.

They turned out divinely. They were sweet and tart, and perfect in every way. I believe it should be the drink of the season. Even my friends who do not partake of whiskey, swooned over this libation.

Rhubarb lore ~ hanging rhubarb leaves over your grape or cucumber vines will repel insects that might damage your crop.

Jen's note: I'm not sure how well this would work, being that my rhubarb leaves get mercilessly chewed by grasshoppers, but I imagine that worms and other pests with less hearty appetites could not stomach the poisonous leaves (they contain oxalic acid which is corrosive and can cause kidney damage).

Rhubarb Whiskey Sour

Ingredients:

The Magic is Everywhere

My little town smells like citrusy evergreen tips this morning. And sure enough, as I headed out to feed breakfast to the local elementary school kids, I took a look at the neighbour's trees and noticed flashes of bright green at the ends of all the branches.*

The wild neon of the weeping willows along the lakeshore has mellowed a bit in the last week. Cherry blossoms are already giving way to leaves, and the large rue plant in the front garden is forming flower buds. According to the local orchardists, Spring arrived two weeks early this year.

In the vinyards every stray, creeping vine, save the two main producers, has been clipped from the trellises. They are bare and sad-looking at the moment, but they will leaf soon. In the cellar at my brother's winery, he is bottling like a madman. Last year's gewurztraminer has just hit the shelves and the 200-plus wineries in The Valley are gearing up for tourist season.

My own energy is trying to keep up with the shifts. It has been an odd and unsettling transition from Winter to Spring. I'm feeling as though a bit of tempering is happening - an adjustment here, a refining there. I wish I could say I've gotten to be an expert at this over the years. I still find change somewhat uncomfortable. I'm perfectly happy to watch the seasons melt in to one another, but watching parents age, and my almost-adult nieces struggle through the last of their teen years, has been a bit more of a challenge.

As always, I turn back to my practice. Busy mornings have thwarted my usual long river-walks, and so I squeeze in yoga, breathing exercises, and bits of meditation throughout the day. I take a moment (or more, if I'm lucky) to linger at the altar. My offerings have been meagre of late. Candlelight and incense only go so far. It's time to uncork a treasured bottle of wine, and add some fresh flowers.

Spring is settling in, and I'm finding my groove again.

Move, stretch, bloom, inhabit, and then move some more. Watch the sun stretch out its stay in the sky each day, and set a little bit further north each evening. Find solace in the cycle, and your place within it. Love more. Smell more flowers, and trees, and weeds. Notice the magic.

The magic is everywhere.

*Should you decide to sample the delight of fir or spruce tips (chock full of vitamin C, and lovely immune stimulating properties) then pinch a small amount of the soft, bright-green tips from a tree (that has not been exposed to sprays) and nibble away!

You might also:

~ soak tips in hot water and enjoy as tea

~ infuse in honey, being sure that all plant material is covered with the honey (turn honey over daily if it is difficult to keep the tips submerged)

~ create a syrup

~ chop fresh tips finely, and add to sugar and a small bit of oil for an uplifting bath scrub