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.

Pumpkins, Protection, and a Mad, Mad August

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Witch Notes: Further Reading

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

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

Spiritual Cleansing, Draja Mickaharic

Protection & Reversal Magic, Jason Miller

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




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

Of Summer, Sacrifice, and Sacred Places

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Witch Notes:

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

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

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

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

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.

Marking Time and Tide

On the first evening of August, the immense black locust offered dappled shade until the sun slipped over the western hill. I have always loved that tree, and the wide swing that hangs from a massive branch. There were days, a decade ago now when it seemed that I had more time, I would sneak away from work on a summer afternoon and steal into my friend's parents' yard with a book, and sit on that swing beside the small pond with the burbling waterfall. Now the pond is still and the garden is overgrown. Though the dozen birdfeeders have come down, the quarter acre is still brimming with avian life and happy bumblebees. The roses have all bloomed despite their mistress forgetting their names. The hollyhocks and foxgloves have grown tall and continue to flower, lending to the fae quality of the land that skirts the guardian tree.

I have wondered if the birds miss the man that fed them everyday. He has been gone two months now, and his wife has had her memory stolen, though she can still remember a few old stories from the days she used to go dancing with her husband. She cannot recall her plants anymore, their variety, or where they came from. Seventeen years ago she took a piece of land, bare but for a large black locust tree, and crafted an oasis of beauty and magic. She created meandering paths and hidden 'rooms' - a secret garden if ever there was one. Now she has moved in with her daughter and the house is being emptied and put up for sale. Life is change. There is no stopping the tides. The new little lines around the edges of my eyes remind me. The quiet pond and the enchanted garden grown wild, echo the sentiment.

That place, untended yet still so magical, hosted witches who came together to mark time and create poppets with corn husks, and work with old keys and a cauldron. It gifted us the whispers of cool wind through the sanctuary of lush green, and the sounds of the winged ones settling in as the day waned. At the place where memories faded, our own remembrances were laid out for each other. Stories were told. Sighs were deep. August was ushered in with benevolence and quiet good cheer.

Some sabbats and observances can be raucous or racy, dark and hushed, solitary or rung in with a host of others. I am just as likely to forego a formal celebration as heed one, and equally teeter-totter between wanting company in my revels and preferring solitude. I have spent the bulk of my sacred time this year, from the winter of my discontent to the sweltering late July afternoons, with almost entirely my own company and that of the spirits that find me vaguely pleasing, laying my workings and altars out and wandering the scrub desert and forest. I have left libations at crossroads, communed with a crow that leaves feathers (and at times the egg of another bird) on my doorstep, burned endless woods, herbs, and papers in fires in my backyard under the watchful stars, sacrificed my own blood and tears to the land that allows me to live on it, and I am content enough working these and other rites on my own. But that night beneath the thorny sentinal that was once struck by lightening during a summer storm, it was truly lovely to mark the shift of time and light with company.

August is often considered the sticky, oppressive step-sister of July. Those who do follow a wheel-of-the-year of sorts often shun the idea of First Harvest at this time, assuming "harvest" harkens to more autumnal weather and activities. While here in The Valley the lakes are warm and the beaches are packed with strange sun-worshipping creatures, this is in fact the height of our harvest. At the farm stands and farmers markets you can find everything from the very last cherries of the season to the earliest pears and fall squash. Almost every crop that can be grown in our climate is available now, and I am putting up jars of boozy peaches and plums while skewering all the local vegetables I can get my hands on and searing them on the bbq. My farmer friend has her first planting of corn almost ready to pick and there will be a bonfire celebration to mark the bringing in of the ears. Corn on the cob with a whiskey-butter sauce will share the table with savory corn fritters and corn chowder, and far too much local wine.

This past weekend, while wandering in the eastern hills, there was a bite in the wind that has not been present in the last months. The tips of some of the deciduous trees up the mountain are starting to blush. The wild elderberry is hung heavily with its dusty purple fruit, and the goldenrod is nodding along the roadsides. I don't observe month or season because I am told to in a book, or as part of a practice someone else has laid out for me (though I am not opposed to being inspired). Instead, I note that the fruit of the wild apple tree is fat and flushing. I look to the sky and see that the big dipper tilts its cup overhead to the north west, just above my eyebrows. A few months ago I had to crane my head back to see that great bear, and in a few more months it will wander closer to the northern horizon, past my nose and out of sight. By that time Orion and his pup Sirius will return in the east to keep me company.

I enjoy a celebration. Life can become a string of weight-bearing days that pinch not just our backs, but our spirit if we aren't inclined to find joy. I chose to greet August with breath and blood (the mosquitoes were well fed that night) and blessing. Each year offers another chance at shifting and adjusting our observations as we watch the earth find its rhythm. This year the self-heal bloomed late and the tansy flowered early. The dandelions were not nearly prolific enough for my tastes, but the plantain and wild mustards were showing off everywhere. There were more summer storms than I can ever remember seeing, and as a result we have had almost no wildfires. There are new red-tailed hawks in the area, and so many twins born to the mule deer this year that it seemed like everyone had fawn lawn-ornaments in their yard. I can think of dozens of reasons to revel, without much effort.

One day, not too far off, our own memories may begin to fade. We might forget the name of the handsome Joe Pye that stands so tall in our garden. We might neglect the offerings to birds or spirits that we once gave so steadfastly. Until the time that I can no longer remember why I love the rowan tree that sits at the edge of the four-way crossroads, or recall that the lake that hides a monster also holds a key and herbs from a garden two thousand miles away; until I cannot tell you why I delight in staghorn sumac or damson plums, I will continue to mark the months, the seasons, the way the light shifts and changes, the land's many harvests, and the traveling stars.

I hope that your own harvests have begun to come in, lush and rewarding. I have heard from many that this year has been difficult thus far, so I am sending my own good wishes, via milkweed seeds and the upcoming Perseids, out into the world for you. Look up.

Tools of the Game

The light was slanted and golden yesterday as I made my way along the lake to the next town. The trees, just starting to blush at their topmost places, looked lit from beneath like they were on display at a gallery. The residual smoke drifting up the Valley from the wildfire still burning in the south softened the sky and created an amber haze. These first weeks of September have been stunning.

I'm enjoying the feeling of the heightened summer energy dispersing as if it were the mist in the hills, while the autumnal spirit slips out of the rapidly cooling lake and river waters and blows in on the north wind to fill us with thoughts of comforting meals, a fire in the hearth, and some good ghost stories.

Summer was wild and long and so very warm, and yet...every month now, every season, seems to have floated by on the shoulders of the cottonwood fluff, and then the dandelion, and the milkweed seeds, and on...and on...

I whisper often, "Grandma, you were right, it all moves so fast."

But there have been beautiful armfulls of lovely moments, as there always are when you expect to find them. And as the garden fades, and my favourite months settle in, I continue to eat the last peaches and plums, and play with the outrageous number of apple varieties grown here, and still spend time at dusk in the garden watching the last few blooms of the evening primrose open.

Life is rarely syrup-sweet for long. There is the bitter too. Rebecca speaks of moving forwards, even when you aren't sure you can or want to. She says,

Sometimes I feel like a tiny human facing down the gaping maw of misery and destruction and the only weapons I have in my hands are a little piece of plant matter and a pen. And then I realise that its not the tools in my hands but the fact that I’m willing to turn and face it despite only having those tools in my hands that makes the difference.

I asked once, in despair, "what is this life?" The answer was immediate. "A game," It said. (Whatever the unknowable It might be.) And I was satisfied with this answer - as much as I could be satisfied in my little human mind - because I like to play, and I once spent years in theatre classes which gave me a molecule of an idea of being in a world of my own making.

I am quite happy to believe that the poets, artists, writers, actors, inventors, and all the creators who play with the world (which is to say all the creators) might feel on some level that we are adventuring through this grand game, and they are willing to have a go at it with whatever meagre tools they are carrying.

My tools these last few months have been a pair of cast iron frying pans I rescued from my camping supplies. They were sad-looking and so under-appreciated, barely feeling the fire beneath them more than a few times a year. A good scrub and a proper re-seasoning, and they are now the stars of the kitchen. And they conjure up such wondrous things.

My hands have served me well this summer digging garden beds, creating magic with plants, pushing a lawn mower, office work, holding books, and rubbing the belly of a big black cat. They have some scars and some freckles because I refuse to wear gloves, but they are strong and soft and just as happy to be wrist-deep in dirt as they are wrapped around someone I love. Hands and frying pans don't seem like much, but both can serve you up all kinds of goodness, or knock you into next week.

What tools have been your steadfast companions this year, or this last season? How are you getting along in the game (or the great play, or the divine comedy)?

I've just begun another year on this peculiar gameboard. I'm ready to see what magic and mischief I can make as I head out to meet the arrival of autumn. Come along friend. Grab your favourite tools and let us turn and face what comes this way. Let's walk out to meet it.

This and That:

~ If it matters to you at all, I season my cast iron with avocado oil, but any oil with a high smoke point will do the trick. I still know old-timers who use lard or bacon grease on theirs, but it can leave a smell. Whatever floats your boat and keeps your iron in good shape. I clean the pans while still warm with a paper towel, and if there is any residue after that, I toss some salt in the pan, let it sit, and wipe it out with a towel again. That should take care of it. A drop of oil before putting them away, and I'm done.

~ The grass pictures are part of my summer fun. I cut runes in to my lawn before I mowed it, all season long. On the left is Algiz, and on the right is Fehu. As I cut the lawn, I meditated on the rune, essentially sealing it in to the land. Perhaps give this a try (or a sigil of your own making) for your last cut of the year.

~ Mercury heads into retrograde tomorrow, and it affords us (especially so soon after a Venus retro) a perfect opportunity for a good clean, sort, and organize before the winter arrives. Trust me on this. Recycle, re-gift, donate, and look at all the things you surround yourself with. Do they feel good? Do they move you? Can you breathe in your space? Getting the "big clean" done early in the autumn will put you in the perfect zone to concentrate on the upcoming seasonal celebrations without worrying about the haunted dust bunnies of summer past.

Wildfire Harvests and Full Moon Renewals

The red tractors were in the hay fields yesterday. As I drove by I watched them trace lazy, winding circles around the pastureland gathering the cut hay and transforming it into massive rolls that looked like the shredded wheat my grandfather used to eat. I love the drive over to the next valley. I pass small lakes favoured by the local fishermen, and then ranchland dotted with cattle, and finally orchards, farms and vineyards that are pulling in harvest after harvest at this time of year.

August evening sky, pre-wildfire haze.

I'm glad I went out yesterday morning, before the wind changed direction. At some point in the afternoon the wind swept in from the south and brought with it thick smoke from the fires burning just below us in Washington state.  Today, I still cannot see more than a block in each direction - there is only a wall of haze. Unless the air shifts, there will have been no sun today at all. More than that, if the smoke isn't blown out off the valley floor soon it could damage the grapes growing in the hundreds of vineyards dotting the hills. 

It is a bad situation all around, but those who have the worst of it - the ones forced to flee their homes, and the wildlife running for their lives - have my most fervent thoughts and wishes for safety. There has already been tragedy east of here where 30 homes were lost, and straight south, across the border, where firemen have lost their lives. We can deal with smoke and haze and sunless days. Our tourism industry has taken a hit this past week and as of today, you could likely stand at the highway (if you could stomach the smoke) and watch the line of tourists heading home early. Revenue and crop losses are not good. But we still have our homes.

I'm heading up to my friend's ranch this afternoon to check in on her and her corn harvest. I'm not sure what the smoke will do to the beautiful sweet corn she grows. She is a farmer though, and used to trials. Last year birds devastated her field. She tried every trick and invented a few of her own to keep those birds away, but they were legion. This year she got ahead of them and put "corn condoms" on the cobs - coffee filters held in place by an elastic. It allows air in to the cob, but the birds don't see the tops of the corn and therefore don't land on the stalks to pick at it. She is brilliant.

We all create our own ways to traverse what life throws at us (whether fire or plague or something a little less dramatic). Of late I've found solace in chanting - something I've played around with over the years but never really committed to.  A few simple mantras have become favourites. The familiar om mani padme hum and the Green Tara mantras have been wildly helpful in bringing me to a place of calm.

The second full moon in July stripped me bare. This time it was a cold fire, refining me. Nearly a month later as the moon grows toward full again, I feel like a new person. I'm finding peace more easily than I have before. I'm sleeping better and finding new ways to stretch my body in yoga class. I've eaten something out of my yard and/or gardens every day. I have been swimming - full-on swimming, not just wading - in the lake for the first time in years. And just like that, the sun moved in to Virgo today - my birth sign. I am all set to renew my life for another year.

 Second full moon of July in the arms of the cedars.

Coinciding with my birth month, I'll be kicking off another year of magic making with the marvellous Briana Saussy as I dig in to her course Spinning Gold. In Bri's words:

This year-long course provides the principles and practices needed for a life of wholeness, holiness and healing. As a student, you'll access and enjoy real teachings from practicing sacred artists, and a sacred arts community full of love, support, and real accountability.

You can reserve your spot in this incredible journey by heading to Briana's site by August 31st.

Also of note: I've had a few exciting conversations with some brillant magical folks about conjurings for October. If you are new here, make sure you stake out a spot during the most magical month of year - there all all kinds of books coming your way in the yearly Great October Book Giveaway! And there are a couple extra surprises too...

I hope the sultry months have been kind to you, and that you too have sampled local harvests and found adventure whenever you could. My thoughts are with those of you in wildfire areas - continued safety to you and yours.

Summer is still here - it hasn't lost its grasp yet. But there are cooler evenings creeping in, and the sound of geese on the wing is already being heard. Kiss your summer loves and hold them extra close - these hot, heady days won't last forever.

When Witches Grow Weary

"We stand, friends, at a liminal time somewhere betwixt spring and summer, between school and summer break, between one place and another. Thresholds are important for us culturally, of course, but for those of us who truck with the Unseen, there is power and melancholy in these times of shifting space and time. Hold the ragged edges of your hearts together tonight, my dears. Pull the tatters of your soul into some semblance of your sacred garment. Straighten your back, stand tall, look forward. All is exactly as it seems, and yet...everything is a shadow. Ground deeply, breathe into your belly.

Seize the power of the moment and fear not. Fear not."

The above quote was posted on social media by Byron Ballard, author of Staubs and Ditchwater, in early June. I had been feeling weary for a week or so at that point, and simply hearing another spirit worker speak of the deepness of the latest threshold we were moving through, gave me permission to pause and breathe deep. 

Hob, the talented writer and witch doctor in residence at The Orphan's Almanac had, only a week earlier, left me nodding and holding my hands up in a throwback to my church days, when he called his discomfort of the seasonal shift "threshold sickness."

"Bruised, raw, exposed, the fresh green growth and soaring chorus of renewed life came down on me like a white-noise hammer, filling my head with broken glass and radio static, and sent me, howling, down the oubliette. The Sun becomes increasingly feral as the days lengthen, and a 13-year cycle of cicadas has stirred to fill the daylight hours with a constant, machine-like droning. Already nocturnal by nature, I’ve gone full-blown “creature of the night,” grasping for the elusive stillness that blooms like jasmine in the slow hours, after midnight."

"I am not alone," I remember thinking upon reading this.

June used to be a month that allowed us here in The Valley a slow introduction to summer. We would ease in with toes dipped in the lakes, and the first small strawberries from the field. There would be breezes through open windows and long walks into the forest to pick local herbal treasures and wild mushrooms. This year has been different. 

Summer arrived nearly three weeks too soon, and it has not eased in at all.  Fierce heat broke records early in the month, and destroyed my pea crop and sent the lettuces to bolt.  There were thunder storms and heat lightening that left my ears ringing and sparked fires on the hills. The farmers market had heaps of cherries and early peaches laid out right beside the strawberries. I have never eaten peaches so early in the season. June was a whirlwind, and I tried to keep up.

But really, all I wanted to do was sleep through the sweltering daylight hours, and wake when twilight fell.

It was early June when I began sitting outside every evening and noticed the two bright stars in the western sky. Watching Venus and Jupiter moving closer to each other as dusk fell was one of the things that kept me going this past month. Stars leaning in.

I leaned in too. A new working emerged, inspired by the dance I was watching in the sky. Messages that had been fuzzy at best, were being heard more clearly. I dug deeper in my journeying practice. I was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time.

The delightfully magical Paige Zaferiou said this, as the solstice arrived:

"I don't know how y'all are feeling but I am weary and wrung out by this strange thin light veil time.

The land speaks and its voice is a swelling orchestra of complexity, a river that never stops flowing over and around and through me. I am caught in the flood and it bears me down and buoys me up and I like it. So help me, I like it here in the ebb and flow. I like being under water with open eyes. So help me, I love this magical fucked up life."

Preach, Sister.

Something happened in June as the doorway through spring caved under the pressure of an early summer. I felt both wrung-out, and stronger. Weary, and ever more a witch tapped into the cycles and shifts that were both uncomfortable and yet potent times for manifesting.

I've come into July feeling wild, worn-thin, and wicked. This may be a very good thing.

It has not escaped my notice that September eves and the shadows of October make magic seem always close at hand and somewhat easier to access. I wait all year for those days. But ease is not always the best path for growth.

Today I heard Sarah Lawless, in her interview on the latest episode of the Down at the Crossroads podcast, share a quote from her fabulous article "For Fear of Flying."

"Witchcraft is not safe. Witchcraft is not good and kind. Witchcraft is the domain of the trickster, the outcast, the wanderer, and the crooked.  It belongs to those who know every light casts a shadow; who have looked into the depths of darkness in their soul and accepted what they’ve seen along with all that is good.  Witchcraft requires cunning, manipulation, self-awareness, adaptable morals, and dash of madness."

To madness then.  To scorched summer days and sticky nights. To blood offerings given up begrudgingly to mosquitoes and raspberry thickets. The brief hours of darkness. The endless afternoons where bird and beast hide in whatever shade can be had. To drinking in the heat, and using that in ways that surprise you. To making friends with your sweat and your scent. To the animals of summer wherever you are. Here, there are bats beyond number feasting on bugs by the river. There are fat marmots and rattlesnakes sunning themselves, and turtles climbing out of the ponds to soak up the warmth.

To acknowledging the discomfort of 100 degree weather, and getting shit done anyway. To having a summer adventure - and then having a mojito. 

Hob said this, of embracing the challenge of summer wandering:

"There are rivers to follow, and streets to walk, and people to meet, living and dead. We will smell the salt of the ocean, the dust of strange shops, and the breath of the empty places. We will be pilgrims, seeking the roadside shrines to the lost, the forgotten, and the bygone."

To being a weary witch, and still wandering, still seeking, still making magic.






Please check out the amazing folks quoted in this post - they are all linked up to their respective websites and are worth a visit!

Wild Rosehip Syrup

There are a few things that can make even the most stalwart summer-lover feel glad about the waning sun. One of those miracles is the wild fruit that is offered up just before autumn arrives, found in all the unruly places.  I have discovered abandoned lots that house shaggy crab-apple trees, grapevines left to wander over fences and grow down into alleyways and walking paths, and huge stands of wild rose that grow all over the valley hills.  The elderberries show off their dusty blue fruit now, teasing from just beyond my reach, and I've spotted several unruly apple trees from long-forgotten orchards still valiantly offering up their bounty.

While on a walk in the hills with a dear friend this week, we came upon a very large stand of wild roses that were boasting bright red hips.  My nieces have been complaining about scratchy throats lately, so I harvested a small amount of the vitamin C-packed fruit and headed home to make syrup.

Simple Rosehip Syrup

Wash rosehips, and remove ends and any damaged/spotted portions

I use a  1-2 -1 ratio:

1 cup of rosehips

2 cups of water (plus an extra splash)

1 cup of sugar or honey

Bring rosehips and water to a boil in a pot

Turn water down to a simmer and mash rosehips

Let simmer 30 minutes and remove from heat 

 Strain rosehip mash and return liquid to pot

Add sugar (or honey) and return to a boil

Let simmer until syrup thickens 30-40 mins or more

Store in sterilized jars in the fridge for 4-6 months

To "keep the doctor away" I have my girls take a tablespoon once a day, especially now that they are heading back to school.  I want their immune systems working well when they are sitting in a building with recycled air and multiple kids with colds.  The syrup is so good though, I have no trouble convincing them to use it.

If syrup isn't your thing (and you don't like it on pancakes or ice cream, and you are a monster of some kind) then you can harvest rosehips to make jelly, herbal teas, wine or cordials, or even infuse them in oil for a gorgeous (and astringent) facial oil.

Are you finding delights in your neck of the woods?  Do you hop your neighbour's fence in the night and "borrow" peaches?  Do you have a hog that is truffle-trained?  Do tell - I love hearing all about the (mostly legal) wild harvesting you are up to!