Tag Archives: G/Son

My World and Welcome to It


This evening, G/Son was working on a project and I was sitting next to him, knitting and drinking tea. We’d been contentedly quiet for quite some time.

G/Son: Nonna, so what I want to know is: how does magic actually work?

Nonna: Well, I think the way that magic works is that everything is connected. We’re all connected to everything. Like I’m connected to you, and to the oak tree out in the yard, and to the rocks, and to the Moon, and to our blue jay, and everything. It’s like a web that connects everything. And so, if I pluck this strand of the web here, I can make the web vibrate over there. And that’s how I think magic works.

Another period of quiet ensued, G/Son working carefully on his project and Nonna knitting.

G/Son: Wait. Nonna. So that means “everything”? Like you’re connected to that other lawyer who makes you really mad and we’re even connected to Mitt Romney who we wouldn’t vote for?

Nonna: [Here, you must imagine Nonna sighing, and shaking her old head, and sorrowing to have to say this to an eight-year-old] Yes. I know it’s hard. But that’s how magic works. I am even connected to that obnoxious lawyer and we are even connected to Mitt Romney. If you want to work magic, you have to accept that. It won’t work any other way. If it were easy, everyone would do it.

For a few more minutes, there is silence. Nonna sips tea and knits. G/Son works on his project. He silently eats Madelines.

G/Son: That sucks, Nonna. Magic is cool, but being connected to some parts of everything sucks. Can I have another of those biscuits?

Picture found here.

Calling the Elements with a Seven-Year Old


G/Son: Nonna! Wait! It’s not Fire in the South and Water in the West. It’s Water in the South and Fire in the West.

Nonna: No, I’ve been doing this since before you were born and it’s Fire in the South and Water in the West.

G/Son: No, Nonna, because, just think! Texas and Mexico are west of us and they’re very hot. So it should be Water in the South and Fire in the West.

Nonna: OK, we can do it that way.

I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t have to hear EVERY SINGLE ONE of my ancestors laughing so hard they have to hold their stomachs.

Picture found here.

Under the Blanket of the Moon and Stars

Sang G/Son to sleep tonight, tucked beneath smooth cotton sheets and heavy blankets. And for a few moments, I am with my mother’s mother’s mothers and with my son’s son’s sons.

When, as I always do when he’s here, I pull the Moon & Stars blanket out of the guest room closet, G/Son says, “Nonna, Who gave that blanket to you?” He knows the answer; we tell this story every time. I say, “Your mommy and daddy gave it to me one year, back before you were even born. Isn’t it pretty?” And I smooth it on top of all the other covers.

And then I say, “Hear the wind outside? It’s cold tonight. We may even have frost in the morning that will kill all the gentle leaves. But here we are, safe inside Nonna’s cottage, in warm pajamas, under warm covers, under even the Moon & Stars blanket. We’re safe, and warm, and dry. You’ve had chicken, and apples, and cheese, and cookies. You’ve had a bath and brushed your teeth. We’ve played Set and Nonna’s read you a chapter of The Secret Garden. And now it’s time for sleep.”

By now, G/Son’s eyelids are drooping, drooping, drooping. And that’s when I sing: “Hoof and horn, hoof and horn, all that dies will be reborn.”

Tomorrow, we’re going to go downtown to see dinosaurs.

May it be so for you.

At Least Believe in Heaven


When I was in first grade at St. Mary’s Catholic School, Sister Mary Michael took us through the Baltimore Catechism, and one of the things that Sister taught us was that you couldn’t get into heaven unless you were Catholic. Poor little Pisces that I was, I took Religion class incredibly seriously and Sister’s news upset me no end. My dad was Methodist and all I could think was how mean it seemed of God the Father, with his white beard and generally scowling face, to keep my dad out of heaven on such a minor technicality. I did, however, understand hierarchy, even then, so I finally screwed up my courage and asked my dad if he wouldn’t please become a Catholic so that he could get into heaven. I don’t remember much of his long answer to me (the short answer was: “No”), but it did leave me with a startling new idea, which was that not everything Sister said was definitely, absolutely true and that I ought to listen to what she said and ask myself if it made sense. I doubt my dad understood that he was turning his eldest daughter into a Witch.

Sunday afternoon, G/Son came over to stay with me for a while. It was rainy and cold outside and he had a tummy ache (“Too many peanutbutter and Nutella sandwiches,” according to Son), so we stayed inside and played Set and Uno, and watched The Halloween Tree, and had a treasure hunt, and pulled things out of Nonna’s arts and crafts drawers and made pictures with glitter glue, and crayons, and tie-dyed paper, and had a long, steamy bath with the plastic dinosaurs, and put on our soft, warm pajamas, and got under the heavy covers, and read a chapter of The Secret Garden.

G/Son is as excited about Halloween as any seven-year old boy (which is to say: very) and, at one point, he was explaining to me about “Count Dracula.”

“Nonna, know what?”

“No, what?”

“You know Count Dracula?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, Nonna, know what?”


“If Count Dracula bites your neck, either you die or you become his minion and, Nonna, do you know which one is worse?”

“No, which one is worse?”

“Being Count Dracula’s minion is worse because if he bites you and you die, you could go to heaven, but if he bites you and you become his minion, then you have to do whatever he says and, when you do die, you have to go to the gates of hell, and not heaven.”

“Hmm. Well, Nonna doesn’t believe in heaven and hell, but I do agree that being Count Dracula’s minion and then dying would be worse than just dying.”

There was a long pause as G/Son clearly tried to figure out how to say what he wanted, processing everything that he’s learned in his nice, Episcopal second-grade class and what he kind of understands about his Nonna’s religion. Finally, he said, in that sincere-little-boy voice that can move anyone who hears it:

“Well, Nonna. At least believe in heaven.”

You know, I love that kid.

Picture found here.

No More Fish


For the last two months of his Summer vacation, G/Son was traveling. He was in camps, was off to visit his other grandparents, went off to the beach with his ‘rents, etc. And then he was home and busy getting uniforms and school supplies, and starting Second Grade (I know! WTF?!?! I have NO IDEA how that happened so fast and I’m not entirely sanguine about it, let me tell you.) So today was our first day to get together in about as long a time as we’ve ever been apart.

But we picked back up as if we’d seen each other yesterday. When I walked through the door of his house, he was hiding behind the steps and waving one of his Summer acquisitions, a wooden crocodile that wanted to “bite” me so that we could talk about crocodiles. And, on the way to our annual visit to the RenFaire, he read to me from the library book that he checked out from the school library. When we sat down in the lovely Autumn sunshine to eat lunch (shrimp, oysters, & clams), he told me about all the fishing that he did this Summer.

Ancient little Pisces that he is, G/Son has always had an interest in fishing and, this Summer, hanging out on the Jersey Shore and along a river bank in Southern Virginia, he managed to get both of his grandfathers to take him fishing — a lot. I’d seen some pictures on Facebook and heard from his ‘rents about the fishing, but I loved getting to hear about it from G/Son, himself.

(Interestingly, one of the movies that I’d watched this Summer on Netflix was A River Runs Through It, which is ostensibly about fly fishing but is mostly about how men love each other in spite of Patriarchy, and it made me remember how my own dad loved going trout fishing in the Rocky Mountains more than he loved almost anything. It’s as if being alone out in nature were important to men.)

One thing that G/Son was really interested in telling me was that, one Summer night on the Jersey Shore, he caught enough fish (and they were big enough not to have to throw back) that he provided the dinner for his grandads, his dad, and himself.

He had that pride that we all take in being able to put, to use Atrios‘ words, “food on our famibly.” There’s this thing, this amazing feeling, that we get when we look around a table at the people we love and know that they are being fed by our labor.

What I started to say to G/Son was that, if he learned how to fish, no matter what else happened, he would be (child of the Potomac and the Chesapeake) able to feed himself and his family. I wanted to encourage him, to show him that I understood the importance of what he’d spent the Summer learning.

But my words froze in my throat.

All that I could think was that G/Son’s generation is likely to be the last to be able to find dinner in our over-fished oceans. All that I could think was how Fukishama will likely either kill all the fish in the oceans or render them inedible for G/Son’s children. All that I could think was Derrick Jensen, saying that:

If civilization lasts another one or two hundred years, will the people then say of us, ‘Why did they not take it down?’ Will they be as furious with us as I am with those who came before and stood by? I could very well hear those people who come after saying, “If they had taken it down, we would still have earthworms to feed the soil. We would have redwoods, and we would have oaks in California. We would still have frogs. We would still have other amphibians. I am starving because there are no salmon in the river, and you allowed the salmon to be killed so rich people could have cheap electricity for aluminum smelters. God damn you. God damn you all.

In many ways, I find being a Nonna a way to connect with my ancestresses. And, yet, being a Nonna on a dying planet is different. I think that what I need to say to G/Son is that fishing is important, throwing back small fish is important, being out by the Water is important, and knowing when to step away and find food elsewhere is important, too.

It doesn’t make me happy. It just makes me alive, right now. It just makes me the priestess of THIS Earth, no matter how much I’d like to be the priestess of some time a long time ago.

Garden Musings as We Head for Lughnasadah

The Voodoo Lilies Have Bloomed, Died, and Made Seeds

The Voodoo Lilies Have Bloomed, Died, and Made Seeds

The Gardenias Have Perfumed the Garden and Are Resting

The Gardenias Have Perfumed the Garden and Are Resting

The Wisteria Blooms Are a Memory

The Wisteria Blooms Are a Memory

Close Up, Each Bloom Is a Universe

Close Up, Each Bloom Is a Universe

How did this happen? Here we are, just a few days from Lughnasadah.

The Bella Lugosi Day Lilies Were the First to Bloom this Year, but are Now Done

The Bella Lugosi Day Lilies Were the First to Bloom this Year, but are Now Done

The Sir Mordreds Are Just Finishing their Blooming Season

The Sir Mordreds Are Just Finishing their Blooming Season

And the Adios Nonios Are Almost Done, As Well.

And the Adios Nonios Are Almost Done, As Well.

Every year, in the deep Mid-Winter, I put Summer’s olive oil and my own old fuzzy socks on my feet; I drink hot broth; I grok the dark; I burrow down beneath my sheets, cotton blankets, comforters, and bedspreads, and I dream myself into this time of year: late Mid-Summer.

Now, the Daisies Are Everywhere

Now, the Daisies Are Everywhere

Along with Queen Anne's Lace

Along with Queen Anne’s Lace

I dream myself into this time of year when the trees dance freely with the wind; this time of year when the birds attend my breakfast on the porch; this time of year when I can hardly keep up with the lettuce, basil, mint, tarragon, rosemary, sage, thyme, and lavender, no matter how many salads I make, no matter how much pesto I make, no matter how many herbed butters I make, no matter how many baths I take full of rosemary and mint, no matter how many foot soaks I make with lemon balm and rosemary, or with bergamot and lavender, or with sage and thyme.

I Can Hardly Harvest the Basil Quickly Enough

I Can Hardly Harvest the Basil Quickly Enough

I Make it into Pesto, Freeze Some, and Eat Some Right Away

I Make it into Pesto, Freeze Some, and Eat Some Right Away

I dream myself into this time of year when I drive to work engaged in acts of love and pleasure with urban traffic islands of grass and chickory, when rosemary is the major flavor of lemon aide, when G/Son only wakes up early to go to science fairs. I dream myself into this time of year when I can go outside in flip-flops and shorts and my “What Would Durga Do” tank; when I can go into my garden and press my skin against the ground while I pull weeds.

Sunshine Tomatoes and Basil -- No Need to Turn on the Stove

Sunshine Tomatoes and Basil — No Need to Turn on the Stove

Rima has been writing about this time of year and how “Something has happened this year. The plants have started calling louder than ever before.” She says:

Those of us who have loved the plants since childhood and dreamed of a cronehood stalking the fields with a basket, kitchen windowsill a stained glass apothecary of sunlight falling through bottles of herb-infused oils and tinctures – a Church of Weeds – have heard the hedgerows calling clearer and more insistent this year than ever before. I wonder for how many of you the seasons’ turning this year moved something in you that had perhaps learnt over the years a handful of plant names and their uses and maybe collected many books on plant lore and craft, but not before with this new purpose and dedication wanted to know the whole great encyclopedia of leaves?

Others say so, too.

The Astilbe Makes the Shade Garden Seem Even Cooler and More Refreshing

The Astilbe Makes the Shade Garden Seem Even Cooler and More Refreshing

Grounding is a major part of my daily practice and of every act of magic that I do. And when I ground, I run my etheric roots into my red Virginia clay and I invite the mycellium in the dirt to communicate with me. I envision my roots inviting the mycellium that connect all thirteen trees in my back garden to connect with me. I see my roots inviting connection with the mycellium that connect the roots of all of the local trees. I do magic to make this happen. And, so, I am not surprised when, like Rima, I find that the plants are calling to me, louder than ever.

And, then, when it comes, when late mid-Summer comes, I put myself to bed every night dreaming of dark, and cold, and seeds buried beneath the frost of my compost, and introspection, and a roof to keep the snow and frost off of my increasingly grey head.

They say that a “Witch’s job is to turn the Wheel, and round and round the Wheel must turn.” But, more and more, I am meditating upon the fact that the Wheel will soon turn without me. The Wheel will turn — will we or nil we — and perhaps all that we Witches can do is stand back and admire. More and more, that’s my job as G/Son’s Nonna: meditating and doing deep magic for the Wheel that will turn when I’m gone and he’s still here.

Last night, restaurants in DC were celebrating Eat Local Night, and G/Son, and his rents, and I had dinner at my v. favorite restaurant, Nora. I told G/Son about the Alaskan salmon jumping waterfalls in between bear claws as he ate every bite of his salmon dish. He told me, over and over, about Pokemon cards and how they create an entire world. I’m pulling him into the important past; he’s pulling me into the important future. And, so, will we or nil we, I’m Lughnasadah and he’s Eostara. Or is it the other way around?

Garden Guardian

Garden Guardian

All photos by the blogger; if you copy, please link back.


And That Meant Comfort

And That Meant Comfort

I spent the longest night of the year with G/Son and then we bundled up early this morning (it’s now Winter and it’s now cold! — as much as I don’t like snow or ice, as a gardener, I know how much we need cold weather this time of year to help the plants figure out what time it is, so I’m welcoming the cold) to go see The Hobbit. It’s been decades and decades since I read The Hobbit and I’ll confess that I was the least enthusiastic of my group of friends. Something about it bothered me that I didn’t have words for at the time, although feminist studies readily provided the words a few years later.

But, still, and, of course, what’s not to like about elves and those Moon-in-Taurus halflings, and Moon runes, and secret caves, and swords with names, and . . . .? But what I think really appealed to most of my friends about The Hobbit is the deep sense of hiraeth (a word that I recently discovered and that has become one of my favorites) that one gets from reading it. Indeed, whether or not J.R.R. Tolkien knew the word (I suspect, philologist that he was, that he knew it very well), The Hobbit is a paen to hiraeth: a novel devoted to the feeling of longing and homesickness for a world that we may never have experienced and that may never have, exactly, existed.

If only there were still a Middle Earth, a place where everyone calls you X, daughter of Y, or where you are called Thorin Oakenshield because of the time that you used an oak branch as a shield. (Although in that world, I’d be called: Hecate, 16 U.S.C. Catapult, but that’s another story, for another day, around another warm fire.) If only we all still remembered the names of the landbases and the peoples who had gone before. If only incursions of orcs or trolls still symbolized changes. If only there were still a Rivendell where change came so slowly as to be almost manageable. If only the brown wizard Radagast still guarded our own Mirkwoods. If only . . . . Well, that’s the essence of hiraeth, isn’t it? If only there were still . . . .

Not that Tolkien and Monique Wittig had too much in common, but Wittig was talking about the same thing, only with a bit more of a point than Tolkien, when she wrote:

There was a time
when you were not a slave,
remember that you walked alone,
full of laughter,
you bathed bare-bellied.
You may have lost all recollection of it,

You say there are not words to describe it,
you say it does not exist.
but remember,
make an effort to remember,
or, failing that,

I can’t imagine the world in which G/Son is going to live. It will likely be as different from my world as Hurricane Sandy was from the East Coast rainstorms of my youth. And I’m not sure what tools, other than grounding, breathing, centering, washing away from his eyes what Ivo Dominguez has called the “enchantment of forgetfullness” — the enchantment of the overculture that causes us to see the world as if it were not all numinous and not all connected — I can give him. But I think that one other accessory that will both help him and, sometimes, make him a bit sad is a touch of hiraeth. I imagine that his world will change so radically and so rapidly that he may often look back with hiraeth at his own childhood. And I want him to understand the simple pleasure that can be found in a home connected to Earth:

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats–the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill–The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it–and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the lefthand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows looking over his garden and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river.

Being six, what G/Son liked best were, in order of importance: (1) the 3-D glasses; (2) the concession stand; (3) the swords with names and powers; and (4) the sword fights.

Being his Nonna’s grandson, what he liked best was the song about the misty mountains, which he wanted to stay and hear through the credits at the end and which he hummed all the way home.

That’s hiraeth.

Picture found here.

Tuesday Evening PotPourri

En Deshabille

* First, I’d like to wish a happy Diwali to all who celebrate it. May we all live our lives such that Lakshmi feels welcome.

* I flit here and there around the web and I admit that my time is limited. It’s difficult for me to understand why it should be controversial for a group of Pagans to gather in a circle at Pagan Pride Day, but then we know that I think many Pagan Pride Day events are poorly-thought-out. However, one of the lovely things that I found when flitting about the web is this set of cornerstones for building Pagan groups put together by Diana’s Grove. I particularly like the emphasis, based upon a Jean Houston quote, on The Sacred Wound:

The wounding becomes sacred when we are willing to release our old stories and to become the vehicles through which the new story may emerge into time. When we fail to do this, we repeat the same old story over and over again.

Blessed Chiron, guide our way.

* Medusa has the information on the recent death of Goddess scholar Patricia Monaghan. May the Goddess guard her. May she find her way to the Summerlands. May her friends and family know peace. Damn. Everyone who laid down stepping stones for me is passing.

* Love the (new-to-me) word “fibershed.”

These little realities about living and working with plants and animals – it creates a difference in your body. I know this because I observed the changes in myself. You really learn how to work. It’s like systems theory; you can get a system to start producing good results if you get the pendulum swinging in the right direction.

* If you do not follow Style Crone, you should.

* This weekend, G/Son and I went to the National Gallery of Art. It’s been some time since I’ve taken a little boy to an art museum. Hence, I was, foolishly, not anticipating the FIRST REACTION OF ALL SIX-YEAR OLD BOYS EVER to the main hall of the National Gallery of Art: “Nonna! Those statues are naked. You can see their penises and, oooooohhhh, Nonna, you can see their . . . breasts.”

Shorter Nonna: “Yes. Artists knew that the human body is beautiful and not shameful. That’s why it’s silly to be ashamed of our bodies. Oh, and look over here . . . .” G/Son really liked the statue of St. George (which led to a long discussion about why some art works get saved even when they’ve been damaged) and the picture of Daniel in the Lions’ Den. He didn’t know Daniel’s story, so Nonna told it to him and he said, “I bet that he prayed very fearfully,” and Nonna agreed. His other favorite was the fountain of cherubs and a swan, and he explained to me that, at his school, they call cherubs “baby angels.”

When we got to the fountain dedicated to Mercury, G/Son noted that people had been throwing coins into it and asked Nonna for a coin. Mercury is the God that Nonna’s always invoked for Son, a runner who has wings on his feet and makes the quick decisions that all Scorpios make. Nonna and G/Son talked about being the messenger of the Gods; we talked about being fleet-footed; and we talked about the role of Air in the recent election. Then, Nonna handed over a quarter and said, “When you throw it in, make a wish to Mercury.” G/Son threw the quarter in and said, “I prayed to God because you don’t see people doing this (making praying hands symbol and bowing head) to Mercury, Nonna.” And Nonna laughed, took G/Son’s hand, and said, “No, no you don’t. I wonder why that is.” Nonna’s playing the long game here; it’s that for which age equips one.

Later, after the all-important trip to the gift shop, we wandered through the Lichtenstein exhibit. Those pictures were very accessible to G/Son and this was his favorite. On our way out, we visited and discussed the NGA’s one, disappointing (IMHO) Goldsworthy and the Ernst sculpture, which drew a strongly emotional response from G/Son who did not, for once, notice the genitals.

Then, we stood outside waiting for our car, saw the Canadian embassy, and had a long discussion about International Law. My old prof would have been proud of me.

* My soul is deep, deep, deep into a late MidAtlantic Autumn, the kind where the morning rain on the orange giant Maple and the cherry-red Japanese maples is set off by the golden crape myrtles and the deep green of the local magnolias. I am what my landbase is.

Can it be true that Old England Is Dying?

I don’t believe it.

Photo by the blogger; if you copy, please link back.

Read Me to Sleep

So Matilda’s strong young mind continued to grow, nurtured by the voices of all those authors who had sent their books out into the world like ships on the sea. These books gave Matilda a hopeful and comforting message: “You are not alone.”

~ Roald Dahl

When I was a sick little girl the thing that would, — heck, as a sick old woman, the thing that does — above all else, make me feel better is to be read to. I love to read, but there is an element of nurture, and rightness, and care, that being read to brings immediately to the sick room.

Today, when G/Son was feeling very sick, Nonna straightened the cool cotton sheets, and offered iced water with a straw, and proffered pudding, and Italian ice, and soup. She ran bathtubs full of mint leaves and she made ice compresses and rubbed feet. And, most of all, Nonna read. G/Son asked for The Secret Garden, and so we moved from cholera-struck India, across the sea with the snotty children of a missionary and his wife, onto a train running north through the rain to the Scottish moors, and into a house with over a hundred rooms, but most of them locked up.

And then we closed our eyes, and imagined a red light surrounding us to make us feel better. And then the crickets came to do magic.

And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.

~ Roald Dahl

Has anyone ever read you back to health? Have you ever read to anyone as a spell?

Picture found here.

What Is A Weekend?

Sound Asleep

Weekend plans altered, as G/Son has a fever and sore throat after two weeks at his new school.

We’ve read chapters from The Secret Garden, we’ve sung Hoof and Horn, we’ve talked about running roots into Mother Earth who can absorb all the germs and sickness.

Tomorrow, we will have a quiet day at home, playing Uno and watching The Golden Compass. We have a mug of honey and lemon and we have apple cider warmed with cinnamon. We’ve had a warm bath and we have cool cotton sheets.

I think that it’s all going to be fine.

May it be so for you.