The Ninth Sabbat


Today is Arbor Day. I think that I’ve said before that this should be the ninth Pagan festival on the Wheel of the Year. And, so, I’d be remiss if, while we are also celebrating National Poetry Month, I didn’t share this iconic poem by George P. Morris:

Woodman, Spare That Tree

WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I’ll protect it now.
’T was my forefather’s hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o’er land and sea—
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand—
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I’ve a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

Today, when trees the world over are threatened not by a single woodman but by huge, multinational corporations with chainsaws and bulldozers, the need to protect trees is stronger than ever. Whether they are ancient beyond belief, or fairly new, trees are treasures.

I pull a Tarot card every morning as part of my daily practice. Today’s card was, of course, The Tree.

Do you have a favorite tree? How do you celebrate Arbor Day? What tree would you plant if you could plant and grow whatever you liked?

Photo of the trees and bluebells in Virginia by the blogger. If you copy, please link back.

May the Goddess Guard Her. May She Find Her Way to the Summerlands. May Her Friends and Family Know Peace.


All unknowing, on both of our parts, this lovely lady has gotten me through some very difficult times in my life. I specifically invoked her when the doctors wanted to stick a needle into my nipple, no pain killers, just before breast cancer surgery. When I had to take precious minutes out from the bar exam to go change a menstrual pad. When I wanted to throw up just before reading the court’s order. Each time, I’d see the poster of her in my mind, I’d invoke Rosie and Bouedica, and I’d tell myself, “You can do this. Have a sandwich. Be Rosie.” Thank you, Ms. Keefe.

Picture found here.

Somehow, It’s Always Our Fault


Now Pagans caused California’s drought by giving water to fish.

You know, I’m going to start going around and saying that every natural and human-made disaster is due to the xian god being mad at false preachers who ignore his instructions to feed the poor, care for the sick, and do good to those who persecute you.

Picture found here.

Monday at the Movies

I grew up in a dysfunctional family and reading was my escape. “Plucky” girls who got in trouble for being themselves always made me feel better about myself.

Are you an Anne of Green Gables fan?

Sunday Ballet Blogging

Raven Mistress — Chapter Two


“Mine?” Ella asked. “How can they say it’s my fault? Today’s my first day and I haven’t even started yet.”

“They’re saying the ravens have rejected you. That they’ve left the Tower because they won’t allow you to feed them. Ella, you’d better get here fast. The Warders are saying that the king and Parliament will have to be informed. What are you going to do?” Bran asked.

“I’m going to start as I mean to go on,” Ella responded. “Buy me some time; I’ll be there as soon as I can, but I can’t skip the magic and I have to go buy their meat.” She turned off her cell and unplugged the computer.

Ella sat down. Every fiber of her being wanted to run madly to the Tower, begin to look for the birds, show that she was on top of things. But she’d been training for this job all her life and she knew that skipping the magic would only cause more trouble. And there was no way she’d be able to do her work at the Tower, where everyone would be running about in confusion, trying to find the birds, put off the tourists’ questions, angling for position. She began the breathing exercises she’d learned as a child: slow, steady breaths, each group of five slower than the group before. Gradually, although it took longer than it normally did, her heartbeat slowed, her muscles relaxed, her concentration grew. She recited the chant for a Dark Moon May 1st, which her father had hummed to her in her cradle, and sung to her every time since then. “Remember, Ella,” he’d say. “You must remember.”

“I am Ella and I fly with the blackest bird. The blackest bird flying under the Darkest Moon this Beltane Day, as my family has done, down all the dark years before me. I fly with the ravens, the dark birds, dark as the soil that grows the grain. I fly with the ravens, the dark birds, dark as the deep sea that brings forth the fish. I fly with the ravens, the dark birds, dark as the bedchamber that brings forth the child. I fly with the ravens, the dark birds, dark as the thunderclouds that bring forth the rain. I fly with the ravens, the dark birds, dark as the magic of England’s Witches. I fly with the ravens, the dark birds, dark as England’s fate if the the birds ever leave. I am Ella and I fly with the blackest bird so that the ravens will never leave and The Land will stay. My wings will not falter.”

Ella felt her own body grow lighter and lighter and, in her mind’s eye, she saw herself sitting inside the hidden room at the Tower, relaxed, wrapped in a giant cloak of black feathers — one from every raven who’d ever lived at the Tower. Her feet grew into claws and dug tightly into the ancient alder branch hung from the ceiling. And suddenly, she was in flight, slipping through the bars of the tiny window, soaring up into the wind.

“I need to find a raven,” Ella thought. “A raven who has a reason to talk.” Ella soared over bridges, looking at their undergirding for nests. She flew over cliffs, peering into outcroppings for old birds sunning themselves and preening in the Beltane sun. She scanned telephone poles and microwave towers and then, just like that, she saw him. He was huge, a strong, young male with glossy blue-black feathers. Not quite an adult, no longer a juvenile. He was playing an ancient crow game, taking off from the branches of a giant willow on the bank of the Thames, dropping a stick, and catching it mid-flight. Each time, he cawed with delight and flew back to the top of the tree.

Ella dove, grabbed the stick, and flew to a willow branch so low that it dipped into the Thames. “I have your stick and I have your name,” she told the bird, remembering the story of Bran the Blessed. “You’re Gwern and you’re going to tell me where the Tower Ravens have gone.”

“Thief!” the bird yelled, landing a branch above. “Thief and thief again! You’ve stolen my stick and stolen my name. Why should I tell you anything, you human who is not a bird and you bird who is not a human? Halfthing of the dark, I wouldn’t tell you that water is wet or that the air is full of currents.”

“No?” Ella asked. “OK. Fair enough. I think you don’t know. But I’ll find somebird that does. And a bird smart enough to know where the Tower Ravens are would probably like a bonny stick, good size, easy to toss and easy to catch.” She spread her wings as if to take off from the branch.

“Wait!” the young bird yelled. “Wait! Don’t give away my stick. I found it; it’s mine. I’ll tell you this: You’ll find the Tower Ravens when you find a fire that does not burn. Now give me back my stick!”

Ella flapped to the highest branch, dropped the stick, flew towards Earth, and caught it. Lightly, she threw it to the young male. “May your nest be full of chicks,” she laughed. “Thank you Gwern. Stay away from your uncles.”

“Bah,” the glossy bird said. “What would you know when you don’t even know where your own ravens have gone? My uncles love me.”

Ella soared again. “A fire that does not burn,” she mused. And, then, she saw the helicopters hovering over the Tower.

Picture found here.



It’s finally, really, truly Spring! The picture above shows one of my Japanese maples leafing out in the woodland garden, just beside a Japanese temple pine and an old acuba.

Today, on Twitter, @selenafox shared this lovely video:

Hail Flora! Hail Persephone! Hail the Maiden!

Here, in the Magical MidAtlantic, we’ve been acknowledging Spring ever since Eostara, but it’s only this week that it’s felt as if the trees really went green, the pointy things (hostas, jack-in-the-pulpits, lilies, toad lilies, and ferns like flames) began to emerge from underground, and the birds began to join my morning meditation. (In the Winter, I have coffee, silence, and what Dylan Thomas called the “close and holy darkness.” In the Spring, I have coffee, growing light, birdsong — what Gerard Manley Hopkins called “Lo! Morning at the brown brink eastward springs! And [Sophia] over the bent world broods with warm breast and with Ah! bright wings.”)

Here, hat tip to @allisonlily, is another lovely meditation on Spring:

Then I see it, my special spot, the birch trees about to burst open their buds, everything hanging in anticipation. Narcissus flower everywhere underneath the white boles, running down through the patch of woodland that hides the stream from prying eyes. Spots of yellow, like little suns, laugh and smile as they stretch towards our nearest star.

I walk beneath the birch trees, looking at the fox den and rabbit holes. I find my place, a clear space of ground and here I put down my bag. Looking around me, there are branches everywhere as the recent winds of springtime have brought many down. I gather some up, together with pieces of flint and quartz that lie upon the mossy earth. I make my circle of sticks and stones, and smile at the thought.

Lighting the incense, I walk around the circle several times, then place it carefully upon a bare patch of earth. I take my bottle of water and allow a thin stream of water to bless this sacred space. Standing at the four directions I honour them for all that they are. Within the centre I recognise and remind myself of the three worlds: land, sea and sky. I use the ritual gestures that I have created over the years to emphasize my words, to bring them into action. I breathe in the air, filled with the scents of spring, face the stream and call to my goddess.

“Lady of the sacred flame. Lady of the sacred water. Where fire and water meet is the greatest power. I honour you with all that I am, for all that you are. Lady of healing, lady of transformation, lady of poetry, lady of creativity. Show me your mysteries. I open my soul to you, to hear your song.”

A wave of energy comes towards me, nearly knocking me off my feet. I balance, and turn around, knowing that there is incense behind me. I move carefully around the incense, walking as if through treacle or dark, sticky molasses. I need to lie down. The Earth is pulling me down, down into her mysteries. Carefully I lower myself to the ground, a pair of hawks overhead crying as they circle, riding the thermals.

I close my eyes. The earth thrums beneath me, the sky singing above me. I hear it. I hear The Song.

The entire post is worth a read.

Here are a few more pictures from my garden: here in the shadow of Columbia, in the State named for the Maiden, in a spot where I’ve done magic for over a decade, in the place where the great-great-many-times-great granddaughter of the tarragon that I planted is sprouting in the herb bed, where the great grandson of my first cardinal shows up when I’m brewing coffee and demands that I put out seed with which he can court his lady, where, just now, the gentle rain is making the grass so green it would make your heart ache.





May it be so for you.