How did this happen? Here we are, just a few days from Lughnasadah.
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.
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 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.
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?
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?
All photos by the blogger; if you copy, please link back.