In just the last 36 hours, the trees along the Potomac began, in earnest, to embody the most brilliant tangerine, carmine, flax. Every few feet, you want to stop, catch your breath, and contemplate whether crimson can really be that bloody and whether gold can really capture the power of the sun so completely. Faire is never very far away this time of year.
The veils are so thin that they may as well be gauzy tatters. Last night, after dinner with a friend, I fell asleep only to be awakened by my dead father clearly and audibly calling my name through the mists, and veils, and byways that separate this world from the Summer Lands. (We didn’t part well and I rather deliberately flipped my pillow, turned over, pulled the heavy blankets up to my neck, and went back to sleep. I don’t have to get up and talk to every batshit crazy ancestor who gets through the veils; it took me a long time to learn this.)
I wake in the dark and do my morning meditation surrounded by billowing veils, the Powers, and Spirits, and Beings of This Place, and all the noises that attend Hecate’s priestesses. Here, at the crossroads of the year, is one of the best times to begin to establish a daily practice if you haven’t had one or if yours has been flagging. Pour a cup of hot coffee, or tea, or lemon and water. Light just one candle. Sit and ground. Sip. Breathe. Meditate. Pray. Make a plan.
My Druid friend and I are beginning to chat about our Word of the Year for 2016. I’m in the middle of a kitchen renovation and an office move and have been reading Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. I’m thinking about Release, or Renew, or Revitalize. I’ll be sixty in March (no one who knew me would ever have suspected I’d last this long) and I’m suddenly eager to clear out a lot of cobwebs and open up some space for new things. I’m going to be a rather insufferable old lady. You wait and see.
May it be so for you.