Category Archives: Gardening

‘Scuze Me While I — Blam!


This week's page of my Ecological Calendar at work tells me that, at this time of year, some bees from every hive begin to make forays out in search of food, but that many are killed by freezing to death or by flying into snowbanks, which they mistake for the sky. I had this evil image of a heroic bee flying along in search of food, communing with the great Winter sky after weeks stuck inside the hive, and then, suddenly, blam! A snowbank. And the poor bee's last thoughts, inscribed idly by its poor frozen little legs doing their final bee dance, are "WTF?"

But on a more serious note, the bees' need for food is yet another good reason to begin starting some seedlings now (at least if you live, as I do, in Zone 7) so that they'll be ready to plant outside once the danger of frost has passed. Those seedlings will flower early and provide the bees with some needed food.

I save the pots that I get when I buy seedlings, wash them out in late Summer/early Autumn, and then re-use them every year to start seedlings. I've also made pots out of newspaper, which are great, as long as the ink is vegetable-based. You can pop them, paper pot and all, into the ground and the paper just decomposes. It's a perfect way to spend Imbolc, and if you have children, you can always get them to help, mark "their" pot for them, and then do all kinds of lessons about Science, Math (measurement, esp.), Poetry, Music, Art, etc.

Tomorrow, I'll be potting marigold, woad, cucumbers, and some orange cosmos (that I got as a freebie) for guerrilla gardening. I'll also sit down with my stack of garden porn catalogues and order datura, French tarragon, sweet basil, dill, Italian oregano, white foxgloves, black hollyhocks, and more black day lilies.

What are you planting? How many bees did you dance with last year?

I've got packets of one-year-old woad seeds for the first three people to email me their address at hecate demetersdatter at hot mail dot come.

Blessed Imbolc!

Get Going!


There are several cool things coming up; a few local and one global.

First, if you live in, or near, DC, or if you can get here, mark your calendar now so you'll remember to attend the Red Dragon Feast on February 12th. The Feast is scheduled from 2:00 to 5:00 in the Renaissance Hall of Westminster Presbyterian Church, 400 I St., S.W., Washington, D.C. The donation is $13.00.
The Red Dragon Feast is an annual magical feast and fundraiser for healing blood-borne disease. Donations benefit community building and a local charity committed to healing blood borne disease.

The event takes place in three phases:
1. drumming, dancing and ritual
2. toasting and feasting
3. a silent and live auction

We focus our intent by
- wearing red clothes
- eating red food
- toasting with red drink

~~~~~~~~~

We honor the survivors of these diseases, the health care professionals and researchers who are fighting to help them, and the memory of those who have died from blood-borne diseases. This three hour ceremony is a festive, collective prayer for cures ... an event that is serious fun!

~~~~~~~~~~

All Hail the Red Dragon!
All Hail the Life Giving Blood!

All content is public.

The event is sponsored and organized by the DC Radical Faeries.
The Radical Faeries is a community-based group, mostly of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, or Transgender people, devoted to the panspiritual exploration of Queer spirituality. The DC Radical Faeries affirms the sacredness of Queer lives and promotes interfaith collaboration.

For over a decade, the DC Radical Faeries have hosted weekly potlucks, celebrated solar and lunar holidays, and coordinated events in the metropolitan area.

Second, if your practice involves gardening, you have two chances to participate in local seed exchanges, including one at which the DC Guerilla Gardeners will be present:

> Saturday, January 29, 2011 (Brookside Gardens, Wheaton, MD)
> Saturday, February 5, 2011 (Green Spring Gardens, Alexandria, VA)

[DC Guerilla Gardeners will] be at the February 5th event, swappin' seeds and telling everyone who will listen about the D.C. Guerilla Gardeners and our fabulousness!

Or, from anywhere, participate in this effort to study heirloom seeds.

Third, anyone with access to the web can participate in the Sixth Annual Brigid Poetry Festival.
It is that time of year again, when bloggers around the world post a favorite poem in honor of Brigid, the Irish goddess and patron saint of smithcraft, poetry, and healing. Brigid’s feast day is February 1st, so between now and then is the perfect time to publish a poem to celebrate.

Picture found here.

Exchanging Seeds



I can almost feel Imbolc stirring itself from deep inside my Mother and beginning to rise through the root-chilling red clay and rock-hard frozen surface of my tiny bit of Earth. I am longing like a thirsty woman for a taste of that icy water of inspiration, for all that I know that Imbolc is often considered a fire festival. Imbolc is a time to honor inspiration and the plain old hard work of forging new tools, as well as a time to commit to a warming that we can, often, only believe, rather than sense. I am willing, even if it makes me a foolish old woman, to commit to the warming. (My broken ankle, which simply FEELS itself more this time of year, and my too-cold-even-in-socks-toes, and my full-of-pain-even-in-gloves-fingertips are all ready to commit, as well.)

I am sifting, and hunting, and dreaming about which poems I will contribute to the Sixth Annual Brigid Poetry Festival. So many poems; so little time.

By Imbolc, I will have made my selections -- limited this year, as I'm really serious about upping my already-quite-healthy level of savings -- from the many issues of garden porn seed catalogues that arrive this time of year, and will start some seedlings -- always one of my favorite acts as a priestess. (My nomination for the best seed catalogue cover in years: this year's Seed Savers cover. Who knew that deep purple, deep red, and bright yellow were so gorgeous together?) Also, can I just say that the picture in this year's catalogue of their seed-drying barn, (go here and click through 24 times) is number two on my list of places in which I'd almost kill to, but likely never will, do ritual? (Number 1 is (after dark on the night of a full Moon, when the park is closed) the old Capitol pillars at the National Arboretum.) I want to dance through that barnfull of heirloom DNA in the worst kind of way; I've been there in my dreams almost every night since I've seen it. Seed Savers, I don't suppose you'd like some Witches to come bless your crops?

A few days after Imbolc, I'm going to an v exciting seed swap. I have woad, and pineapple sage, and sunflower seeds to bring. I'd love to find someone with Pam's Choice foxglove or Hollyhock Nigra to give away. I certainly wouldn't turn my nose up at coconut echinacea or Bowles Black viola.

What can you bring to life's seed exchange? What would you like to get?

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

How Does Your (Winter) Garden Grow?


Margaret Roach, who blogs at A Way to Garden, has an amazing slideshow of conifers, perfect trees at any time of year, but especially so during these dark Winter days. She doesn't include one of my favorites, Cryptomeria (beloved as much for the creepy name, as for the perfect shape and rapid growth), known as Japanese Temple Pines. I have three of them and they keep the deep Winter garden both interesting and alive. However, just Roach's one picture of weeping Alaska cedar (Chamaecyparis nootkatensis ‘Pendula,’) has thrown me into a deep fit of longing. I really, really, really need some of those. That tree reminds me of C.S. Lewis' comment in Surprised by Joy about seeing Rackham's illustrations of Wagner for the first time:
Pure "Northernness" engulfed me: a vision of huge, clear spaces hanging above the Atlantic in the endless twilight of Northern summer, remoteness, severity . . . and almost at the same moment I knew that I had met this before, long, long ago . . . And with that plunge back into my own past there arose at once, almost like heartbreak, the memory of Joy itself, the knowledge that I had once had what I had now for years, that I was returning at last from exile and desert lands to my own country; and the distance of the Twilight of the Gods and the distance of my own past Joy, both unattainable, flowed together into a single, unendurable sense of desire and loss, which suddenly became one with the loss of the whole experience, which, as I now stared round that dusty schoolroom like a man recovering from unconsciousness, had already vanished, had eluded me at the very moment when I could first say It is. And at once I knew (with fatal knowledge) that to "have it again" was the supreme and only important object of desire . . .

Well, it's a lot, but that's what trees can invoke in me.

Landscape Guy and I were talking earlier this week about a rather nascent notion of his to begin planting trees in blighted towns in America's South East. In Second Nature: A Gardener's Education, Michael Pollan has an entire section devoted to planting trees; one of his principal points is that trees are one of the things that we plant almost certain that they will outlive us, and that, on an anonymous basis, is what drives Landscape Guy towards this vision. And there is, for me, something both alchemical and magical about planting trees, fully aware that they will be here, giving shade, providing succor to birds and squirrels, and supplying oxygen long after this old Witch has shuffled off to the Isle of Apples to settle down on the warm grass with the other Ancestors, drink tea, and watch bemusedly as our progeny do their best.

What have you planted that you expect to live beyond you? What one tree do you really, really need?

Picture found here.

What Would It Take for You to Smile Before Your Ancesors?


As a part of my daily practice, I ground and make contact with the cold, red, Virginia clay upon which my little cottage is built. I twine my own roots around the deep roots of the ancient oaks, tall maple, triune river birch, crape myrtle trees, new magnolias, Japanese temple pines, gardenias, lilacs, lavender, rosemary, and sage. This part of my practice can actually take a reasonable amount of time. It's like checking in with a bunch of different family members; you wouldn't begrudge that time or try to rush it, would you? And I will go to my grave believing that it matters, that the Earth is healed when we spend time with her, touch her, send our love directly to her.

Lately, I am more and more aware of the way that a horizontal (about three-foot-tall (or deep))-layer of cold has spread not only over my bit of Earth, but of how it has, as well, spread for several feet underground.

I admit that, when I walk outside every morning to feed the birds (barefoot, if at all possible and reasonably safe, just to remind me that I am a priestess of the Earth and need to physically connect with Her), I examine the sunny protected Southern exposure near my deck for some sign that the crocus and daffodils (of which the tips are only now just barely visible) have grown a bit. I walk outside every morning to the car and scan the hellebores for a bud or two, scan the mulched, North-facing, cottage gardens for any sign that the Gallanthus, aka, snowdrops, are beginning to sprout, even though I know that they're a good 4 weeks away, at least.

And, yet, what my bit of Earth is telling me is that, until that layer of cold rises out of the red clay, there won't be any flowers. I'll know to really look for the flowers when I ground and find that the cold has stopped penetrating deep into my red Virginia clay. That's not what I expected to learn when, a novice, solitary Witch, I began, years ago, to daily practice grounding, but it's what grounding is teaching me, just now, all these years later. "Here, my dear, here's a deep revelation: Winter's cold seeps below ground and that influences when things bloom." Well, um, yeah, but I was thinking more, you know, dramatic revelations, lightning, dawn cracking thorough clouds, and, well, yeah, of course, cold/Earth/plants, yeah, ok, but, um deep insights? "Here, my dear, here's a deep revelation: "Winter's cold seeps below ground and that influences, when things bloom." OK, I learn, pace, Mr. Roethke, by going where I have to go.

And, then, I drive beside my beloved Spout Run and alongside my beautiful Potomac River and see the ice that has been there for weeks and weeks - unheard of here just South of the line that Mr. Mason and Mr. Dixon decided to draw. Last weekend, I was driving G/Son home, and we went over the bridge from Virginia into Maryland, across the Potomac River. Almost always, I tell him, "Now we're driving over the beautiful Potomac River," and then I call out, "Good morning, beautiful Potomac River!" This time, I said, "Now we're driving over the beautiful Potomac," and, before I could say anything else, G/Son said, "Good morning, Potomac!"

You know, I have been a good deal more lucky than I had any right to be. I raised an amazing, kind, gorgeous, good-humored, feminist Son, who married a beautiful, down-to-Earth, kick-ass-yogini of a hera, and who is an Earth-shatteringly-amazingly good Father. I've loved me some poets and priests of nothing. I've taught a lot of poor kids a lot of stuff and I've organized some educational programs to ensure that a lot more got taught. I've kicked a whole lot of law school ass, and I've written motions and briefs that have, if I do say so myself, been improbably successful. I've advised a number of wind and solar companies, thereby, in Lovelock's words, cushioning The Fall. I've taught one or two amazingly bright young lawyers how to think about legal issues and how to write good legal prose. I've been friends with a whole lot of amazing women. I've made a warm, welcoming home that frequently houses Witches and their rituals and provides an afternoon's succor for activists who need to sit on a porch. I've done magic for Code Pink, talked truth to power, and poured wine for wounded revolutionaries. I've worked with an inspired greenman to make a garden and ritual space. I've marched in every important march of the last half-century, handed out campaign literature, helped to get a woman on the ballot in VA and voted for her in the primary, done pro bono work to ensure voting rights, and fed people who were hungry. And if I were to die with nothing to proclaim to my ancestors beside the fact that my G/Son has a first-name, "say good morning when you pass" relationship with the Potomac River and that I know when my bit of Earth is still cold, well, I'll die happy and answer gladly, that's all I can say.

May you have a deep relationship with your own bit of Earth and may you find a river or mountain or moor to which your family may become tied.

Picture found here.

I Hope for Beauty









"This is totally beauty. It's also vandalism." (Be still, my beating heart.)

I just have to say that, IMHO, this is magic of the highest sort.

I don't mean that metaphorically. I mean it literally.

IMHO, guerilla gardeners do magic, deep magic, magic that really matters, and I don't care that they show up ignorant of magical practice, without an athame, bearing no incense, wearing no pentacles or robes, and lacking any chants or spoken spells. It's enough that they not only "hope for beauty," but that they also (unlike too many self-proclaimed Pagans) show up in her service under the pale Moon light.

Sometimes when, in Wendell Berry's words, "despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives [and most of all, what my G/Son's life] may be," (which lately is, you know, almost every night), I remind myself of something that Starhawk said after the midterm elections:
Remember that the real work of change is always going on—if not in Washington, then in thousands of towns and neighborhoods and communities, if not in the halls of power, then in the streets. Don’t be complacent, but don’t despair. All around us are allies working for more justice, more freedom, more ecological balance, more peace. This is not a time to fall back, but to step up, to be bolder, braver, louder, funnier, more inventive, more outrageous, more committed. Political winds blow back and forth—hold to your deepest values, and we’ll stay the course.

Guerilla gardeners are my allies, working for more ecological balance, more peace. I guess that it's time for me to step up, be bolder, braver, funnier, more inventive, more outrageous, more committed. It's time for me to do some serious guerilla gardening. Like Margaret Cho, I have decided to stay and fight. I'm going to hold to my deepest values and stay the course.

What other options are there? What have you decided?

Black Cat Petunias


So, there is still snow in those bits of the yard (Northernmost exposure, and corners in the South East and South West) that get the least amount of Winter sun. Our serious winds have abated a bit, leaving lots of kindling spread across the yard, but it's still bitter cold. My beloved Potomac River is iced over, with circles, swirls, and geometric cracks marking the ice. The dirt beneath my yard is frozen for at least a few inches down. The Western sky is on display as early as 3:30 pm. The snowdrops haven't even sprouted and the hellebores (Lenten Roses, to the xians) aren't yet showing any buds. (Landscape Guy's hellebores have budded, but his seem to usually be 3 weeks ahead of mine, although we live 5 minutes away from each other.) Everything's cut back to the ground and mulched over.

But in this old Witch's heart, it's mid-April and I am out digging in the newly-warmed earth with my ergonomic spade, planting BLACK PETUNIAS in the front cottage gardens and the pots that sit on the back deck.

I'm not much of a fan of annuals. A plant has to be pretty special for me to be willing to buy it over and over again -- not to mention doing the work of planting it over and over again -- every year. I grow some daturas and marigolds from seed each year and I buy a few herbs, mainly basil, on an annual basis, but my strong preference is for perennials.

But my entire garden scheme is black and white, and it's often much easier to find white flowers than black. And I've been reading for months that this Spring would herald the arrival of a truly black (aka, not just dark purple or dark red, but really black) petunia. And this afternoon, when I arrived home from work, there was the Burpees Porn Emporium, er, the Burpee's garden catalogue. Now, I know that Burpees is kind of like Disney or GE or McDonalds. And I am careful each year, I am, to spread my purchases out among a number of local, heirloom, and organic seed sellers. But Burpees has, I'm not going to lie to you (heh, I'm not going to lie to you NOW THAT I'VE GOT MINE -- beforehand would have been a different story, and there's not a real gardener in the world who would blame me, either), Burpees had the black petunias. Burpees calls them Black Cat Petunias.

And so I got on the phone, in the midst of Mercury Retrograde, and I ordered almost 50 of those black beauties. And when the nice lady who first answered the phone mistakenly cut me off (Like I Said: Mercury Retrograde), I called right back, got a nice young man, and put the order through again, this time getting both the $5 off for a big order and the free shipping.

There won't be a day between now and mid-April when I don't imagine planting those black flowers. But they'll be in my front cottage gardens come Beltane and I couldn't be happier. That's one of the wonderful things about having a garden: the anticipation.

Picture found here.

Staying in Love When It Snows


As regular readers know, it's important to my spiritual practice to be in active relationship with a specific piece of land, rather than just having warm feelings for the intellectual construct of "the Land" or "Earth." A large part of my daily practice involves getting in touch with and listening to the specific, small (less than a quarter acre) bit of land on which I live and garden. When I lived in an apartment with no yard, I adopted some spots near me as "mine."

Even in Winter, if it's at all possible, I'm bundled up and outside, even if only for a short time. I've learned that, as long as I can keep my hands warm (I've been known to wear mittens over gloves and one of my goals for the coming year is to learn how to knit those fingerless gloves that I could wear over full gloves), I don't really mind the cold, at least down to around 25 degrees or so. Finding out how to dress comfortably for the outside (for some people, it means fleece-lined boots, while for others it's a hat or a big warm scarf around the neck) can make it easier to maintain a relationship with your bit of Earth even in Winter. And, really, not knowing what a place is like in Winter is sort of like "knowing" a person, but being ignorant about a huge chunk of their life.

That said, as an old woman with a previously-broken-and-still-held-together-with-screws-and-plates ankle, I'm more than careful about not going outside when it's snowy or icy. When you really can't be outside, one way to deepen your relationship is to learn about your land. What do you know about the First Peoples who lived there before you? Do you know where your water comes from and where your waste goes? Can you identify the birds and other animals who live in relationship with the same bit of Earth as you do? Can you identify the trees that live with you? A lot of that information is likely available on-line. Additionally, Field Guides, which you can often get quite cheap secondhand, are a great way to get to know more about your area. A coven might want to buy a set and circulate them. I keep, for example, Birds of Virginia, on my porch so that when I see a bird I don't recognize, I can try to identify her. But in the Winter, when I can't go outside, I'll read a page or two every day in order to try and learn about local birds. And now, thanks to Margaret Roach, I'm in lust for this: The Bird Songs Bible. If you have children, all of these make good family activities on snow days and are a great way to instill a love of nature in the next generation.

If you garden, keeping a garden journal can be another way to deepen your understanding of your bit of Earth. During the year, I'll note on Facebook when each new flower first blooms. Then, on a snowy day in Winter, I'll go through and make a chronological listing in my garden journal. It's interesting to see, from year to year, the patterns and the variations. More serious gardeners additionally keep track of last frost, rainfall, hours of sunlight, and temperatures. Margaret Roach also has up an interesting podcast about the process of preparing to order seeds for next Spring, another great way to spend a snow day.

Finally, even when you can't be outside physically, you can do meditations and trance work to communicate with your bit of Earth. Let it know that you want to listen and then be willing to open up and learn what is taught. You can do art inspired by your relationship. You can raise energy and send it to, for example, the shivering animals, the roots deep under the snow, the earthworms and bees that are so necessary to the Earth's survival.

How do you keep your relationship going when it has to be, for a short time, a "long-distance" relationship?

Picture found here.

Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary, How Does Your Garden Grow?


Gardeners love to talk about the bones of their garden, especially at this time of year. By "bones", they mean the naked trees, stark walkways, walls, mulched spots, and other permanent features, which somehow seem to stand out very clearly once all the flowers and leaves go away (and a dusting of snow, such as the one we had this morning, can make the bones even more visible). It's a perfect time to be out (albeit, bundled up) in the garden, spending time with it, learning from it, sitting in silence with it, and figuring out why some things work and some other things maybe don't. If it's not slippery outside, I'm bundled up and outside in my garden every dawn and every evening this time of year. It's absolutely the best thing I've ever found to do before I begin the process in January of perusing the garden porn (seed catalogues) and figuring out what I "need" for next Spring.

And I think the same is true of this time of year vis-a-vis our lives. Although December is often a time of too much rushing around, getting ready for holiday parties, baking, buying gifts, running ourselves ragged, trying hard to ignore the dark, sometimes even in December the weather intervenes and keeps us at home, inside, with our own thoughts and our own lives for company. And January and February, even more so. I have a hunch that, as global climate change brings us more intense Winters and as tax cuts for billionaires make it more and more difficult for towns and counties to clear streets, we may find ourselves spending more days snowed in than has been our previous wont.

Sure, you can spend your snow days in front of the tv or buying more stuff online.

Or, you can stop. Bundle up by grounding. Cast a circle. Sit with the bones of your own life and figure out why that wall makes perfect sense but that walkway needs straightening. Listen to your life and figure out which shrubs need to get rooted out and where you need to plant a new vine.

Spread a teaparty on the table and invite your Shadows in for a one-hour tea. Set some ground rules, esp. about leaving when asked, and then ask them what they need you to know.

Pull out all of your old journals and catch up with yourself. Can you see some overarching themes, just as a gardener might realize that her garden really is about simplicity and that's why those fussy roses have never quite worked?

What indoor activity puts you into a meditative state of mind? The treadmill? Folding laundry? Kneading bread or chopping vegetables for soup? Painting, throwing pots, dancing? For me, it's knitting, I can sit and knit and find myself deep in worthwhile insights.

Do a tarot reading and then take a nap, announcing your intention to dream the reading into your life. Cast the runes, stare into the fireplace flames, scry in the bowl of melted snow.

The plants in our gardens give themselves this time to pull back and go within so that they can survive the Winter weather and come back stronger in the Spring. Between now and Ostara, it's a gift that we can give ourselves, as well.

What bones do you see in the garden of your life?

Picture found here.

Bring Me a Rose in the Wintertime, When It’s Hard to Find


Landscape Guy and I got together last week to exchange holiday gifts. He's quite a good giver of gifts; this year, he gave me Wicked Plants by Amy Stewart, which I've been longing to read.

It's odd, isn't it, how some people just do manage to give really meaningful gifts? I suppose that, if I had to pick the best gift that I've ever gotten, it would be a wicker picnic basket that an old love once gave to me. It had these amazing leather straps and pockets inside that held things like wine glasses, and cheese knives, and red gingham napkins. I still have it, and I treasure every picnic to which I've ever taken it. One year, for my birthday, he redecorated my bedroom while I was at work and I'll never forget walking, unaware, into that room and experiencing this huge blast of color. Last holiday season, that lover's lover sent me 100 snowdrop bulbs; that was a pretty good gift and I'm eager to see them bloom in a few weeks. My wonderful DiL once gave me a great book on herb gardens and a gift certificate to Burpees: a perfect gift. One Mother's Day, after we'd had a big argument, Son gave me a beautiful cut-glass keepsake box that still sits on my dresser, and one year when I was so sick from chemo that I wanted to die, he took me to see Showboat at the Kennedy Center and to lunch at what is now Willow. Later, when it looked as if the cancer might have spread to my liver, Son called me every single day to say that he loved me; I still have the voice mails that he left. Those were amazing gifts. But the gift that I remember the most from Son is a big bouquet of flowers that he brought to me from his job just after he graduated from high school and started working. I can still see him, in my mind's eye, through the kitchen window, walking home in his one good suit, carrying that bouquet, bought w/ his first paycheck. T & E once brought me some rose petals from roses stuck on the WH fence during a Mother's Day protest; I used those in a v powerful ritual. I have a decorated pencil from a goody bag that G/Son got at a birthday party to which I took him. In the car, going through the bag, he came to the pencil and said, "Here, Nonna. You can have this pencil." It sits on my desk, in my pencil jar, and I smile every time that I look at it. I have socks and silky scarves given to me by Circle Sisters and I feel warm, and loved, and blessed, and supported every time that I wear them.

Wicked Plants has an interesting chapter, "Dreadful Bouquet", about a gift of flowers:
On July 2, 1881, Charles Julius Guiteau shot President James Garfield. His aim was not quite good enough to kill the president; Garfield lived for eleven weeks as doctors probed his internal organs with unsterilized instruments, searching for the bullet that was actually lodged near his spine. . . . On the morning of his execution [Guiteau's] sister brought him a bouquet of flowers. Prison officials intercepted the bouquet and later discovered that there was enough arsenic tucked between the petals to kill several men. Although his sister denied having poisoned her brother's bouquet, it was well known that Guiteau feared the hangman's noose and would have preferred to die some other way.

Wicked Plants goes on to suggest an arsenic-free bouquet composed of flowers that "would do quite a bit of damage all by themselves": larkspur and delphinium, lily-of-the-valley, bleeding heart, sweet pea, tulips, hyacinth, Peruvian lily, chrysanthemum, and monkshood. They're not all in season at the same time, but if death at my own hand were what I wanted, I'd treasure a gift of that bouquet.

What's the best gift that you ever got or gave?

Update: What Witch wouldn't want THIS????????

Picture found here.

Synchronicity, You’re Soaking In It



I love the artist's discussion of how her childhood spent in Nature influences her art.

*****************************************

[H]ealing the broken bond between our young and nature—is in our self-interest, not only because aesthetics or justice demands it, but also because our mental, physical, and spiritual health depends upon it. The health of the [E]arth is at stake as well. How the young respond to nature, and how they raise their own children, will shape the configurations and conditions of our cities, homes—our daily lives.

~Richard Louv
More here.

Hat tip to Margaret Roach, in A Way to Garden.

Saturday Poetry Blogging




Day Lilies
by Rosanna Warren

For six days, full-throated, they praised
the light with speckled tongues and blare
of silence by the porch stair:
honor guard with blazons and trumpets raised
still heralding the steps of those
who have not for years walked here
but who once, pausing, chose

this slope for a throng of lilies:
and hacked with mattock, pitching stones
and clods aside to tamp dense
clumps of bog-soil for new roots to seize.
So lilies tongued the brassy air
and cast it back in the sun's
wide hearing. So, the pair

who planted the bulbs stood and heard
that clarion silence. We've heard it,
standing here toward sunset
as those gaping, burnished corollas poured
their flourish. But the petals have
shrivelled, from each crumpled knot
droops a tangle of rough

notes shrunk to a caul of music.
Extend your palms: you could as well
cup sunbeams as pour brim-full
again those absent flowers, or touch the quick
arms of those who bent here, trowel in
hand, and scraped and sifted soil
held in a bed of stone.

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

Thursday Garden Blogging



We had a good soaking rain yesterday, a cool misty morning, and then sun. When I got home from work, the Autumn camellias had opened. I think this really is the v last thing that will bloom until either the snowdrops or the hellebores come in after Yule. (I'm interested to see which is first. My bet is on the snowdrops, as another name for hellebore is Lenten Rose, but you have to consider that my hellebores are planted on the Northern exposure and I've (just) planted the snowdrops on the Southern exposure, which likely gives them an advantage.)

What's the last thing to bloom on the land that you love/tend/are the witch of? What's first?

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

Wednesday Garden Blogging





If you look, you can still find a bit of garden black and white underneath the falling leaves. I still have white anemones blooming, and the black berries of the lirope look especially menacing for Samhein.

Photos by the author; if you copy, please link back.

Raking


Now that Mabon's come and gone, now that we're heading madly towards Samhein, it's that time in the Gardening Year when we begin to clear stuff out. One of my magical Sisters (whose home is deep in a grove of gorgeous old trees) and I were joking at brunch today about how we're already into that time of year when raking up leaves becomes a primary chore. (Her yard is already much more carefully-raked than mine. It's only going to get worse between now and late November when my white oaks finally drop their last leaves.) And all those dead leaves (and, in my case, acorns) have to GO SOMEWHERE; here at Hecate's Cottage, they go into big brown paper bags that the county will come by and pick up to turn into mulch. But the leaves aren't the only things that need to be gotten out of the garden. There are dead, branchy stems left over from the now-harvested-and-made-into-frozen-pesto basil. There are old stalks from daisies and obedient plant and Asiatic lilies and anemones. (Compost bin, here they come!) There are wisteria vines that have been pruned back and there are pots of brugmansia to be cut way back and brought inside for the coming Winter.

And, at the same time, it's now the season to do a lot of planting in anticipation of the Spring and Summer that we hope, as did our great-great-great-great-many-times-great grandmothers, will certainly (yes?) come. So this past week I worked w/ Landscape Guy and his crew to put in two new trees, innumerable hostas and astilbes, some new drancunculus, Darkness iris, and giant white alliums. Right now, I'm staring at a box of 75 snowdrop bulbs, sitting on the table, tapping their fingernails, and saying, "Well? When ARE you going to get us into the ground?" With so much new stuff, it's still a time of watering; I likely won't have to put the hoses away and shut off the pipes to the outside until nearly Yule. Until then, new roots are still growing and water is important.

Finally, this time of year is the beginning of that season that, if we're honest (and, we're not; most gardeners lie worse than golfers, fishermen, hunters, tennis players), many gardeners love every bit as much as we love High Summer: the Time of the Winter Plan. It's a perfect period (you can do it while raking! or sitting in front of the fire!) to mull over what worked (marigolds in the herb bed), what didn't work (Burpee's Summerlong basil, everything from White Flower Farms), what you want to try next year (black poppies and white peonies), what new adventure you'll embark upon when, sometime between Yule and Imbolc, you give in to the garden porn of the catalogs and begin buying new seeds, seedlings, etc. Just now, hope springs eternal, everything seems possible (maybe just a dozen new ostrich ferns and that corner WOULD look perfect; next year, I'll find a place to put wormwood where it won't kill off the surrounding plants; if we "just" move about a hundred day lilies out of the gardenia beds and into the woodland . . . .")

And, of course, as I plant, and pull up, and water, and rake, (and try to ignore the snowdrops), I think about how much this liturgical season mimics (as, how, based upon it as it is, upon what goes on in the garden, could it not?) what is going on outside. As above, so below. As outside, so inside. As in the manifest world, so in the world of the psyche. Just now, with the veils so thin, my ancestors and deceased friends and lovers show up and offer their advice. I'm likely the only woman in my neighborhood raking, saying, "Shut up!" bagging leaves, shouting, "Who asked you?" pulling up stems, murmuring, "Well, OK, you may have a point."

I adopted the practice last year of setting an intentional word to organize my goals and objectives for the coming year. This year, the word has been "Vitality" -- an attempt to introduce more health and more energy into every area of my life. For the coming year, I'm pretty sure that the word is going to be "Elegant," which, for me, implies, a serious editing, a cutting away of all that is extraneous. I meditate upon that word from Samhein until Yule. Just after Yule, I make a screen-saver for my computer with images, words, and phrases that convey my word and I write a global list of goals for the coming year.

Between Yule and Imbolc, I work on a more logical, strategic plan.

What are you raking up and throwing into the compost bin? What are you planting just now and watering? What plans are you hatching? What does this season mean for you?

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