The trail meandered up and down from valley to ridge and back again, at least three times. Luck sent me off in the right direction, so that the inclines went steeply up and then slowly down. In this season, I am fearful of steep descents, of sliding out of control on the fallen leaves.
Today I had no stick. There weren't any useful ones at the trail head. I picked up the odd stick here and there, to help me dance across stepping stones in the brooks, but never found one that was comfortable in the hand.
The woods really are my temple. I felt the presence of the Goddess in every tree, in every fallen leaf, and in every moment of stillness.
I felt the Goddess in every breath I took.
( A mile along the shore of the pond... )
When we arrived at the white blazes that marked the turn onto the Appalachian Trail, we looked at each other and nodded. It was time to test ourselves.
It's hard to describe the feeling. Excitement and fear. Hope and longing. Answers at last to questions I had been asking for a long time. I had been working toward this moment for over eight years. If I made this hike, a gentle 150' rise in elevation over half a mile, I would be there again, in the beautiful wild place shaped by the Goddess' hand.
When all the leaves have fallen, the weak autumn sun caresses the bark of the trees. Everything is at peace. The tourists have gone home, unaware of the calm beauty of unclothed trunks.
I am going hiking.
There was a time that I knew these woods like I know my own skin. I rambled up and down the hills, sometimes hiking deeply into the silent old places and sleeping lightly under the stars, listening to distant coyote calls and the quiet rustle of smaller creatures making their nightly rounds. This was sacred space, Goddess-given land.
That was twenty years and one bad car accident ago. I am older and far too lame to revisit the innermost secrets of these woods, but I can and will visit the boundary land between tame and wild, and will savor the gentler paths.
I can do this.
(Goddess bless Salomon for making light-as-air hiking boots that provide full ankle support. Combine these with the right orthotics and I have an amazingly steady foot. I have been wearing these boots in my everyday life, getting accustomed to them and marveling at the freedom that they bring me.)
I may not be posting much, if at all, from the journey. And you can bet that I won't be posting from the woods. I want to savor every blessed minute of it.
I see the soft grey sky.
I hear distant bagpipes, and mourn the lives lost in senseless wars.
I smell chai
I touch the warm keyboard of my laptop
I know that being and waiting are often more powerful than doing.
Perhaps, if I had gone to sleep before 3:30am, I might not be so groggy and foggy right now.
For all that the return to Standard Time is usually good for me, I have let myself be a bit too free with my night owl inclinations. The boundary between daylight and dark is no longer a cue to slow down, relax, and contemplate sleep. It's just a time at which I need to turn on lights and keep going for several hours more (and several beyond that).
So, the wee hours of Saturday morning found me quietly swapping and rearranging the contents of a storage cabinet in my bedroom and one of the frosted glass cabinets in my studio. Stacks of file folders went into the storage cabinet, and cones of weaving yarn took their place in the studio. I need to see yarn more than I need to see old folders.
But did I need to do this at 2AM?
Saturday found me still cleaning the Aerie, because one change leads to another. Curtains came down to be washed and put back up. Incense billowed in all the corners. Piles of errant stuff were sorted and put to rights. The beautiful thing was that I found my mother's book of knitting patterns for hats, buried in a pile of errant stuff. I've been looking for it for the better part of two years. I could have purchased the book again, but what I really wanted was a beret pattern from an unknown source, one that she kept tucked in the front of that book. Now I don't have to go through the effort of counting stitches on the one remaining beret made from that pattern.
What kept me awake last night was the sense of disconnect between all this activity and the season. Shouldn't all this sorting and shifting of stuff have been done earlier? Should I be thinking more and doing less? Or, is it necessary to put the physical house in order as a prelude to taking on the mental and spiritual houses? Can I have orderly thoughts in the midst of chaos?
But, did I need to answer these questions at 3:30AM?
I don't know what I am doing here in the center of the spiral, other than waiting. While I am waiting, I may as well tidy up a bit. You never know what you might find buried in a pile of errant stuff.
I feel much healthier now that we are back on Standard Time. I am not a morning person by nature, my thoughts dragging along an hour or two behind my lark-tempered companions. I cannot knit lace in the morning. I drift off into random parts of the pattern, thinking that my fingers know what they are doing. They do not.
Right now, it feels like the world has slowed down and waited for me to catch up.
I am ready for this quiet time, although I am not prepared in the traditional sense. I am sitting in the heart of the spiral, wondering and waiting. Usually I carry a question or a point of focus with me. Sometimes I find it on the way here, through dreaming or meditation. This year, I am here in patience, willing to wait, to dabble my fingers in the pool that gathers around the bubbling spring, waiting for Her call. This kind of waiting is not passive. My senses are all as engaged as they would be if I were active. I am not coiling tight with frustration. It's hard to explain, but it is peaceful and restorative.
Wouldn't it be interesting if all I am meant to do is wait in peace?
The deepest quiet time is about to begin, and as is often the case, I find myself being pulled between where my thoughts are going and where my obligations lie.
I want to wrap myself in a warm, dark shawl and sit at the roots of an old tree, a single candle to guide my thoughts until I am ready to pinch it out and savor the dark night.
Others expect me to be someone else, the quiet and efficient woman who bakes apple pie, makes tea, and creates a space where we gather to honor our fore-mothers. I must be priestess to others beside myself. Then, I will take time to be priestess to myself.
Lucy calls me. Lucy the elder. Jeremiah's wife who lies buried in that small family cemetery in the woods. I want to welcome her, let her know that she is remembered, and to honor her. What was it like to live in an isolated mountainside community, too far from the sea, too far from home? What was it like to be handed from father to husband? To be buried without her maiden name? If I am strong, it is because of women like Lucy who shaped my family.
The Grey women have always made pots of tea and done what needs to be done. Tea will get me through baking apple pie tonight, and all that the days ahead require.
Blessings!
I am Athena*,
Daughter of Jannie*,
Daughter of Nettie,
Daughter of Morgianna,
Daughter of Lucy,
Daughter of Lucy.
Someone recently posted a transcription of old gravestones in a long forgotten cemetery. As is my habit at this time of year, I was searching for updated information. Tracing one's maternal line is difficult. Surnames change with each generation. Old records are spotty at best, and reflect the sentiment of the day, that a woman was her husband's property. I have a wealth of data on my paternal ancestry, because that's the way genealogy has always been viewed. It has been a struggle to find maternal data. It's been a dozen years or so since I found any new information.
I found the elder Lucy because I knew her husband's name. I know so little about her. Lucy died 04 April 1854, age 68. I now have a photograph of her gravestone. No maiden name was inscribed on it. To find her lineage, I will need a bit of luck. More and more data is coming online. Searches are easier than ever before. Perhaps someone researching her father's family will note the man she married and the lines will converge.
This Samhain, when I pay respect to their spirits, I have another ancestor to call by name.
*Am I wrong to value privacy over accuracy? These are our screen names, not our real ones.
Ingredients
1/2 c raw sunflower seeds, soaked for 6-8 hours
1/4 c raw cashews, soaked for 2 hours
2 Tablespoons water
juice of 1/2 lime
1/2 teaspoon Celtic salt
1 rib of celery, minced
1 green onion, minced
1 tablespoon fresh parsley, minced
2 tablespoons hummus*
freshly ground pepper to taste
Preparation:
Drain the sunflower seeds and nuts.
Place sunflower seeds, nuts, water, lime juice and salt in a food processor and pulse to a crumbly paste consistency.
Transfer to a mixing bowl and add celery, parsley, onion and hummus*
Add pepper to taste.
Serves 3
*omit the hummus for a totally raw food variation.
Does that thought make you uneasy? Why? We will all die someday. I don't plan to do it anytime soon. What I do plan is to have my legal affairs in order so that I won't leave a mess behind when someday I do depart this life.
Every year at this time, I review my will and make any changes that are necessary. I review my insurance beneficiaries. I make sure that my cat's designated guardian is willing to serve that role should he be called upon to care for her. I review my living will/health care proxy documents. I can face the long nights of winter much better, knowing that in the bright days of early autumn, I took care of these necessary things.
I also spend time facing Death on a more spiritual level. Have I been nurturing my life and my relationship with Goddess? Have I harvested good things, or have my efforts withered from neglect? Am I at peace with others and with myself?
All this is done with love. The passing harvest is what it is. Lessons learned become plans for next year. The first lesson in compassion is to have some for yourself.
I've ordered a set of runes from![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
lupabitch. Runes have been on my mind for a long time. The visual simplicity of the symbols attracts me. I've wanted an artisan-made set, but couldn't find one that seemed right for me until now. I'll share pictures when it arrives later this month.
I wonder if the very simplicity of the symbols makes them more difficult to read than tarot? Tarot gives you a lot of imagery to draw upon. You see the cards differently each time you read them. I wonder if that will be true for runes as well? It remains to be seen.
Sometimes, the images in my 'sight' and those on the tarot cards create a very muddled vision that gives me a headache to untangle. It's like a collage gone mad, with the layers slipping in and out of focus. I think the rune images will be easier to hold onto while I explore the spontaneous images.
I wish I had been comfortable enough to ask my grandmother if her 'sight' worked that way. She never spoke much about it with me, and it was hard to know what was the wisdom of a long lifetime and what was her gift. My mother's gift was completely different. She noticed connections and juxtapositions of things in the everyday world and saw deeper meaning in them.
The runes will be what I take with me on the inward spiral through the darkening nights. Can anyone recommend a good book or two on the subject?
At this very moment, I am pagan, proud, and have sore, tired feet.
This year, I made a point to celebrate the diversity of people who identify as pagan. Yes, there were gothlettes and little glitter witchlings of all stripes (primarily black and white). There were also authors and scholars. I saw Margot Adler walking about, and Donna Henes had a booth in the marketplace. I met some thoughtful Druids. There were witches in black, witches in cloaks, and witches in pressed jeans and seasonal-colored scarves, looking for the world like the suburbanites that they are. I saw familiar faces. Manhattan is huge, but the pagan community is close-knit. I've circled with many of these people before.
I was wandering around the marketplace, waiting for the friend I was meeting to arrive. I heard a singer in the main performance area doing a really excellent cover of a Wendy Rule song, so I went over to see who was singing. What a surprise, it was Wendy Rule herself! She was a last minute, surprise addition to the program. She was in NYC for Marion Weinstein's memorial service, and stayed around to play a set for Pagan Pride.
Closing ritual was especially beautiful this year. We worked a ritual for peace and harmony, for a world the way it should be. We danced the spiral dance. The power we raised was clear, slightly ragged, but STRONG. Although the season is autumn, we came together in summer's energy: primal, powerful, and raw.
We're witches. We can do better than that. We can shape our own lives, Goddess willing. We don't live under the microscope of a vengeful God. The Charge of the Goddess encourages us to rejoice and to find mirth.
"Let my worship be within the heart that rejoices, for behold, all acts of love and pleasure are my rituals. Therefore, let there be beauty and strength, power and compassion, honor and humility, mirth and reverence within you. "
Yesterday I wrote about the harvest as a metaphor for our accomplishments. Today, I want to speak about the real thing. Growing vegetables. Being a farmer.
Throughout the year, I try to eat as much locally grown food as possible. My supper shouldn't have more frequent flyer miles than I do. Ideally, my food should come from my own garden, but I live in a place where it's only possible to grow window box herbs and the occasional tomato plant.
Memories of gardens past sustain me. Oh, the tender lettuce in spring. I had so much that I used to give it away. How I remember the warm, rich scent of tomatoes growing in the sun! Eating a fresh-picked tomato in the field is a sensual, spiritual experience.
Dreams of future gardens sustain me. Next time, there will be a small orchard. A patch of grain. I want to breathe hope onto each seed before it is planted.
The gardens of my present are tended by others. By shopping at the farmers' market, at least I know the names of the farms, and have met the farmers and their employees. My produce comes from their hands to mine.
Goddess bless the farmers. May this harvest continue to completion. Let winter be a time of rest and rejuvenation. May the springtime bring gentle rains and warm days. May everything grow with abundance through the summer. May we meet again. So mote it be!
These are the farmers who sustain me. I thank you from deep within my heart.
Adair Vineyards
Gaia's Breath Farm
Kontoulis Family Olive Oil
Meredith's Bread
Migliorelli Farm
Northwoods Apiaries
Orwasher's Bakery
Phillips Farms
Pomona Orchards
Ronnybrook Farm
The Orchards of Concklin
Tierra Farms
Yuno's Farm
Fresh cider
Farmers' market overflowing with produce
A cup of spicy chai
A purring cat
I am content with my personal harvest. It has been a good and creative year. Yarn has been spun. Some has been knitted, and much has been woven. I have made peace with my loom and I have a vision for the way weaving should be. I've created community out of nothing more than a bit of yarn and the intense hunger to being surrounded by people like me. I am taking steps to live more lightly on the Earth, and I have decided to take better care of this body, for it is the only one that I shall have in this life.
How is your harvest? Have you been fruitful?
Today, I walked on the headland. As long as this place is home, I shall take myself to the sea and celebrate the seasons. The wind was a bit sharp in its urgency. I let it blow away anything I no longer needed. I pictured the future blowing in. As I turn deeper and deeper into the spiral of the year, moving from the sunlight toward the quiet place in my heart, I am looking for practical answers. HOW will I make the Indigo Spiral Studio into reality? WHERE will I find the right piece of land? WHEN will this unfold? AM I following the right road into the future? These are the questions I will take into the darkness. All these are good questions while the Sun is in Virgo. All these are good questions to be pondered on the long evenings ahead.
Bring on the falling leaves, the cold nights and mornings. I am ready to turn inward.
- Mood:contemplative
We had Chinese takeout in the dayroom. I brought the food, paper plates and napkins. I even brought my own present that you had selected for me, a statue of the Goddess of the Greenwood. I still have her, broken and glued together again. Kind of like me.
The real gift was your presence. It was the last time we celebrated my birthday together.
The last ones were the sweetest. My birthday. The sabbats from Mabon to Ostara. Your birthday. The memories are sweet and timeless.
Reiki. The more I work with animals, I have been surprised to find that it flows through my entire body. Not just my hands. When I cuddle and soothe a nervous cat, Reiki flows everywhere that we touch.
The sun is shining.
I am happy about some food and healthy lifestyle changes that I am working on. More raw foods. Much less dairy. Fewer empty starches. Foregoing the second glass of wine at dinner, because then I will completely savor the first.
Of course there are books. When do I ever undertake anything new without buying a couple of books.
Raw Food Made Easy for 1 or 2 People by Jennifer Cornbleet. This is a gentle introduction to eating raw foods. She doesn't require you to rush out and buy a juicer and a dehydrator to make these recipes.
Rainbow Green Life-Food Cuisine by Gabriel Cousens, M.D. This book isn't easy, but it has a lot of recipes. Juicer and dehydrator required for many recipes here.
I would be more inclined to buy a dehydrator than a juicer. I'm not a juice person. I much prefer soup.
Today would have been my father's 97th birthday. It's hard to imagine. He was only 72 when he died.
Happiness is the memory of wonderful family times.
In the present, happiness is time spent outside in the garden, knitting.
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- Athena Grey
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