Sprig Has Cub

And none too soon. This has been a wicked Winter indeed. I don’t recall any in the past that have been so incredibly cold. My desire to get out with my cross country skis was not realized, but we may get another round of snow before it’s all over.

This past Friday, I remarked to my husband that the Red Winged Blackbird would make an appearance soon. I can always ‘feel’ when Nature’s omens are on hand to send their messages. Saturday morning found me near the window overlooking the front yard sipping a vat of orange vanilla coffee when I sensed his presence. Pulling the curtain aside, I saw him. He clung to the peanut feeder and seemed to have a sense of familiarity as though he knew that he was home. Every year, the one I named Bartholomew, accompanies me as I garden. Never showing any fear, he follows me around the yard and sits in the tree nearest to me and holds his own in our running conversation. The sight of him had me laughing out loud, “damn, I’m good”, I declared. The Craft has a way of deepening one’s connection with Nature so that even in an urban setting, every nuance is sensed and always inspires a knowing smile.

This is a time of rebirth for all of us, and my journal pages abound with goals, aspirations and sacred oaths to fulfill as the Wheel of the Year takes another turn. Fertility symbols adorn my alter and chocolate truffle eggs fill crystal bowls in every room. Seeds will be ritually planted in new Earth and tiny sprouts coddled until they can be transplanted in the garden. Misty mornings will call to me and I have no choice but to go where they hold court. It’s in the mist that the portals can be found.

My heartfelt blessings go out to all of you as candles are lit and incense smolders. Sharing my thoughts as they transform into words is a privilege that becomes even more beautiful when given the honor of having you read them. For this I am grateful.

Welcome Spring.

I Say Ostara…

My mother’s stares of amazement were punctuated by heavy lidded blinks of reality. It began when she wondered out loud as to what Rabbits and Chickens had to do with Easter. “Well, mother”, I began, “it’s an ancient Pagan fertility thing.” I explained the reasons for the season and when I finished, she responded with a very surprised, yet respectful exclamation of, “really”.

She’s well aware that her only daughter is a Witch, but she never talks about it, at least to me. The times that she does bring it up are rare, but this often leaves me with a feeling that not only has she accepted it, but there seems to be an underlying knowing that this has been my calling all along. Like the time when she was diagnosed with breast cancer and she inserted the words, “You wanna do something about it?” into our conversation. This threw me for a triple loop because it was as if she was acknowledging that she believed that I could. Never doing anything Magickal for anyone without their permission, I accepted this as her request. The spell was cast and she just celebrated her 93rd birthday cancer free.

Just last week another comment was made, this time by my sister-in-law. We were in the church where my mother’s youngest brother’s funeral was taking place and I was using the time before the service to talk with my oldest brother and his wife. I was remembering when I was about 4 years old, visiting my grandparents on my mother’s side, who lived in an ancient monument of a farm house. As soon as the car came to a halt I’d run through the house and out the door that lead to the back porch. There I’d call Emily, a calico outside Cat that I had managed to tame and name. Off in the distance, I’d see the grass in the fields move as she soft pawed her way toward me to eat the combination of milk and day old home made bread that I offered her in the bent tin dish.

Apparently, Emily got around because every year she’d produce several batches of kittens, extremely feral and hidden. Every year I’d find them, usually in the barn or the woodshed. Eyes glowing in the darkness of their make shift den, they’d growl and hiss, but I would tame most of them to the point that I could hold them and they followed me around like the piped piper. My grandmother called me ‘katze mutter’, which was German for ‘Cat mother’ and I’ve lived up to that reputation ever since.

I was reminiscing about how I’d take the small wooden blocks of scrap lumber that got burned in the wood stove and set up ‘alters’ and ‘pulpits’ on the back stoop and there I’d play ‘church’ and preach to my congregation of assorted sizes of felines. My sister-in-law laughed and said, “you were doing it even then…you must have known”. I settled back in the pew and her words struck me as they rattled around in my head. Again, some means of acceptance interwoven with the knowledge that I was a Witch who teaches and preaches and was somehow meant to.

I’m not sure if it’s because I was an odd child who became an even odder adult that it is readily taken in stride that I should have come to this. Perhaps it was my vivid memory of being an infant in a crib or the time when I was 5 and was suddenly overtaken by dread that manifested in the form of loud wailing and screaming. The great-aunt that lived with us and served as a ‘nanny’ to my brothers and me was visiting friends. It was after dark, she was on the other side of Milwaukee and traveled by city bus which was not the safest thing to do. My parents tried to comfort me by saying that she planned on staying over night should it get late and that’s why she wasn’t coming home. The crying and screaming persisted because I knew something was terribly wrong. Soon the phone rang with the news that Aunt Alma had been hit by a car and was in the emergency room. As my parents got ready to go there, the phone rang again with the news that she had died.

This was the first of many psychic experiences that I came to dread as I was growing up. Not only were they always linked to tragedy, but in the classrooms of my Lutheran school I was told that the ability to do this was linked to the devil. I can’t help but wonder why the threat of Satan is acceptable, but exposing children to the realities of life is considered traumatic. It’s this kind of questioning that got me in trouble all the time…even then.

As Ostara approaches I am made aware that another holiday is shared by those who ‘borrowed’ much of their traditions from mine. The Bunnies, eggs and baskets of cellophane grass line store shelves along with the ridiculous chocolate crosses and ‘Jesus fish’. Another holiday that I will celebrate alone in spite of the tandem practice of the other. Ostara is also the birthday of MoonShadow, the Coven I created over 20 years ago. Members came and went over time, but the ‘family’ that remains is truly that which was formed of perfect love and perfect trust. You know who you are and you know that I love you.

I’ll explain what the Spring Equinox is to many ‘grown ups’ who only know that it’s the first day of Spring because the weather man said so. There I go again…teaching and preaching. Maybe I’m not the only one in the family who had psychic tendencies when it came to knowing that following the beat of a different drum was something that I was meant to do… in devoutly constructed circles of light.

Lending to Lent

Once again, I’m making my annual ‘Lenten’ pledge to give up denial.

Don’t Cast Your Shadow

We all have one. But, most often we are encouraged to suppress it, hide it, or engage in the futile attempt to eliminate it. I’m speaking of our ‘shadow self’. The often negatively  portrayed and misunderstood part of us that is regarded as sinister and evil. Actually, it is none of those things. The fluffy bunny is still romping in the forest, it just slicks down its fur.

Neutrality in Magick needs to be accepted and that is what we work with before we utilize our power of intention to direct it. When the Moon is waxing, we use the energy to attract and when it’s waning we use it to banish. But, there is also the need to go deeper and work with the aspect of ourselves that is hidden behind polite smiles and strained small talk. To degrade it to the level of psychotic tendencies is unjust and the suppression of it defies all human logic…because, after all, it is human.

We accept the fact that there are things that we just don’t like.  Cottage cheese, lima beans, clunky unfeminine shoes, and yes…Goddess preserve me,…football and its rabid fans.  All of these things are those that I simply do not like or have any interest in. I’m sure you have your list as well and every one pretty much accepts that it is perfectly fine to have a list, some longer than others, but that’s okay. It’s even rather nice when you find someone who has some of the same things on their list so you can loathe them together as kindred, lima bean hating spirits.

However, we are taught that not liking certain people is somehow, not very nice and we really should try to like everybody. Again, that is not normal or possible. My favorite Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron, has confessed to meeting up with some people at retreats that just rub her the wrong way. I’m not sure what the correct way to rub a Buddhist nun is, but apparently there are some other people who don’t know either, because she freely admits to struggles with this. Being Spiritual doesn’t make a person immune to feelings of discord when we encounter those who are not compatible with us.

If someone is hostile or has an overly assertive personality and you are empathic and highly sensitive, it is common to raise your shields and want to retreat. However, it’s also common to have people like this pick up on your feelings and get satisfaction from deliberately jerking your chain and they will pursue you when you try to emotionally back away.

When we feel ourselves tense up and our eyes narrow, it’s a good indication that a long, deep growl is forthcoming. We will feel protective of our aura and sense that we are under attack. If this psychic predator keeps us in their sights, we need to stand our ground and don’t worry about being nice. We can take our cue from Nature and work with that part of us that dwells in the shadows and not feel that we have to override it or cast it aside. We don’t need to accept this any more than we would allow ourselves to be abused physically.

Don’t hesitate to do a binding. If we are mindful of our intentions and do this responsibly, there is no reason not to utilize this option to protect ourselves when we become the target for unwarranted aggression. Trust your instincts. We have been instilled with a wariness that will guide us and let us know if a binding is applicable. Trust it. The shadow knows.

Just Sharing a Poem

I’m not sure when I wrote this, it’s not dated and it apparently has no title. Perhaps you can think of one.  It was on a warm evening when I sat in my yard near the pond, waiting for the Firefly ballet to begin. I often take a pen and note book with me…just in case I experience something noteworthy. Recently discovered by ‘accident,’ tucked between some books I was going through, I thought I’d share it.  I look out my window at the snow and dream of evenings such as this. Not my best work, but it was what occurred when the pen in my hand began to move…and I let it.

At dusk while sitting in the yard

A breeze caressed a willing cheek.

Some mirthful tune, a gift of bard

A voice and playful lips did seek.

The melody echoed in my head

Until no more my silence kept.

Softly wafting loft instead,

The song from parted lips then crept.

“She changes everything” I sang,

“And all She touches changes”.

This chant amid the breeze then rang

To She who rearranges.

A Dragonfly then came my way

To perch upon my tree.

A smile crossed my lips to say,

“I bid good eve’ to thee.”

It rested there to spend the night.

I thought myself so blessed

To marvel at this wondrous site.

“Please stay”, was my request.

Draped, a softly layered night

Of cobalt, dipping near.

The fragile beauty’s rest from flight

Reflected in a single tear.

The ‘Show Me State’

If only we ask, we will receive. On the way home from work last night something weighed heavily on my mind. The Crow is one of my Nature Guides, therefore, the sighting of one when requested is a sign that I ask for when I need direction. Putting myself in the state of mind that was needed to allow the message to transcend any preconceived idea that I may have had, I became open to what I had requested.

There she was. One Crow on a wire.
This is a solitary quest. I know, I see.

I Heard, I Answered

If you are reading this, you know that I am a Witch. There never was a time, since I ‘took up the broom’, that I chose to keep it in the closet. I just felt that I couldn’t educate people from in there. Over the years, I have had to defend my path, explain it and endure the results when someone had preconceived notions as to what the Craft is and what kind of person I am for following it.

The most difficult part is the quest for validity. I dress primarily in black, and some would say, ‘look the part’ in the same way that a nun or priest does.  This is not to make a statement or stand out in a crowd, but rather to enhance what I do 24/7 and that is to immerse myself in the fathomless well that is my spiritual calling. Ah ha, here’s where it gets sticky. Trying to convince those of mainstream, conventional paths that the calling that I received is just as valid and righteous as the one that called them to theirs.

It doesn’t help that the fun part of being a Witch has a tendency to overshadow the deep spiritual aspect. Creepy and kooky, mysterious and spooky and altogether…uky? I might be mysterious and quite eccentric,  but I’ve never been ‘uky’ a day in my life. Sure, I reach into my ‘wicked sense of humor bag’ a lot when it comes to being a Witch because it helps others get comfortable with who I am, but certainly not to mock or make fun of what I feel is a sacred path. Once people find me approachable, they will discover that I am a person they might want to get to know better and may even begin to defend me to anyone who might say something negative. I consider this, progress. So, if I have to cackle at one more joke at my expense or threaten to unleash my flying Monkeys, I’m okay with it.  I know that no malice is intended when a co-worker gives me a gift of a green faced, hooked nose, Witch Beanie Baby. Compared to being snubbed, harassed, and the target of mean spirited nastiness…I can take a joke and make them too.

When I am alone in my beautiful room that I have that serves as my ‘Temple Between The Worlds”, I don’t have to explain a thing. My Patrons know me and I know Them. I didn’t summon Them or demand that They ‘work with me’, but rather, each one made Themselves known when I was ready to hear Them and accept the honor of Their presence in my life. No one will ever make me doubt the validity of the connection that I have with Them. I’ve witnessed and experienced the result every moment, and for this, I am eternally grateful. Yes, the Magick is a glorious gift and the power can be intoxicating, but my relationship with Them is truly the highest blessing that I have been given.

At times, due to the depth of the spiritual aspect of my calling, I might be accused of attempting to lure people away from their own religious beliefs and practice, especially when it comes to young people and their curiosity. Nothing could be farther from the truth because I know the difficulty of traversing this terrain with all its jagged edges. The desperate loneliness of being a ‘minority’, steeped in a brew of solitary secrecy, is no church pot luck or community picnic in the park. Being true to my path, I don’t celebrate holidays that are not congruent with my beliefs so unless I celebrate with my own Coven or attend the limited events available, I’m on my own.

As for the young who might be enticed by the Craft, I am quick to point out, they could do worse. A path that requires them to accept the responsibility for their actions, live in harmony with Nature and lead contentious lives might be an improvement over blaming parents, ‘the devil’ or both, for being inconsiderate, self-absorbed and entitled. However, they will not be coerced by me.

Can a person take their spiritual path too seriously? If so, I am justly accused. Would I accept being martyred to defend it? I certainly hope that it never comes to that. But, I am someone who cannot separate my spirituality from ‘real life’ because for me, they are one in the same and not side by side. The days of living my path one hour a week in a building designated for that purpose are long gone and far behind me. It was for that very reason that I found myself waging a constant internal battle to be good enough in the eyes of my ‘god’ and failed miserably because I was trying to empty the world’s oceans with a teaspoon. Where would I put the water without creating another ocean that needed to be emptied?

I made one last desperate cry for help that fell on deaf ears. When the echo of my own scream subsided, I heard the call that I was meant to hear…and I answered.

Yule Be Behind

Yule is past, but the fires still burn, nursed by glowing embers. Imbolc is coming and the light is waxing as the Wheel turns. I always thought it glorious to be a Pagan, but the beauty of this Earth based path is so evident when we celebrate seasons and not just ‘holidays’. Most of them are the creation of Christians in an attempt to lure the heathens from their heaths and pagans from their rural ways. Persecuted, tortured and martyred, the practitioners survived as well as their practice. I am grateful to publicly express my love of this path. I may be misunderstood and maligned, but when it comes to pointing a finger…don’t tempt me. I cast in perfect love and perfect trust…most of the time. The rest of the holiday celebrations, decreed so by the greeting card industry, are as flimsy and fleeting as the paper they’re created from.

The Red Winged Black Birds will return early again this year. They have been for some time as the warming trend continues. For all the naysayers who shivered in disbelief when temperatures here in Madison, Wisconsin dipped to arctic levels scoffed over the concept of global warming, there are those of us who know that it is the erratic patterns that mean more than the notion that we should all be sporting shorts in January.

Hunting Hawks filled the skies yesterday as my husband and I traveled to visit family two hours north. Their pray ventures forth to find food when underground pantry stores run low. For those of us who live this path, we feel seasons in ways that escape those who need a meteorologist for confirmation. New life energy is coursing throughout root systems and buds that formed by last Mabon send silent signals within their structure, lying in wait until it’s time to burst.

Some part of every day should be spent in Nature. Love Her, revere Her and thank Her for all that She is and provides. Commune with Her and bind and bond, and what She reveals will enrich your life in ways that mundane minds struggle to imagine, much less grasp. Her consort, the Stag will empower you with His boldness and courage. Paw the Earth to honor Him.

When Imbolc arrives with fresh Ewe’s milk and fires prodded to full glory, pull your capes around you tightly. Warmed and quenched by mulled ale, dance the dance your primal essence has never forgotten, allowing your capes to billow in the wind, lifting you skyward to a higher trance. Drum through the night enticing the light to return.

By crackling pine and Yule log char
Divine in embers, near and far
In fire bright, receive the sight
Knowing comes by morning light.

Keep the secret, keep it well
This is not for you to tell
For your truth is only yours
It’s the key to open doors.

Wisdom here will be revealed
If not for you, will then stay sealed
But, if it is, you cannot hide
From the secrets locked inside.

Fear will never serve you well
Grasp your crystal and your bell
Drive it forth and you will see
Destiny that’s meant for thee.

Blessings everyone.

Signs Of Samhain

It seems that merchants put out the holiday trappings earlier every year. “Halloween” is no exception. For many, it’s all about ghouls and goodies, but it’s not all screams and tales from the dark side for those of us who practice the Craft.

For me, it is a somber time. The gentle hues of fading grasses against a back drop of brilliant color presents a view that is breathtaking. Honking Geese on the fly fill the skies and I frequently offer a smile and a wave with the cheery send off of, “have a nice flight”.

Yesterday, as I sat in the griffin chair on my stoop, an unlikely pair of birds perched side by side in ‘Evelyn’, my crab tree. A Robin and a Black-eyed Junco. One, the first sign of Spring and the other the first sign of Winter. It’s so soon for the Junco to make an appearance…early snow. Many will not be happy, but you must trust Mother’s omens and signs. Reading them is what Witches do.

Samhain is also celebrated as the New Year in many Craft traditions so as Nature appears to be dying back, we are looking forward. We put to rest things of the past and plan for the decent of the dark times when days continue to get short and we take to the comfort of hearth and home. Deeper and deeper we go… into our studies and spells. Divination in candle lit rooms, heady with clouds of incense smoke that smack of damiana and dragon’s blood occupy the evening hours. My scrying mirror, awake now, as I remove it from its protective bed of mugwort. The Celtic knot work forms a circle with the center, a bottomless black pool. By flickering candle flame the myst will form and then part when the visions come.

Not to rain on anyone’s costume parade, I don my pointy black hat that I designed to be so very ‘me’. A yard or so of fine black tulle, black roses and the brim a flutter of feathers. My night wear is the same as my day wear so I don’t have to change a thing. Long black skirt, black velvet shirt and mile worn ‘granny’ boots, the leather soft and buttery. I sit in the Griffin chair, partially hidden behind an iron trellis of clematis, faded to a crispy mass of vines.

One by one they come, some remember from years past that a Witch lurks in the shadows. I sit out there to prevent the Cats going bonkers from the doorbell and the constant jumping up from the sofa to answer the call. Besides, it’s fun to give them a reason to be scared. A caramel apple martini sits on my twisted twig table to ward off the chill…this is the night for ‘spirits’ after all…

A shudder of my spine puts me on edge. It’s her. With her spritely red gingham over dress and her white eyelet petticoat…and those damnable ruby red shoes. As I drop the candy in her bag I lean into her and hiss, “I’ll get you and your little dog”. She looks at me, all saucer eyed and confused. “I don’t have a dog” she says haughtily. Come on kid, if I have to play this silly game then so do you.

The Ninjas, the vampires, the superheroes and the unrecognizable form a steady stream from road and side walk. They love to come to this neighborhood so a line of cars accompanies the walkers. “You got the good stuff” one girl exclaims with glee. “All we usually get is dum-dums”.

The little Witches get told how gorgeous they are and Harry Potter is always a welcomed sight. At random, when the voice within tells me ‘this one’, I reach into a velvet pouch and remove one of my Magickally charged crystals. “This is a Magick crystal” I explain as I slip it in with the candy. “Use its powers wisely and kindly”. One teenage girl was so overjoyed she clutched it tightly and taunted her friends. “I’m the only one who got one”. “Don’t give any body a face full of zits with that or it will backfire”, I caution.

I never mind if the kids get older than most find to be the acceptable age to join in the candy raid. I figure if they’ve got the balls to dress up and ring door bells for a box of Nerds, then I shall oblige. I’ve had a few adults as well. It’s funny that people that never even acknowledge each other with so much as a neighborly wave now commune with laughter and so much joy and merriment that it is sure to keep any evil far, far away.

But, when the porch lights go out and all falls dark and silent, the real reason for this season comes to light. I set the fire pit ablaze in the backyard and the Moon and star cut outs flicker in the darkness. Now is the time to remember them. Those who have passed on, beloved and missed, as well as those whose Earth walk never crossed with mine.

I reverently part the veil and offer a recitation of gratitude for the victims of the burning times. Was it their frightful appearance that has inspired the image of what has become the stereotypical Witch? Women, beaten and bruised until their flesh took on a greenish hue. Noses broken and crooked, teeth knocked out and hair yanked from scalps until it was little more than scraggly strands that hung limply, encrusted with blood and grime.

For those who were tortured and murdered, many whose only crime was to be unmarried or widowed. They owned land that would become church property in the event of their deaths so declaring them Witches made it all too convenient. The midwives who may have heard the first cries of their executioners when they helped to birth them. The practitioners of folk medicine whose herbs and potions brought relief and healing. As accusations flew, anguish and death would follow.

It is with pride that I practice my Craft openly and honestly. Something that they were not allowed to do after the old ways became a crime worthy of death. What a sacrifice they made. Those who truly practiced the Arts and those who simply lived a solitary, quiet life that wrangled suspicion.

For my ancestors, who had long passed before I ever heard their names. Some memories were shared around my grandmother’s table and I listened to the stories with eager ears. She is long gone too, but I can still see her snow white hair and dancing blue eyes as she rocked with laughter at the telling of the tales.

It was her collection of books and magazines that I dashed for right after I met with the barn Cats when my 5 year old imagination was vivid and undeniable. I’ll never forget in later years, reading a magazine that she had that featured an article about Sybil Leek, a real Witch. How fascinated I was…something stirring deep inside me that predicted my calling to the Craft many years later.

The ‘silent supper’ is observed in many a Witch’s kitchen. A place is set for someone who has left this incarnation and the meal is consumed in complete silence to honor the life of this invisible guest. A beautiful tradition among many that mark this final harvest holiday.

Stews of root vegetables flavored with dusky herbs steam in large bowls accompanied by slabs of grainy bread, saturated with melting sweet Irish butter. Cinnamon, cloves and allspice simmer in pots all day just to scent the air and entice prosperity when whispered spells are offered skyward with the steam. Out into the ethers they go, sure to bring health, wealth and love, riding upon the winds of change.

More than monsters and ghosts, this is a sacred time. I am quick to educate those who seem to think that people like me have lives that revolve around that kind of stuff. Like with many things, the lines for the observation and celebration have become more blurry with time and the chance to capitalize and merchandise is all too compelling.

Have fun and enjoy the trappings. But, when the silence falls, please take a moment to remember someone who has crossed over. The veil between the worlds is thin, they will hear you and they may speak. Listen, because the message will be one that will be important and will serve you well.

Blessed Samhain. Happy New Year.

Enchanted September Morning

I didn’t have to look at the calendar to know what day it was. I could feel it. The first day of September.

The Griffin chair on my stoop has become my favorite spot to sit with a cup or chalice and allow Nature to touch me. Screened by a wrought iron trellis of spent clematis blooms, I can be slightly veiled from the wild ones who stop by the feeders or sip from throats of flowers too tenacious to wither in the cool flow of morning air.

Alvin and Rocky scurry near my bare feet that are dusted by the hem of my long black skirt. Heedless of the fact that Chipmunks and Ground Squirrels are the sort who greet each other politely, but don’t make dates to ‘do lunch’,  they are willing to share the table I set before them. A mason jar sits along side my chair so that when my guests come to visit, a quick pop of the lid is all it takes to scatter the treasure of the mix of nuts, seeds and bits of dried fruit. Alvin’s cheeks are bulging with his cache of the loot to the point that he appears to be smiling at me…in fact, I know that he is.

Rocky looks dry and fluffy again after his near drowning incident. It was in this very spot that I sat one evening enjoying the last piece of cranberry orange cheesecake that my daughter had made for my birthday. Suddenly, Alvin and Rocky came darting from beneath my limelight hydrangeas and jumped up onto the ledge of the pond. This game of tag ended badly when Rocky ran too close to the edge and toppled in. He struggled to climb out on a Lilly pad, but he was too panic stricken and heavy with water to lift himself high enough. I grabbed my empty plate and placed it beneath his sodden little body and lifted him to safety.  His pride was as dampened as he was. Hiding behind a fern, he began to lick his fur in an attempt to avoid the evidence of this embarrassing and frightening event. He has all but forgotten it now…or hopes that any witnesses have.

I inhale deeply of air on the edge of Autumn and instinctively wrap my invisible cloak around my shoulders. A secret vow between me and the Great Mother seals my pledge to frequent this spot daily, even if for a just few minutes. In fact, I know I will have to or go mad from the desire to do so should I be tempted to allow the clang of mundane life with its screeching wheels and shrill alarms to interfere. The bliss of this experience and resulting euphoria will surely have me ‘jonsing’ for this fix…not the ‘fix’ from drugs that slaughter the mind and rip wide the spirit…but a true ‘fix’. A fix for stress, a fix for fatigue, a fix for anything that might ail me.

So, how long before the sky reflects the hues of turning leaves? Each one the colorful, karmic chameleon of the Trees, beginning with a shy, light blush that soon gives way to a bold, shimmery, show girl shade of raging scarlet. Country roads will tie it all up in black winding ribbons that beg to be unraveled by convertible, rag top down days. Nothing is as glorious as zoom, zooming down the back roads in my husband’s little red sports car, my black chiffon scarf whipping wildly behind me.

The ending of Summer is the beginning of the best that is yet to come. At least it is for me. No fan of heat and humidity, the time I spend out doors is short lived until the temperature dips below 80 or I can find an expanse of shade. The quickening of my heart and stirring of my spirit opens my senses shamelessly. I sniff the breeze and the scents of damp soil, moss and mushrooms intoxicate me. Everything feels deep and cavernous with many places to explore.

Mabon rites will mark the first day of Fall and Samhain on October 31st will be the last of the Harvest holidays. Traditions will be kept and new ones created, for every experience has the potential to be remembered and celebrated. As does this one, right here, right now.