Tag Archives: nature

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Get Out!!!

Outside my window there is a duvet cover of white snow spread over the lawn. The temperature is uncertain at this point, but my observance of plumage fluffed to maintain body heat of the birds who are enjoying their breakfast at my feeders indicates that it is somewhere between frigid and f’ing cold.

For this reason, people in my neck of the woods might tell me where to put my request while some of you may find it to be a glorious reason to stroll on the beach buffeted by balmy breezes. Either way, I am going to do it and assure you that if you do too, you will have something that will not only remind you of the experience, but will enhance your indoor living space in a way that only bringing something into it from the outside can.

I have all kinds of things that I have collected over the years that hold the energy of their place of origin and have blended very well. Representatives of the elements help to balance your living space and keep it and you grounded. Having them available for touch is especially nice when going outside to handle them in their environment might not be enjoyable.

The bundle of vines in the urn was given to me by a Sister of my Coven and has graced my home for a long time. I have given them a make-over at times by changing the silk foliage and the lights need replacing from time to time, but they still add their Magick by providing me with a ‘tree’. Having something from Nature to share its beauty in an unexpected place to have it is wonderful. The energy of the soil from which they grew is felt as well as the vines themselves that curve gracefully as a ‘hair do’ that may have been styled by the wind.

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So, out I go when I notice that my hydrangea blossoms are a lovely shade of Autumn bronze. They are still perfectly formed though shaking in the arctic blast. Brrrr. I took a pruner with me, but it wasn’t needed when I discovered that the stems were brittle and snapped off easily. I brought them in and added them to the base of vines in the urn.

Wow. They have added so much that I can’t imagine why I hadn’t filled that space between the silken wisteria and chartreuse spikey foliage before. A small silver gazing ball that had found itself homeless after the floor update is now nestled in a spot that reflects the hydrangeas. From Spring until now they have found a way to bring me pleasure and will continue to do so. When they were lime colored and sweetly scented in Summer I didn’t want to bring them in since the plant is fairly new and blossoms were sparse. The ones that remain out there provide a perch for the birds and help shelter them.

WP_000132The iron birdbath is also something I’ve had for years when I saw it and just had to have it. A birdbath that has never spent a single moment outside. It’s very heavy and takes up a bit of space that could be put to more practical use, but I just could never bring myself to put it in the yard.

A large figurine of a dove used to sit on its rim until Hmandu, my teenaged Cat, sent it airborne to the floor where it smashed into countable but non-repairable pieces. I thought about trying to find another bird to put there, but its layer of stones and 3 votive candle cups gave me an idea.

I added some crystals and stones with various properties, some feathers I had collected from outside, and some shells I had picked up years earlier from a coastal beach trip. I have items that correspond to Earth, Air, Fire and Water in the basin that I take the time to hold and feel their energy. This is particularly nice after a long stress filled day at work.

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Go on, get out there. No excuses. If I can freeze my tail going out to pick flowers you can venture forth to pick up a few pine cones, feathers, or stones or bring in some twigs and decorate them with tiny lights. A transplanted layer of moss can carpet a terrarium or a vessel of beach sand can have you feeling the surf as you tip it from side to side. Let their energy flow as you mindfully blend these gifts of Nature into your Magickal space.

So, what did you find?

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Enchanted September Morning

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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.

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Follow Me

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We are less than a month away from the Autumnal Equinox and many Pagans will be celebrating the holiday of Mabon. All of the Red Winged Blackbirds have migrated and Robins too, have left for the southern states. For some, this is a time of sadness and they see Fall as the segue between Summer and the Winter that they dread.

For me, this is my favorite season. Everything becomes quiet as Nature becomes draped in the somber, quiet shades in the crayon box. The honey hued tan of grasses and grains provide the back drop for the darker browns of bristly teasel cones and cinnamon sprays of Goldenrod. Stands of Sumac boast their crimson leaves and clusters of ripe, red berries. Birds gather to reap the bounty of seeds and fruit and Squirrels dart about with acorns and hickory nuts. Chipmunks with cheek pouches stuffed to capacity find a safe place to store their Winter’s provisions. My garden crocs in the garage will serve quite nicely as I soon discover when Spring arrives and I find them filled with shelled corn.

But, then there is the myst. As light begins to unravel the tapestry of darkness and the voice within interrupts my last stage of sleep, I hear it. A whisper at first, tempting the ease with which I can ignore it. This is not to be. More persistent with problematic volume, it gets me up…and out.

For to follow it and seek its origin, it requires that I dress quickly and silently as to disturb no one. The journey is one that must be embarked upon without the hampering knowledge of my husband who may ask where I am going and tell me I’m crazy. The polite term is ‘impulsive’ or the glorious, rebellious label of ‘impetuous’. I’m all that…and a crazy-ass bag o’ tricks.

Anyway, as of yet, I don’t know…out. However, nothing gets past the Cats. They watch as the hem of my long, black skirt swishes around my ankles in anticipation of the lacing of my boots. The black suede, scuffed and worn smooth, yet I cannot bear to part with them. Astarte tugs at the laces and the battle between fingers and paws continues until I am able to tie a bow at the top. Rhiannon gives the bow a well placed swipe, but I have learned the advantage of the double bow years ago and it remains tied.

The black velvet top I have chosen might be no match for the chill of retreating night air so I reach into the foyer closet and find my long black cloak. The hood might come in handy, should the damp mist cover my hair with persistent wet kisses.

Out the door I go, keys in hand, after locking it behind me and resetting the alarm. A burglar strikes once, and you never leave your fortress trustingly unguarded again. I wait for the voice to give me direction. “This way, Katrika. Down to the park”.

The park is an open field, mowed clean of the wild things that would return to prairie grasses and blooms if they just left it alone. However, the soccer ball kicking feet that stomp and run every weekend would beat it all into submission anyway.

At the far end of the park is a small stand of trees. I’m not sure why they have not suffered the fate of the grasses and wildflowers, but I am grateful that they have been granted a pardon and have somehow been allowed to be wild in this urban sprawl. This is my ‘Secret Grove’. The voice has called me here before. I’m not sure if it lives here full time or has determined that this is the place for us to meet for the random trysts that I never initiate.

My boots are sodden as I wade through the grasses that have ducked out of the way of the mower and remain ankle deep. They bend beneath each slippery step as I look behind me to see if the evidence of my passage will tell. The hem of my skirt is drenched as well and hangs heavy at my feet. My cloak, now glistening with the droplets that cling to the soft textured fuzz of the brushed fleece would sparkle if the Sun were allowed to shine. But here, the foggy dew rules.

Visibility is clogged and thickly veiled. A parting of the myst is sudden and unexpected like the sliding glass doors of a store front that were thought to be windows. I hesitate instinctively, but that is not to be. Being drawn in is also something that I respond to without a cautious thought.

Once again, I am lead to the huge Oak that stands in the center of the grove. The urge to touch ‘him’ is never one that I can resist and I am grateful that no prying eyes can see me or even detect my dark form through the fog. A knowing floods my being as the connection is made. This opens the portal and the many, mingled voices of those long gone all call to me at once. They are welcoming, much like the humming din of entering a cocktail party after most of the guests have arrived. And, just like the party, one by one echoes a greeting.

Three Crows gather in the branches overhead and I sigh with pleasure. Crows are my signature. They are my guides and comrades and serve to lead me through the Gates of Mystery. My own voice, audible and sure, greets them as the loyal friends that they are. They speak and I know exactly what they are saying. “Listen”.

The Old Ones touch me with invisible hands, their message is to tell me of their approval and their joy. I have walked this path for 23 years and have never doubted that it was the one that correctly chose me. As I tell those who have approached me to teach them, if this path is not for you, you cannot force it. But, if it is, it will not be denied.

This knowing, this experience is one that happens as it will. The first time or two I was a bit apprehensive, but this Witch, like her brew, is now well seasoned. I am never surprised any more, yet always amazed. I hear, see, and know that which goes unnoticed. I touch and feel the life that dwells in things that are thought to have no life, yet a heartbeat thumps unhaltingly beneath my fingers. I hear snow falling and feel leaf buds forming. This is what I signed on for when I accepted the call. However, the loneliness is the one thing that I take care to emphasize with new students. It is the burden of the Witch and has the ability to crush you if you don’t find a way to make it your saving grace. Fortunately, I have.

The Sun is breaking the horizon with a slash of His fuchsia brush and I see the myst receding in compliance. My hood falls back and I feel the warmth erase the chill of being damp. It is over. For now. My footfalls retrace my steps and the taller grasses surrender to the shorn stubs of humanity as my cloak dusts them of dew.

The brass triquetra knocker looms before me at eye level and I hear ‘Margaret’ on the other side of the front door, her proper British accented voice saying, “disarmed’ at the touch of my alarm fob and I flip my key in the lock. The Cats glance at me with knowing eyes, bewhiskered mouths upturned in a sly grin. They know exactly where I went and what I was doing. You can never hide Witchery from a Cat no matter how well you might try to disguise it. It’s in their blood with the same intensity as it is in mine.

My cloak is hung in it the confines of the closet and my boots are off. Chilly fingers are soon wrapped around a large coffee cup given to me by one of MoonShadow Coven’s Sisters. It reads, “I’m A Real Witch In The Morning”…indeed.

I don’t know when the voice will call me to my sacred ‘Secret Grove’ again, nor do I lie in the darkness in anticipation. It will happen as it will. In it’s own time, when the Ancients feel my unconscious need to connect with them there. Yet, in this season of what many interpret as Summer ‘dying’, I have never felt more alive.

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Fall In The Gap

It appears to be Summer, and according to the calendar, it still is until the Autumnal Equinox, observed by Pagans as the holiday of Mabon. However, having just celebrated the first harvest holiday of Lughnasadh at the beginning of August, we instinctually feel the need to hunt and gather as our ancestors did. To preserve the Earth’s bounty of fruits, vegetables, and herbs and prepare for the dark times ahead.

Memories of kitchen windows fogged over, forming rivulets of the water that ran down them as if it was raining indoors awaken my senses. A huge granite kettle on the stove contained a roiling froth of water that made a knocking sound as it rocked on the cherry-red, hot burner and turned the kitchen into a steam bath. The canning jars inside would ring cheerily as they clinked together. It was important that they be sterilized to the point that they squeaked when they were pulled from the boiling water.

The annual ritual of seeing my mother preparing the garden overflow was repeated in many kitchens throughout the country at this time.  Jewel toned home-made jellies in paraffin topped crystalline jars would sparkle in the sun. The citrine hue of apple, amethyst shaded elderberry, deep garnet chokecherry, and that wonderful ruby colored combination made from leftover amounts too small to fill a jar that was christened, “mixed fruit”.

Green beans and pickles stood tall in jars awaiting vinegar spiked brine, the aroma of fresh dill and garlic made every inhalation divinely delicious. They would be ready by Thanksgiving, when the musical, back note crunch they lent to the orchestral chime of silverware could be heard around the table.

The glorious warm, woody smell of cinnamon sticks and whole cloves have become the signature scents of Fall. They infused the sticky sweet syrup that would cling to peaches, plums and crabapples when they were plucked from their jars and ladled over ice cream in crispy, baked clouds of merengue or stood delightfully on their own in fine, china dessert bowls.

Tomatoes gave up their lusty tang when they became sauces, juice or that wonderful mélange of flavors of green peppers and onions to become ‘stewed’. Almost a meal in itself when accompanied by crusty slices of bread generously spread with sweet, creamy butter and dipped into the broth.

Before pumpkins and Winter squash become ubiquitous as adornment for mantle and table, pies, and a platform for marshmallow goo, relish the vines and the other bounty entangled in their spirals. Venture forth into the woods where glistening blackberries beg to be savored. Birds and Bears will seldom give up this cherished secret. The bloodletting ritual of getting scratched by the thorns will become tomorrow’s battle scars worthy of bragging rights back at the office where you may be asked if you spent the weekend wrestling feral Kittens.

Wild grapes, that when tasted off the vine, will have you puckering and spitting in short order should not be abandoned. Gather them and bring them home where the addition of sugar and yeast will provide you with a boast and toast worthy batch of wine to share with those you love.

Jars of pride infused home-canned produce would be entered in county fairs with the hope of winning the coveted ‘Blue Ribbon’ and in rural areas, this has not changed. Many jars are adorned by hand crafted labels and raffia bows to be given as gifts and were as appreciated as anything Tiffany’s could put in tiny boxes.

This time honored tradition of “putting up” food, as it was called, has succumbed to the convenience of grocery stores and mass marketing of canned ‘goods’. Sadly, many of the dishes that used to grace the table regularly have now become novelty items tucked into premade food baskets as ‘filler’, often gathering dust on pantry shelves or re-gifted when they’ve sat unopened and untried long enough. Delightful concoctions such as corn relish, and fruit compotes have become today’s salsas and still add a burst of flavor that should not be reserved only for snacks and chips. I recently made a cucumber, kiwi salsa that accompanied both chicken and fish equally well and became an adventure when I boldly served it with a sage laced pork sausage.

Stroll this bridge between Summer and Fall. Here in Wisconsin, this is the last “hurrah” of scorching beaches, balmy breezes and tall drinks shaded by paper umbrellas before it gives way to frosty lawn mornings, crisp slices of wind and hot cocoa bon-fire nights.

Every season has its beauty in Nature that provides experiences to treasure. Feel them, taste them, smell them and view them through the eyes of your soul.

So, what’s going on within and without your windows?

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The Gift of the Present

When a sate of the euphoria of life becomes the swell that overtakes you and washes you out into a sea of bliss like a riptide, as in reality, don’t fight it. Don’t head for the shore, for that is from whence you came and the sea will not allow you to go back there.  Don’t head out toward the open water, for that is the future and your fate out there is uncertain. Instead, swim parallel to the tide, neither fighting to return to the past, nor forging ahead into the future. When you are released, you will arrive safely farther down the beach with no desire to cling to where you started or concern as to where you are going. You are simply happy to be. This is where you are now.

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Shhhhhh

Your yard is speaking. Is it screaming, “MOW ME” or “WEEDS, WEEDS, WEEDS”? How you respond can make the difference between the Magickal and the mundane.

I can remember living in apartments when my yard consisted of a four by four-foot balcony or the stretch of side-walk from my front door to the parking lot. At one time, we lived in a side by side duplex and actually had a yard. I’d sit out there for hours and think of all the ways I’d change it and make it ‘my’ space had it really been mine. I got to plant my own flowers as well as maintain what the landlords had put in, but it was not the same as envisioning and designing and finally breathing life into something personal and beautiful.

Manifesting is a glorious thing!!! I have a yard of my own. Every year, starting in January when a thick batting of glistening white snow still covers my yard and my perennials lay beneath it, brittle, crystalline blossoms and stems, it begins…I clear the library shelves of gardening books and whoop for joy when my seed catalogs begin to arrive. Out comes my sketch pad and lists are made.

Lawn is so overrated. It’s not good for the environment and unless you grow native species, the up keep is futile when the heat and humidity and lack of rain turns it into something brown that crunches beneath your feet. Grass shouldn’t ‘crunch’. Going barefoot becomes a ballet on razor blades. But, it provides me with the bliss of replacing it with beds and borders of colorful blooms.

Native grasses are considered ‘weeds’ but I allow as many of them as I can to invade my lawn until the neighborhood association gets militant on my green ass. When the lawn is a sea of brown, what springs eternally emerald? My ‘weeds’. Besides, if what I wanted in a yard was a pristine, manicured expanse of lawn, I’d go live at the golf course.

The wildlife is also welcomed with no regard as to what they may destroy. I put wire fences around my flower beds when the Rabbits gnaw my investment to stubs and put out extra ‘critter chow’ in their dishes. After all, what lays beyond my open door is their home. I am simply allowed to share it with them.

Bird feeders, as well, are open to the public. Discriminating against Birds who ‘eat too much’ would be like getting turned away at the buffet because of your size. So, ok…I have combination Bird/Squirrel feeders. The show those little gray acrobats put on never fails to bring a dopey grin to my face. Chase them away? Not in this yard.

My Ground Squirrels and Chipmunks march their new families out with pride. The babies find their way beneath the feeders and become furry Roombas, vacuuming up what spills. Soon they catch on too and join their parents in following the lady in the big, showy hat with the peanuts in her pocket (that would be me). They shove the nuts in their cheeks until they’re so full they can’t even close their mouths.

So, how do I view this paradise of my own making? A place that requires hours of toil and trouble or is this sacred space? I always know when I’ve crossed that line. My flowers sadly hang their heads, and even the fountain in the pond no longer splashes a happy song.

When it becomes ‘work’ instead of a privilege, it’s time to remember the woman who longed for a yard of her own. Once the proper mindset is achieved and the joy of creation and the pride of ownership take over and reclaim this Magickal Space, it all transforms.

Everything is bathed in a golden, rosy glow. I have things growing that defy any explanation as to how they even got there. I have a Mullein that appeared from the ethers and is the size of something you’d expect to see at Findhorn. My Yucca is huge and has three towering spires of white blossoms. Three is a Magickal number in the Craft.

It’s like an international airport out there. Birds and furry little beings coming and going through out the day, all with their own agendas, busily eating, creating new homes or just playing.

The fountain in the pond plays a merry tune as Dragonflies perch on water plants, their gossamer wings reflecting the light like pave’ jewels. Butterflies provide an aerial show and a Humming Bird zips past my head so close that the wind from its wings stirs my hair.

At night, the light show begins as strings of little white bulbs pop on and solar stems change color. Fireflies flicker until the whole thing looks like someone above is showering it all with silver glitter. My husband calls it my ‘Rivendell’.

Sometimes a fire is made in the ‘cauldron’ and a new gourmet s’more is invented. Orange flavored dark chocolate on a chocolate graham cracker, the marshmallow toasted to the perfect golden hue. Mmmm. Pistachio studded milk chocolate and a chocolate flavored marshmallow smacked between two Walker shortbread rounds…oh yeah.

Listen to your yard. Look at it with Magickal eyes and you will truly be seeing it for the first time. It will respond, love for love. It’s not a ‘chore’ to take care of it, it’s an honor. Name your Trees as I did and hug them once in a while. If you’re really concerned about being watched, a cloak of invisibility spell will preserve your dignity. Unless, you do as I do and toss it to the wind. Dance in the sprinkler, knowing that Faeries will join you. Laugh hysterically…it’s required.

Even if your yard is a balcony and your paths are concrete, put a flower in a fanciful container and call it a garden. Flowers love complements so tell her she’s beautiful every day. Toss some seeds in a pot and you can grow a salad. A basil plant will keep you in pesto all Summer long.

Well, I should stop or this book will never fit on the shelf. Besides, a corner of the Woodland Garden wants a make-over and the Cardinal is calling my name. I can’t wait to get out there and tend to my very Magickal Space. This is joy.

This is home, theirs and mine. Flora and Fauna. This is our “Enchanted”.

I hope you enjoy seeing the pictures as much as I enjoy sharing them.

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Lavish Litha

MidSummer is here and I will be celebrating in beautiful Door County in the northern peninsula of Wisconsin again this year. The most exciting thing is that I have the opportunity to see Ravens. Last year, I was a bit crestfallen because we were bringing an end to the weekend and I had yet to see my Raven. We stopped at a few more shops as we prepared to leave for home and I heard the familiar raspy call. My eyes eagerly scanned the boughs of a huge pine tree behind one of the shops and saw two Ravens land in the top branches. How exciting!!!

Many times, just as we are about to abandon the hope of bringing that which we want to manifest through the ethers into this physical realm, it suddenly appears. Is this a lesson to remind us to never cross that line of hope or is it intended to teach us that ‘letting go’ is the secret to manifesting?