Sweet Fern

I have been walking a bit, lately, various circuits around the neighborhood; and this plant caught my eye.  But it's odd, this time: it didn't shout at me, and it didn't really even 'catch' my eye; I just sort of slowly became aware of it.

I've lived in this neighborhood pretty much all my life; I live in the childhood home, which is mine now.  I've seen this plant all my life.  But I never really saw it, I don't think.

I never knew what it was called.  I knew that it sometimes grew right up next to bayberry, and that it was frequently in the company of oak trees and pines, so, it preferred sandy soil; and I knew that it smelled really lovely, similar to bayberry yet its own distinct thing, like cinnamon and cloves are similar yet very different.  I know, or I think, that it releases its scent with the afternoon sun.  But I didn't know its name.

I had a Hel of a time figuring that out.  It doesn't seem to have been studied much, and matching up the picture in my head to a Googleable description was pretty tough.  But after a couple of hours I found it.

It's Comptonia peregrina, also known as sweet fern.  It is related to bayberry, or at least in the same general family; it's the only Comptonia out there, though.  It is also, of course, not a fern.

Once I found the name I searched for herbal information on it and found very little.  It's not in any of my magical herb books, nor in my dye books; the internet wasn't much help, either.  It appears to have been overlooked a bit, just like I had overlooked it all my life while still recognizing it.  But there was a reason I was noticing it now, so I journeyed to See.

I found it growing in that little herb garden behind the Tree.  Well, it wasn't quite in the garden, but growing outside of it by the stone wall.  The stones were warm still from being in the sunshine; I sat down next to it and said Hello.

I asked then if it would be okay to talk to it; I got a feeling of warmth, so took that as a yes.  I showed it the picture I'd done (the one above), as offering.

Now, sometimes with these shamanish plant talks the plant's 'voice' is loud and clear; this time I got ideas and themes, not quite pictures but like pictures in that there was a lot of information without words that I then had to sort.

I first got the word 'exotic', with the picture of the sun shining off a golden coin necklace; then 'native,' which struck me as a paradox.  It is a native plant to the east coast and New England, unlike the invasive/European ones I've 'talked to' before.  But there was something of myrrh to it, like it was the local version of frankincense.  It was a paradox, and it made perfect sense.

I asked it what I wanted to tell me.  Yes, it was native, native like me.  Yes, it was familiar, and ordinary; yet when the sun came out and warmed the leaves that exotic fragrance was released.  There was a lesson there.

I feel I should point out that when I say 'native' that I don't mean Native American; I'm not.  That was the word I got, though, very strongly, and I take it to mean 'born here' (though strictly speaking I was born the next state over), and that I've lived here, in this neighborhood, almost all of my life.  I am native to this particular patch of land.  There is birth, and childhood, and growing up inherent in that word, native.  Familiar also is a good word: like family, it means.

It then told me to simmer the leaves as a tea, but only for the scent; she (it was a she, though not very strongly) said it would lift the spirits and clear the mind, and heal both mind and body.   Like athelas, I thought (that miracle weed Aragorn used for everything in the Lord of the Rings); I felt the sweet fern be pleased at that analogy.  So sweet fern is good against the Black Breath (in JRRT's secondary world) or against the Dementors (in JK Rowling's world).  And that I can definitely use, given that I live with an emotional vampire.

There was something else, though, something about it that allowed it to remain hidden or overlooked while still shining and being beautiful.  Something about it has a bit of misdirection to it, which given my circumstances is probably why it caught my attention.  It is hard to shine when you live with a vampire; they eat light, after all.   She then told me to put the dried leaves in a sachet with the sigil of The Closed Eye, which was new to me.  A 180 degree arc, like the bottom half of a circle (only with no diameter line), with small rays coming out of it, like a closed eye with eyelashes, or the part of the sun below the horizon at sunset.    That kind of concealment.  It shines, and very brightly, but not where a certain audience can see it.  And I can use that.

It said one more thing still; that it was also about having or making strong roots, especially in regards to place.  And that is also very helpful for me right now.

When it was finished I thanked it, and then breathed on it as a further offering.  I think it was pleased.

Mugwort Trial

I did try that mugwort flying ointment again, after I journeyed to talk with the plant herself; it worked this time, very definitely.

It brings a very different quality to the visions I experience, however. There is a very sharp clarity to things, an edge and a harshness, almost. It's also just a damned spooky plant. I found that during the vision, and for a couple days afterwards, I was seeing things out of the corner of my eye all the time.

I'm a skittish sort, given to anxiety; also I live in a two hundred and fifty year old colonial that was, and I am not making this up, the boyhood home of a murderer in the 1950s. There be ghosts here. And while I don't think their sort can hurt me, still, I don't need to see them all the time or be woken up by Emily leaning over me staring in curiosity. She's a nice girl, as far as ghosts go, but seriously. I'm already given to insomnia.

I'd even done, a year or two ago now, a little meditation to turn off my ability to see ghosts, because I just didn't need the extra anxiety, having enough of my own occurring naturally, thank you very much. I imagined a tap, like the kind on the side of the house, labelled 'ghosts'. And I closed it righty-tighty, until it was bone dry underneath.

That worked, for some time. And now I don't know if it's just the time of year now, as we slide down towards Samhain, but that mugwort flying ointment seemed to open that tap right up again. And again, I am really ridiculously sensitive to drugs and medicine, so I'm sure it is in large part just me.

But I don't need to be spooked, either. I will probably use it here and there, but for now the sweet honeysuckle is working just fine.

Queen Anne's Lace

I have been following along with Christopher Penczak's The Temple of Shamanic Witchcraft book all this year, having started the year-and-a-day course within it on the first of January; I figured it was a good place to start, even though I've been doing a good deal of what is in there on my own. It can be good to have a structure, and even some rules once in a while, even if one just throws out those rules later. (The same goes for art, of course.) Also it looked pretty balanced and that I'd get a good taste of things by following it.

So this month the lesson in part has been about plants, and journeying to find the 'medicine' they have for you. I have some problems with that terminology because it does strike me as appropriative of Native American traditions; however there isn't really an equivalent word in English that has all the nuances of it used in that context, so.

Last week or so I did a journey to connect with a plant, one whose 'medicine' was 'correct and good for me at this time', as Penczak suggests; what I got was Queen Anne's lace, Daucus carota, the wild carrot, as well as the word Sovereignty and a connection to the Goddess Áine of the Irish, which was especially interesting as I didn't know She was a sovereignty Goddess until I looked it up afterwards.

As that, however, just felt like an introduction, yesterday I sat down with some Queen Anne's lace I'd picked and painted it. And let me tell you that is one freakin' complicated flower. It's more or less a fractal, with the spray pattern of the main umbel repeated in the smaller ones. The finished art is pretty impressionistic, but there's only so much detail I can get in that particular style. Still, though, I think it came out pretty good. It's certainly recognizable, and that's the important part.

When I finished painting last night I put some of my really-very-mild honeysuckle flying ointment on and counted down. I haven't actually tried drumming myself; I have this feeling the movement will keep me on the surface. I really do have to be able to be still to get into trance, at least in my experience so far. I have tried to listen to a drumming track, and I'll say it certainly worked. Far too well. When I was done I couldn't make a fist I was so relaxed, though I was simultaneously sort of anxious, because the drumbeat was too fast. It didn't feel exhilarating; it felt like I was being chased by something big and nasty. And from the point of view of someone recovering from abuse, i.e. being prey my whole life, that was a definite no. At least for now.

So anyhow there I was by the Tree, and there was that spirit husband of mine. And there he was, and there I was and there was honeysuckle ointment on my third eye and wrists and damn but didn't he look good and so after a bit of distraction because, well, side effects, he took me around back to the little herb garden. I swear. It's kind of hilarious. I mean not that I need help finding the man attractive, Holy Mother of the Gods I really don't. But sheesh.

So he takes my hand (my left in his right, as usual) and leads me to a spot in the little herb garden by the Tree, the one with the brick circle-in-a-square; and there in the hottest driest sunniest spot of the garden, is a Queen Anne's lace plant. It is quite robust, a good four feet tall.

I sit down in front of it on the bricks; he sits behind me and I lean on him a bit. I look at the flower. I have never heard of anyone cultivating it as an ornamental, and I wonder why. It is really very beautiful, and just in the Googling around I did looking at pictures I can see that sometimes each little cluster has a pink or purple tinge to the center. I'll bet some hybridizer could really bring that out, as well as make the umbels like ten inches across. But as far as I know no one has. I suppose they've bred it for the carrot root, and I also know that it is a fine thing sometimes to leave well enough alone, and that the idea of it is, if not insulting in some ways, simply unnecessary. It is wild, and beautiful, and that is enough. I still wonder, though.

I ask if it would like to talk to me; I don't get anything, though I can feel that it is a she, although maybe that is just the name. I tell her I have made a little picture of her and I hope she finds it pleasing.

I think I faintly hear just a little bit of giggling. She's named after a queen, but there is also something a little bit like a child playing dress-up to her, too. Maybe it's the connection with the common carrot, I don't know. But she feels more like a princess than a queen to me. It is an interesting dynamic; there is, if not a contradiction to her, a complexity.

Suddenly I get a picture of her, something in motion; I watch each flower head explode, like a firework, then each little piece of that first explosion also explode. And then I See it: it's not a firework. It's the Big Bang, the explosion from which the Universe was made. The main umbel is the Universe; each secondary one a galaxy; each tiny little white flower a star. And the single dark flower in the center is reminder that it all begins in darkness, with the Void.

Then I watch it ungrow, the flower closing up into a bud, and the stem and leaves withdrawing down down into the ground; and then there is the root of her, the tough woody thing that fights its way through the poorest soil here in New England.

When I can find the words I ask, "How do you heal?"

She says without words, By growing a deep root so strong it enables me to stand tall as myself. Ah. That goes with 'sovereignty' quite well, doesn't it.

She then says The only way to disentangle complexity is to learn it, to really understand it by looking at it.

I realize that her flower head is also a symbol for the labyrinth, that complexity within, the journey into the dark and the Self; she connects the outer and inner, the higher and lower, the delicate and the tough, the macrocosm and microcosm, the light and the dark, the Universe and the Labyrinth.

After that just as suddenly I find myself looking again at this ubiquitous wildflower, one which is yet another introduced species in these parts, and don't think I haven't noticed that the invasive European plants are the ones asking for my attention. I am, I suppose, descended from invasive Europeans myself.

I bought carrots this week. That sounds silly, but it is an old, old, magic; for eating something is a way to take its essence into you. I don't care for them too much, I will admit, especially cooked; but, there at the end of this vision I get the suggestion that I should make some carrot cake. I think about it; I have all the ingredients, even cream cheese for the proper frosting. I am to bless it, and make it with intent, as taking the 'medicine' of the wild carrot into myself.

I thank her then, and as offering breathe on her, as both the gift of carbon dioxide and a little of my own life-energy, my spirit. I think she is pleased.

Mugwort

I've been aware of mugwort all this season; it is, these days, considered one of the witchy herbs par excellence: it's ubiquitous, especially aligned towards the visionary and dreams, and pretty mild, so a good place to start, so I've heard. You probably can't hurt yourself on it, barring an allergy.

So I've been picking it, and using it for the most part as infusions to cleanse and consecrate a crystal or two; and not too long ago I made a batch of flying ointment with some. I am assuming that the best way to approach this as a beginner is to just use one herb at a time per recipe, so that I can learn about that one herb before I try to combine several at once. I need to know what each one does on its own.

I tried the ointment, but it didn't do much for me, I didn't think; the vision was a bit jumbled and maybe even nonsensical. I'm not sure. It may be one of those herbs that doesn't really work as an ointment.

But the more I thought about it the more I thought I had been rather rude. I hadn't even said hello, really. Yes, I'd thanked it when I picked it but I was getting the distinct feeling that this particular herb wanted to be formally introduced.

So I picked some more the other day and sat down and sketched it; then tonight I painted it, like I did for the greater celandine a couple posts down. I haven't really heard of others approaching herbs in this manner, I mean as part of a ritual shamanish (as I like to say, given that I do not claim to be a shaman) getting-to-know process; but it makes a lot of sense for me, given that I am an artist. Because in drawing something you really have to look at it, at both the whole and the details.

This was the impression I got from mugwort from drawing it:

It has a precision to it, a not quite fineness, but a clarity, like you are looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope. It is very sharp, too, though not in a harmful or cutting way--it's more of that precision. And it reads as regal, to me, very much so. Perhaps it's the pointed leaves that look like the tines of a crown, or maybe it's the Tyrian purple running through the stalks; but though the stuff is very, very common in my area, still, it reads as a Queen. And yes, as very definitely female.

So I prepared myself tonight, and dabbed a little honeysuckle flying ointment on, as I still hadn't formally introduced myself and didn't want to use the mugwort. This is what I Saw:

My Guide, well I suppose I can say it in shamanic terms, my spirit husband, because that is the relationship we have, takes me to the Tree; to the right of it there is that little herb garden, the same one with the circle of bricks in the square of stone walls. It is a sunken garden, on three sides at least; the back wall leads down hill. There in the very center, on a raised platform or dais, is a very large mugwort plant.

I think about the name, mugwort, one of those old ugly Anglo-Saxon names; even the Latin name Artemisia vulgaris, has common, vulgar, right in it. Yet she feels royal to me.

I say, out loud in this vision, "Hello. I would like to speak with you. Would you like to talk to me?"

I get no response; no feeling one way or the other. With the greater celandine, I got a feeling of warmth.

I tell her then that I have made a painting of her, in honor of her and that I hope she likes it. Still nothing.

Then I say, "I fear I have made a mistake and that I have been rude. I have been using your herb, but I did not ask first, or even say hello. If I have been rude, I apologize."

Then I feel a bit of warmth. I mention the painting I have made again, and 'show' it to her in my mind's eye. Then she says, in words, "Oh those buds are darling."

I look at her. She is very much a Queen, and I mean in human form, which I was not expecting. She is sitting there, in the middle of the garden, on a silver throne; she is dressed all in grey silk with a silver crown, with, of course, the deeply divided mugwort leaves wrought in silver. Her hair is long and silver, though she is young, with a round white Moon face; I wonder if she is young now because the mugwort in my area (and hence the bit I'd just painted) is in bud, not bloom, buds being a maiden thing. Her eyes are a light gray-green.

I say again, "Hello."

Then I ask her how I should approach her. She says, "As ritual."

I then ask if I may have permission to harvest her herb. "Yes," she says, then adds, "take as much as you like." I thank her.

I ask her if there is something she would like me to know about her. She says, "I am common and I am Queen."

I ask if there is anything else she would like me to know about her. "I don't bite," she says quietly. I take that to mean she is approachable, but she expects a certain amount of politeness.

I ask if she is harsh. "I am when I need to be," she says, and that sounds fair to me. Then I ask if she is fair. "Yes," she says, and her eyes become a perfect neutral grey.

I look at her. "You are an introvert, aren't you?" I ask, because I'm getting the feeling she just looks aloof.

"Yes," she says, smiling. Okay. We have that in common, then. "Conversations with you go right for the depths, don't they?" I ask her. "Yes," she says, still smiling. Okay. That will be good to keep in mind when using that flying ointment, and that makes sense.

I ask her one more time if there is anything she would like me to know about her. She says, "I am of the Moon, the Sun, and the Sea."

Then I ask if it would be all right with her if I shared this conversation with others, particularly in writing (by which I mean here). She says, "Of course."

I thank her, then, and take my leave of her.

Flying Ointment

Well I made (and have since tried) my first flying ointment. It's made with honeysuckle, and I wish I could find where I got the idea from now, because it's not mine. I thought I read a post on one of the other hedgewitchy blogs, in fact I could have sworn it was Juniper's, but now I can't find the post. I remember the author saying she picked it and got a little dizzy from the scent and thought (more or less) Oh yes this will work. I'd really like to credit the person I got the idea from. [Edited to add: it was Scylla, on her tumblr, which is why I couldn't find it on a blog.]

It was actually my first try at making an ointment of any sort. It wasn't too hard (though I made more than I'll probably ever use); just a cereal bowl full (basically till I got sick of picking them) of honeysuckle flowers, simmered in a cup of grapeseed oil for about an hour, then a little more than an ounce of beeswax stirred in while still hot so it melted. It doesn't smell like honeysuckle--I may have got it too hot; it did boil a little here and there, and the essential oils may have flashed off--but it's still pleasant, having the beeswax in there.

And it works. Or, it works on me. I am, it should be said, really sensitive to medications or drugs of any kind--commonly if I'm going on a medication that's new to me I will break the tablets down into the tiniest crumbs, and pick the next larger crumb each day. I don't do any sort of recreational drug, or alcohol (it tastes like gasoline and either makes me fall asleep, or nauseous, or gives me a splitting headache) and so the whole idea of entheogens is way out of my league, for the most part.

But this seemed mild. Perhaps it's not a good idea to assume that, I don't know. I do remember pulling the flowers off as a child and sucking the little bit of nectar at the base, so I figured it wasn't going to be horribly poisonous or anything.

And I thought it might just give the journeys it facilitated a sweetness.

Boy was I right.

First of all, it is pretty mild, though it works, like I said, for me. It relaxes me while at the same time allowing the right part of my brain (or Soul) to focus. But it has a bit of a side effect.

It may be that spirit guide of mine, I don't know. I've had him for years, it's true, and we are old friends, and there is also I suppose I should say a good deal of love between us. One might even say, if we are talking in psychological terms (which I do think is one valid way to approach this, as, after all, I experience all this through my psyche or Soul) that he is very heavily connected to the libido.

So, the stuff works, oh yes. I can See quite clearly on it. But we inevitably get, well, a mite distracted.

Anyone out there know if honeysuckle is an aphrodisiac? Nothing I've found mentions it.

Oh my.

Greater Celandine

I have been carrying a sachet of greater celandine with me for the last couple of months; well, a little pouch, actually, as I knew I'd need to carry it around with me for some time. And so, every day, once when I get dressed, and again when I go to bed and leave the pouch on my altar, and then every third day also when I replace the old herb with fresh, I have said, out loud:

Greater celandine, grant me protection, joy, cheer and the lifting of depression, victory over my enemies, and escape from imprisonment. Thank you.

Because that is what I learned about greater celandine, Chelidonium majus, in the three books on herbs I have in my library so far (I am new to this, mind you). Those books being Paul Beyerl's A Compendium of Herbal Magick (oh the K, honestly; I may start spelling it Krowley out of spite), A.J. Drew's A Wiccan Formulary and Herbal, not that I'm Wiccan, and although it's really pretty much derivative of the last one, that old standard, Cunningham's Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs.

Since the beginning of the year I have also been following along with the year-and-a-day lessons in Christopher Penczak's The Temple of Shamanic Witchcraft, because, although I've been doing a lot of what's in there already, it seemed a good idea to at least try it using a proper system, even if it was someone else's, and even if I only learn the rules to later throw them out (much as one must do as an artist).

So I've been doing those two things, learning about herbs and learning how to talk to all kinds of things I would not have thought had Voices; well, not that I didn't know a bit about journeying anyway, or I wouldn't, I suppose, have been so interested in the book in the first place.

Because I have this spirit guide, psychopomp, guardian angel, Muse, daimon, genius, ghost, guest, lover, spirit husband, I don't know what you call him, but mainly Beloved; and he, he, is an old, old, friend, present and trustworthy. I suppose I have honed my Sight through talking to him; nothing like being in love to motivate you. It's more than ten years now since I first finally figured out how to listen to him; I wear a ring, a silver wedding band, as indication of our marriage, as does he.

And no, this is not secret, though private. But there is no way, simply no way, I am going to be able to talk about shamanic, well, shamanish journeying without talking about him, and rather a lot.

But anyhow. I am aware that part of learning about herbs in this hedgewitchy way should properly involve sitting down and talking to them, if possible; and while I wanted to try it it didn't seem to be happening. For one, I find it really hard to meditate, and so journey, outside; there are too many distractions, too much noise, too much light, and I never feel quite safe out there with my eyes closed. And I'm the type who needs to feel reasonably safe, for good reason.

So I kind of didn't know where to start. But miracle of miracles, the other night I had an idea to try a new technique for art; and so I found myself outside sketching greater celandine to give the idea a try. I brought some inside, too, to serve as further model. That's the art at the top of the post. I'm not sure the technique panned out, though that doesn't really matter.

Because as I was doing it I found that I knew I was now ready to go 'talk' to greater celandine. When you draw or paint something, you really look at it, really see it; you give it this focus, this attention, this awareness. This offering.

So tonight I did what I do to get into trance, and found myself at the base of the World Tree, as usual, which imagery I got from Penczak's book, though I understand it is common. Its trunk is big and fat, yellowish like elm, or willow; the branches are low and nearly horizontal, the leaves pointed ovals like beech. It's not quite my imagery--I usually go out to wherever I'm going through the attic--but it's working for now.

And he is there, of course. You should see him; I always say that, but I wish someone else could, I really do. Today he's just in blue jeans, of all things, and a green stripey short-sleeved shirt like a boy's that's been sized up; suits him, in this guise. Dark hair a halo of waves and curls, parted on the side, and big dark eyes in a face that is really very ordinary, and really very beautiful. He smiles, open-mouthed and kind, at that description. Well, it's true.

"What would you like to do?" he asks.

I look at him and smile myself. He is old, and new, always.

"I would like to talk with greater celandine, if that's all right."

"Okay," he says with a little shrug, "this way."

He leads me over to the right of the Tree to a stone wall; this is not going to be a journey up or down, but right here, beside. That makes sense to me, though I've heard others (well, Penczak mostly) say that plant spirits or devas or whatever they are called are found in the (or an) Upper World. To me, though, plants are rooted. They're here, in the earth, this middle place. Why would they be up in "heaven"?

There are a few steps in the stone wall, down into an herb garden with brick paths, a circle inside a square and don't tell me that's not a Jungian archetype; and there, in the garden proper, grown on purpose, and not just a weed, in a place of honor, is a greater celandine plant.

So I sit on the bricks with him, and say hello to the plant; then I ask if it would like to talk.

I feel a warmth from it; I guess that is a yes.

I tell it then that I have made a painting of it and that I hope it finds it pleasing.

More warmth. Okay.

So I know what is said about greater celandine; but I don't know why it is said. That's what I'm curious about.

I should say I guess that greater celandine grows all over my yard, my poor former junkyard of a yard. It has always been here, in some quantity; when we were kids we'd pick stems and write with them, the yellow sap like ink. I know it by sight and feel and smell, though it was so common to me that I only in the last year learned its name. We are not necessarily old friends, I would say; but we are, I think, familiar with each other. And lately, since I've woken up to the idea of plants having spirits, I get the feeling it has been trying to get me to notice it all this time. And so when I read that it helps one escape from imprisonment that clicked, as I work my way through coming to terms, and getting beyond, a nasty childhood that really amounts to unlearning a couple decades of, well, brainwashing.

I guess I should start with the basics. "They say you are an herb of the Sun. What does that mean?"

And then it says, more or less, really it's more the feel of it than any words, All plants are of the Sun. We eat sunlight; we make sunlight into food.

Oh. That's true. That is a miracle, when you think about it.

More warmth, again, and a feeling of, well, pride. Interesting.

And then I think: plants breathe in carbon dioxide, and breathe out oxygen, the opposite of us animals. I have heard that it is proper, when harvesting a plant, to give it something in return. Traditionally, things like wine, tobacco, even hair are offered; but some of those, like the wine, aren't really going to do a plant any good and may be poison, in effect. Penczak does say, and I agree with him, that he feels it's better to offer a plant something it can use, like water. So I wonder if breath might work, as an offering: both for the carbon dioxide, and because breath is spirit, too, the life force in some ways (to expire is to die, to breathe out for the last time).

I breathe on the greater celandine plant. If a plant can be said to sigh with relaxed pleasure, this one just did. Well then.

"How are you specifically of the Sun?" I ask it then.

Sunlight runs in my veins, it says.

Ah. With some plants with dark flowers, like purple roses, you can see the pigment throughout the plant, under the green skin of it, in the stems and the leaves, too. With greater celandine you can see the yellow sap in it; the leaves are a very bright color, both green and yellow at the same time, overlaid upon themselves. The whole plant is suffused with that sunshine yellow.

"How do you bring protection?" I ask next.

Sunshine keeps away the dark, it says.

"Joy and cheer?"

Sunshine runs through my veins, it says again.

"I don't understand," I say. "How does that help?"

By putting the idea in your head, it says. Oh, like a drug in the bloodstream, reaching every area, every cell through the capillaries; that is a good metaphor to meditate on.

"Victory over enemies?"

By adding up many small victories to make larger ones.

I am confused by this a little; then I remember that the seeds of greater celandine have a chemical on them that attracts ants, who then take the seeds and distribute them.

"Escape from unwarranted imprisonment? Why 'unwarranted'?"

Sunshine has an affinity with justice, it says. Oh, yes: sunshine is the best disinfectant, we shine the light of day on injustice, the Sun, Helios, sees all.

"Escape?" I ask again.

Invasive plants know how to escape; we are moved from our homeland and learn to thrive in a new place, and then make that our homeland. That's true, that's the word they use: plants 'escape' cultivation and the garden when they learn to grow as wild in a new environment.

I nod, and thank the plant, having run out of questions for now. I could probably come up with some more, but I don't want to pry; that will do.

I breathe in then, thinking of blessings; then I breathe out, again, on the plant, and I feel it is pleased.

Memory Tea

So. Another thing abused kids learn is that their own memories can't be trusted. After all, when your parents do something awful and then say that no such thing happened, or you misunderstood, or (my favorite) you're just too sensitive, it does stuff to a kid's mind. It's called gaslighting, is the official term; it means deliberately playing with someone's perception so they don't know what to believe. It is lying, of course, as well as, for real, a type of brainwashing.

I am coming to realize, more and more, that my parents' denial of the rotten conditions here, especially the way my mother frames things (she is never at fault, even when she very obviously is; she is a narcissist and so completely, appallingly allergic to responsibility), has done a number on my mind and my memories. I had always just thought I had a lousy memory; now I am realizing that that lousy memory has been deliberately trained into me. I have little sense of the surety of my own memories, and if someone remembers differently well then they must be right.

This rather bothers me, as you may imagine.

So, today then, on Memorial Day here in the US, the Day of Memory, I made this up.

It's a tea, the ingredients of which are all said to be good for the memory; mainly I sat down with a couple of herb books and looked at the lore, then picked out the ingredients I had, and then further narrowed it down to what I thought might taste decent. This is what I came up with:

1 teaspoon fresh rosemary leaves, chopped
1 teaspoon fresh lemon balm leaves, chopped
1 teaspoon fresh lavender leaves, chopped (I would have used the flowers but they aren't in bloom yet)
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon celery seed
1/4 teaspoon dill seed

Put the seeds and the cinnamon in a mortar and grind it roughly (you just want to break them apart, not pulverize into a fine powder). Wrap all the ingredients up in a square of clean cotton, tie it off and pour boiling water over it. Let it steep for a few minutes and sweeten with honey to taste.

That was my first guess at proportions and it worked so well I think I'll keep it. No one flavor dominates, though the cinnamon gives it a good warm base. I couldn't really taste them as separate flavors, but the rosemary gives it a good broadness that balances well with the sharpness of the lemon balm. It was quite nice, even though I don't usually drink tea, and it was quite calming (probably the lavender had something to do with that): I had been having a really aggravating day, a lot of little things driving me up the wall, but after drinking this I felt much better.

After I'd got the ingredients ground or chopped, I put it all in a bowl, and then, and this is the magicy part, ran my fingers through it to mix it (it smelled really nice), charging it with the ability to improve and strengthen memory and to remember the truth with certainty.

The House of Fiori

In my dream last night was a woman; she was dressed in a heavy gown of dark brocade, embroidered all over in metallic threads, gold, silver, copper, and other colors. Her hair was nearly as heavy as her gown; and she sat there, queenly, royal, though she was not on a throne.

She said, 'I am of the House of Fiori, and we will help you.'

I woke then, my brain already translating, Fiori, Flora, the flowers, the plants.

I think it is a good omen.

Garden Natterings

Been working on several more herb posts; mostly, though, I've been outside working in the garden, the formal one out back which is terribly overgrown, since due to a kitten explosion taking all my energy the poor thing was pretty much abandoned last year. The only thing I did plant, a pair of containers of sweet peas and convolvulus (with bamboo pyramids), was abruptly ripped up by my mother the first week of September, a good month and a half before the first frost, with no warning, no explanation, and no mention, even, after the fact, like she expected me to think it just disappeared. Or it had never existed, maybe?

So I've been out getting my hands dirty, mother or no; and I've been putting in some new plants, here and there. I have planted the little violas, heartsease, as they're called, which love to cross-pollinate and then self-seed in that garden, leading to all kinds of interesting new colors (though they do eventually tend to revert to the johnny-jump-up form); and yesterday I got some snapdragons, which, so the reference books say, are good for turning curses back on the one(s) who sent them.

And I bought some monkshood, also known as wolfsbane, with its poisonous root; I was looking for delphinium, which I love and which thrive, the first year anyway, but that was what I found, and I'll not complain.

So I've been researching, and thinking, and wondering; I took a drive yesterday to an herb farm that's a bit out of the way looking for agrimony, which they didn't have. And today I found myself standing out there, in the rain, looking at it all, figuring out what was next. And I thought: I'm officially obsessed with gardening again, like I had been several years back. And that's okay.

I've downloaded a pdf (damned things) of Culpeper's Herbal, that work from the 17th century by the guy over there on the right, Nicholas Culpeper. It's a rotten format, a book on the computer; and the urge has crossed my mind, more than once, to make my own version, hand-lettering the entries in calligraphy, painting pictures of the plants myself and tipping them in, and binding the whole thing up in say green leather. I could do it, with a little bit of research on bookbinding; and I could do it up like a grimoire, almost. It should, I think, be treated like that, with the respect it deserves. And I would certainly learn about herbs. It would take a long time to make, though, and be quite a commitment.

It's tempting, though.

Herb Musings

So, this new hedgewitchy blog is the perfect place to continue writing about herbs, something I'm only finally getting into as a Witch, even though I've been a gardener for years. I know, I know, some of us are late bloomers.

The subject of herbs being a very large one (it's basically all the plants on Earth, you know?) I've decided to start, as I said at the other place, with what I see in my own yard and neighborhood. And because I am a beginner, these are for the most part going to be, well, book reports. It kind of can't be helped. I do not, at this time, have enough experience to be able to say what I have learned myself through use, or through communicating with the plants themselves.

I find I am also having rather a difficult time with that last bit, right now, and not because I don't have experience with visions or journeying, because I do oh ho trust me I do; but because I'm not used to doing it outdoors, which seems to me the appropriate way to go about things if I'm looking to talk with a plant that is outside. I am a very visual person; and I have found, so far, that even just trying to meditate out in the outside world, with the sunshine, and the noise, and the cars going by, is very difficult, even with my eyes closed, though I don't tend to feel safe without them open, and I'm sure that doesn't help. I'm not sure what to do. I know there are such things as walking meditations; I thought I might look that up, see if there were any ideas there that might help. I suppose I could, if it came to it, just sit up in the attic in the dark, in that safe and private place, like I am used to, and extend my feelers out to the yard. Maybe that would work; I don't know. It seems kind of, well, armchair-y, if you know what I mean.

But for now I'll start with the book-learning.