Midsummer: What the Wren Knows

When you walk a magickal path year in and year out, dancing that Wheel over and over, it gets in your blood. You become the Wheel, and the Wheel becomes you. In this state of Union, the Gods can speak to you clearly through tokens and omens that come through the spirits of Nature, and I don't just mean Otherworldly spirits. I'm talking about the plants, animals, and birds that you encounter as you go about your daily life.

Last summer it was crows and dead cats all over the place, and we all know about the shitty transformative energies of the Summer o'12. This year, it's a wren.

Our washer and dryer are in an outbuilding, and we often leave the door open so the cats can go inside when it rains. There's a shelf full of dryer lint and various stuff near the machines. I went in a few weeks ago and startled a little bird flying around. The door had been closed at that time, and I thought the bird had been caught inside accidentally. 

The next day, it happened again, and this time I saw it: a hollow hive-shaped nest deep within the dyer lint, and several speckled eggs inside. Ah! 

It took a few days to figure out what kind of bird it was, and it is a Carolina Wren:

Of course, it's always cool when the wildlife comes near, but it took a while for my mind to shut up and listen to Wren's message. 

Which, when it came through, floored me, and by that I mean, shook my very foundations.

This is what She said:

Druid.

You're a Druid. 

Or, as you prefer, a Druidess.

You've called yourself Witch, you've called yourself Wiccan, and you've earned the right to call yourself those things. But I know what you really are. And so do you.

What are your earliest memories? It's the time your mother got all the big pine trees cut down in the front yard. It's the way the light looked on the tree leaves before a thunderstorm. It's the smell and curious shapes of the sassafras leaves. It's the color of the willow oak leaves against the blue sky in autumn. It's the glory of the yaupon in winter and the filigree of bare branches against the sunset sky.

It's a hundred memories of trees, and plants, and birds, and all the things of Nature, wherever you go, Hawaii, California, Washington, Germany, Massachusetts, Indiana. What do you notice? The trees. The birds. The weeds. What do you remember, after all these years? The way the Light and Dark play on the Land. When do you mourn the most? When trees are killed and weeds are killed and the secret places are desecrate. When does your heart soar and sing? When you are talking to the wild flowers, and the weeds, and the trees.

And who is your Goddess? Who, after all these years, did you finally meet and know? Cerridwen. Do you remember your poetry? Do you remember how you used to be able to sit  down and compose a 20-page term paper in your head, and type it out completely intact, with endnotes, with no rough drafts and no revisions - on a typewriter, and get an 'A'? Why do you think you loved William Blake and John Keats so much? They knew the Awen, She gave them the Awen, a word you started to chant by instinct 10 years ago this Midsummer. Your officemate, not a Pagan, out of all the words in the world names her business "Awen;" can We send any message clearer than that?

The Witches, your friends, your family, your kinspeople, they're fine. Nothing wrong with them. Stay with them. But not for you the world of perpetual Halloween, of autumn-tinted shadows and the night-mysteries all the time; for you are also of the day, the green and the gold and the blue, the clear fine sky, and the Alban Heruin, the rays of Light on the Shore. And you have always known and felt this. Stop pretending.

For you not just the Sacred Union, but the fruits of the Union, which are the poetry and the song and the art. 

And you are a philosopher. Like your forebears, like William Blake himself, you can speak many languages of Spirit. Jesus is okay. Perhaps his feet in ancient times walked upon England's mountains green.

 Druidess you have been, and Druidess you are, and Druidess you will ever be. Dryw, my name in Welsh, which means "Druid" and "Wren." 

For I am the King of the birds. I have flown higher than the Eagle, and I give the power of prophecy, which you have already discovered. I was Taliesen, who is in you. I give the power of song, and I give the power of cunning. 

Having come home now to what I truly am, I feel no need to rush off and join a Druid organization. My current spiritual technology can serve my needs just fine, I think, for the time being.

I am in awe of how clear and direct these omens and tokens are. It stirs in me a desire to create, to worship, to serve Her and emulate Him. What a marvelous multiverse.

What a relief no longer to be an oval peg trying to fit into a round hole - more frustrating than a square hole, because that's obvious, but with an oval peg (to extend the metaphor), one keeps feeling as if one could and should fit. It's the almost-ness that gets you.

Blessed Alban Heruin. May the Light shine brightly on your Shore.

Hawthorn: Queen of the May

As I mentioned yesterday, two Plant allies have come to me this year: lemon balm, and Hawthorn.

One must capitalize Hawthorn, for this is a regal tree, a tree that carries the gravitas and majesty of Queendom. She is compelling and complex, Dark and Light, healing and hurtful; more of a shrub than a proper tree, but as commanding as the mightiest Oak.

The Hawthorn that graces my life (I can't say "my" Hawthorn) was planted as a sprig from the Arbor Day foundation 8 years ago, sandwiched between two crabapples. For years it was just a little shrub; and then suddenly, three years ago, it expanded and blossomed right on cue for Mayfaire. The creamy white blossoms enjoy the sunny branches up high. They don't last long, and one poem compares the breeze-drifting petals to tears. (There is a curious amount of poetry about the Hawthorn.) No worries, though: the new leaves are vivid green and tinged red (a clue to Hawthorn's membership in the Rose family), and the astonishingly red berries, called haws, light up the dimmest winter months.

Lady Hawthorn ... how shall I say this? She has a reputation. She's not an aphrodisiac, but men who fall asleep under Her wake up with their heads in the lap of the Faery Queen, and yes, that is poetic euphemism. But Hawthorn isn't interested in your naughty bits. She's after your heart.

What does She want with your heart? Why, she wants to heal it. And that's exactly what She does, blossom, leaf, and berry. Hawthorn has extensive benefits for all manner of physical heart ills. She lowers blood pressure, reduces arterial plaque (arteriosclerosis), gentle  dilates the blood vessels and therefore opens up circulation and increases oxygenation, steadies irregular heartbeat, and helps lower cholesterol. 

Energetically, She is calming and centering, albeit in a slightly different way than Melissa (lemon balm): you can actually tell that Lady Hawthorn is working in the heart center, whereas Melissa (lemon balm) is more in the head.

You know that feeling in your chest when you are angry, tense, or afraid? Even in healthy people there's a constricted feeling in your breath, a very slight choking that may not even be physical? Hawthorn opens all that up. Hawthorn lets you take that deep breath that helps move the anger away. 

Oh, and like the Lady She is, she provides nutrition but also helps normalize your digestion and your appetite.

I am a crab; Cancer is my Sun sign, and there is a strong streak of harrumphy, coldhearted curmudgeon in my nature. Hawthorn helps me loosen my crab-claw grip on the grumps. A little hawthorn, and I can take a deep breath and go into the place of loving or empathy or compassion that I need to be in.

True to my -ishy approach to herbalism*, I started by pulling a couple of berries and eating them. Very powerful. Please understand that when I say "very powerful," I'm not talking about a head-rush or anything like taking a pharmaceutical (legal or illegal). I just could feel my heart chakra open up, my breathing deepen, and my core being get calmer. The blossoms make a wonderful tea, but mine were all gone before I realize they were all gone. However, you can eat the leaves, and they work. They have a bland taste. I think they dry well enough to preserve for teas or capsules.

The thorns .... oh, the thorns! The Lady protects Herself and Her own. She's got, like, 2 inch thorns and they are as sharp as a needle. But then, that's true to Her rose nature, like roses, blackberries, brambles, etc.

Lady Hawthorn helps me connect to my Celtic-ish based practice. I've never fully bonded with the 13 month tree calendar or many of the Ogham because I have no context for many of them in my life. Blackthorn may make many witches quiver with lust, but I've never seen it; I have no relationship with it. Ditto with the much-loved Rowan. They don't grow in eastern NC; they are foreign to me. And I've always felt foolish trying to work magick or divine with something I have no familiarity with. So getting to know Lady Hawthorn up close and personal has been very rewarding from a practitioner level. 

In the Ogham, it's called "Huath." The Authorities focus on the thorns and call it a tree of protection and defense; true enough, it's used to make hedge-fences in the old country, to keep in what needs to be kept in, and to keep out what needs to be kept out. It's often determined to be a masculine tree. Well, it's masculine to me in the same that the High Priestess can strap on a sword and be the Priest in a ritual. But she's still a Priestess, and so is this tree.

She is sacred to the Goddess Cardea, of Roman origin but deeply embedded in our subconscious as associated with cardiac, although The Authorities don't recognize Cardea/Cardia's name as a source of the word "cardiac." Cardea is a Goddess of hinges, or doorways, of thresholds. Hawthorn is Her sacred tree. And it's a tree associated with the realm of Faery, of people falling asleep beneath it and actually going into the Otherworld.

There are also levels here about boundaries, personal boundaries, when to open up to people and let them in your heart, and when to provide a beautiful exterior that hides enough thorns to deter those who would steal away the goodness you have to offer. What can Lady Hawthorn, and Cardea Goddess of Thresholds, teach us about loving but having proper boundaries?

There are Mysteries here, mysteries of a whole heart, a green heart, an open heart needed to go into the Otherworld, and to encounter the Queen of the May. And the paradox: it is the Goddess, the Queen of the May, who can heal our hearts. And safety is important for all of this.

* "Ishy" is my vague and idiosyncratic approach to herbalism that is absolutely imprecise. You can do this with mild herbs. I can do it with Hawthorn because my heart is pretty healthy and because I'm cautious by nature and never eat more than two or three leaves. However, I don't know you. Because Hawthorn works on the heart, even in a very, very safe manner, I do not recommend this -ishy approach for anyone else. In fact, if you want to try Hawthorn, read up on all the links on google; inform yourself, check with a doctor if you have any cardiac or blood pressure issues, etc. In other words, you're a grown-up and your relationship with this Plant is between you and Her.

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

The Hawthorn in my yard is a "Washington" hawthorn; there are many species. Mine definitely has the medicinal and energetic properties. 

Here is a lovely poem from Willa Cather called "The Hawthorne Tree:"

ACROSS the shimmering meadows—
Ah, when he came to me!
In the spring-time,
In the night-time,
In the starlight,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Up from the misty marshland—
Ah, when he climbed to me!
To my white bower,
To my sweet rest,
To my warm breast,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Ask of me what the birds sang,
High in the hawthorn tree;
What the breeze tells,
What the rose smells,
What the stars shine—
Not what he said to me!

The Waxing Tide of Life: Long Days and Balmy Eves

Returning to a theme I started last winter: there are certain things in our cluster of spiritual practices that They Can't Teach You In Books.

One of these things is the knowledge you get from living the Wheel of the Year over and over again. The repetition allows you to notice how you respond personally to the different tides of Power. For me, the Beltane-to-Summer-Solstice period is when I fall in love with the Earth all over again. I channel my inner Romantic poet:

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild–

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;

And mid-May’s eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunts of flies on summer eves.*

This Tide brings me mystical experiences with the Elves, the Fae, the Spirits of Nature, sometimes life-changing. I wander outside, entranced, greeting plant after plant with astonished delight like the old friends they are. Hello, elder blossom! Hi there, yarrow - you're early and quite luscious this year. Oh look, there's my vervain who visited me last summer - I forgot about you - you came back! It's a reunion. I greet them. And they talk back. It matters not if they are "weeds" or plants I put into the ground. Some of my best friends are "weeds," which is why I am a shitty gardener - I can't stand to get rid of the beautiful, vibrant "weeds" full of nutrition and unexpected medicinal and magickal power.

Note that this period does not begin precisely on April 30 and end at the stroke of midnight on June 22.I am a fuzzy Crafter, driven by instinct, full of -ishness. My practice depends less on the calendar (and none whatsoever on precise astrological degree) and much more on the look and feel of the Land; what's blooming or dying; the rush of the increase of Life and growth -- or the slowing down, the decrease and the stillness; and the quantity and quality of Light. I celebrate the Full Moon as long as the Moon looks full; I work with its waning when I can see it beginning to wane. 

My herbalism is much the same. And one of this year's revelations is that I am, indeed, an herbalist. I'm just a very -ish herbalist. My idea of herbalism is to listen to an inner voice tell me you need this, and then go out and pick it and eat it. I check to make sure it isn't Deadly Poison, and then I just ask it for some leaves, kinda-sorta-informally, and I put them in my mouth and chew them up and swallow them. And then I see how I feel.

I have had astonishing results from this. Back in 2006, some instinct told me to pick feverfew leaves and eat them. I did and experienced relief from chronic pain and tiredness: enough to go back to full employment, and to continue to work on the chronic pain and tiredness, which I resolved. I probably owe my current life and work to Feverfew. The effects did not last long. After a month or so, the relief waned; but by then, I no longer needed it as much. Apparently it had given me whatever I needed, worked toward my own homeostasis, and boosted me into another level of being. This relationship was entirely with the fresh plant. Teas, tinctures, dried matter did nothing whatsoever.

Two summers ago, a clary sage plant suddenly grew and blossomed and for a couple of weeks, the back yard smelled like the Goddess. In the Goddess' perfume, I guarantee you, is a liberal helping of fresh clary sage. I would walk by and brush my fingers lightly against the flowers and melt inside. I saved some seed, but the plant, a biennial, died away eventually (as it was supposed to do). You can purchase clary sage essential oil, but I assure you that it has none of the sexy, sensuous depth and musk of a clary sage plant in the fullness of the Sun. This plant brought me closer to the Goddess of Love and also helped me experience some mild but interesting altered states of consciousness.

This summer, I have two friends: lemon balm and hawthorn. After the Great Clusterfuck that was 2012, apparently the Plant Spirit world decided to send me a team. DH and I both have a certain amount of unresolved stress, anger, and trauma. Our nerves are frayed and it's affected us physically somewhat. This has exacerbated my old friend ADD. Happily, the Plant Spirits responded by giving me a bumper crop of lemon balm. In fact, it was the quantity and exuberance of the lemon balm that clued me in: maybe I need this.

 I've had lemon balm for years, but never bonded with it. I tried the tea, didn't much like it, and always let the plant bolt to blossom. It smelled good and made the bees happy and that was fine. This year, however, I walked by and picked a fresh top and ate it, and quickly felt calmer and more focused. Ahhhhh..... so that's what 'centered' feels like. My, it's been a while; I'd forgotten.  A little research and I discovered that lemon balm is a marvelous nervine ( which I knew) and helps the mind be more focused (which I did not know). It's recommended for kids with ADHD, and I can tell you it helps with adult ADD as well. It helps reduce allergic response, irritation, and anxiety.

This and hawthorn are turning things around for me. [I'm going to blog separately on hawthorn, because it's such a magickal tree as well as medicinal, and there's a lot of lore associated with it.] The lemon balm has helped so much that I'm motivated to go beyond my -ishy picking-and-eating thereof. I'm infusing lemon balm into wine, and this morning I pulverized a quart and blended it with brandy and 151 grain alcohol for a tincture. I might make some "Carmelite water." There's a bit of a race against time, since all The Authorities say you need to pick it before it blossoms to get the most benefit, and mine is loaded with buds. They also say you can dry lemon balm, but it seems to lose a lot of its virtue in dried form; the volatile oils that give it so much punch evaporate. Nevertheless, I'm going to try drying it, and also making an infused vinegar. 

I sang to it as I picked the tops. I love you lemon balm. You help me think. You help me focus. You help me feel good. You smell so good. You're so pretty. Thank you for helping me. I always feel bad, picking a lot of a plant, although Goddess knows I have a lot of lemon balm left. I'll give her a drink of water tonight in repayment.

Although The Authorities assign lemon balm to the Moon and Water, I think of yellow-blossomed lemon balm as an herb of Air, of Mercury; it's at its best in the month of Gemini, and it's a premier plant of the nervous system and thinking, all Mercurial functions. However, it's a bee plant; its Latin name is Melissa, which is Greek for "bee," and it reportedly has associations with Diana. And the bee is definitely a Goddess-creature from before recorded history. I have not yet worked magickally enough with my new friend to be able to say much in this regard, but I'll let you know what I discover.

I always thought you had to have shelves full of tinctures and jars of dried herbs, and scales and droppers, and know about drams and how many drops make a milliliter, to be a Proper Herbalist. I don't know if my efforts to be a Proper Herbalist will work. I don't know if lemon balm tincture will do for me what walking by and picking some and eating it on the spot will do. Perhaps lemon balm is just for me here, now. That seems to be true of herbs and me in general. Our relationships are profound but pass quickly, like the Tides of Power around and between the Sabbats; like the waxing Light and the "murmurous haunts of flies on summer evenings." This may be one of the more hidden lessons of Lemon Balm, my friend Melissa, with its strong but ephemeral volatile oils that smell so heavenly, and give it so many benefits, and yet are so hard to fix and preserve. Enjoy the beauty and fineness of this moment. Take a deep breath, and just be in relationship with your Self and what's around you.

*John Keats, "Ode to a Nightingale," one of the best poems ever.

These links on lemon balm were of benefit to me:

http://www.herballegacy.com/Lemon_Balm.html

Good Mrs. Grieves: http://botanical.com/botanical/mgmh/b/balm--02.html