Foggy morning mysteries

Although I do it rarely, I love waking up early and seeing the earth outside my windows before day breaks. Because I live in the mountains I don't get a glorious sunrise (we hillbillies have to go to the beach for those). By the time the sun makes an appearance over the ridge line and travels up behind the trees that surround this little patch, the yard has seen daylight for quite a while.

This morning I woke up in the five o’clock hour, feeling rested, and was out of the bed with a tea kettle on

by 6am. The kitchen was dark when I went downstairs, but the back yard glowed with an early morning fog billowing up from the ground. If it had been summer there would have been a clamor of birds, but all was quiet on this December morning.

A prose poem

Not as a distraction from, but as a reminder of…

I bear witness to the small, growing things. The ephemeral things. From the rarefied gay wings and fire pinks to the common, bold dandelion. When I feel powerless to change things, overwhelmed with the ways in which I am complicit in all that is bad in the world— climate change, racial injustice, and even family quarrels—I bear witness to the small, growing things. I bear witness to the summer ephemerals, the mushrooms—the chicken of the woods, puff balls, and spotted fairy amanitas—so fragile yet emerging in perfection through layers of mountain soil, leaves, and lichen. And to the red, orange, and yellow bright flames of maples in autumn. I bear witness to the first frost, to the brackets and turkey tails stair-stepping on long stumps of toppled trees. On my belly with my camera, stones poking me, moss soft and damp against my upper arm like a lover’s kiss. On the ground, the sharp scent of earth, of growing things, of rotting things, the aroma of life emerging and reemerging, I bear witness.

February By The Signs

The month began with Imbolc, which marks the halfway point between Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox. Many of us who celebrate think of Imbolc as a season. It often feels like the dead of winter but we know life stirs beneath the snow and ice. This particular year, it doesn’t even feel like the dead of the winter in Appalachian Virginia, the weather has been so mild, and those stirrings have popped out of the ground—the snow drops, the crocus, the winter aconite, and even daffodil buds. I haven’t seen any native spring ephemerals yet, but I hear that others are finding trout lily, fairy spuds, and trillium starting to emerge.

I followed the signs and planted seeds near the end of January. By now, all the indoors seeds have sprouted (the ones outside need cold stratification). It’s a time of hope, new growth, and transition all around. I noticed this morning that some of the seedlings are producing true leaves which means I need to start thinking about transplanting them to a bigger pot. Several fertile signs are coming up soon and the moon is moving towards the light phase. It will be a good time for those seedlings that are producing true leaves.

 And this is true of life. When doing things “by the signs” you’re already attuned to two different aspects, the signs as well as the phase of the moon. But there’s another key aspect of doing things by the signs: readiness. This past week or so has been a good time to break habits, release things that no longer serve us, and let go. I have felt this energy strong. I dragged a bunch of stuff out of the garage and gave it away. I began reaching out and making plans to get some home repairs done. I’ve rearranged rooms and hung some decorations. Generally, I’ve felt the need get really rooted in my space and release things that are blocking growth. I felt that last year, too, during Imbolc season, but my timing wasn’t right. I was in the middle of divorce stuff and living in an apartment. I longed for rootedness and release but I had to wait another year and produce some true leaves so that when the light came round again, I would be strong enough to make the transition.

The ideal time for planting and transplanting, or making changes and moving forward is when all three aspects—the signs, the moon phase, and our own development—find alignment. Of course, sometimes we can’t wait for an ideal time, sometimes the plant has outgrown the pot and needs new space regardless of what’s happening in the heavens. In those times when you need to take action in less-than-ideal circumstances, you can still move with thoughtfulness and sweet intention.

This month, thankfully, is ending with plenty of action-taking energy—a confluence of the light moon and fertile signs. Transplant those seedlings—they’re probably ready. Do that thing you’ve been dreaming of and planning for, and possibly even dreading—you’re ready.

As above, so below.

January By The Signs

Taking Stock in New Year

Many old-timers in Appalachia, as well as in other rural places, planted by the signs (and some of us still do!). Planting by the signs is a way of using astrological knowledge to work with plants. It is a very old system, with roots in the ancient world. It was taken for granted by people around the world that the heavens existed to help guide humans; even in Christendom people believed that astrology was a divinely inspired way of knowing—just see Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8, a Biblical passage you’ll find on almost any almanac calendar.

Most people are familiar with the Old Farmer’s Almanac and other such publications—such books and calendars are square within the tradition of planting by the signs and typically give a day-by-day accounting of the position of planetary bodies to better help rural people with their gardens and farms.

This January has been one of quiet planning (also recovery from illness). With Mars and Mercury both in retrograde the first weeks of the year, I had not been feeling too eager to take action and have been spending my time taking stock. I’ve taken stock of the previous year and have been anticipating the calendar year ahead. My divorce became final right before the holidays and I finally felt ready for some therapy so I could talk about healthy ways to move forward so that I don’t get stuck in the same patterns.

I’ve also been taking stock—quite literally. This weekend I spent a lot of time making lotions with the remaining infused oils I had started in late summer and fall. I want to make sure I have enough supplies in my home apothecary to get my family through the season of sickness. Already we’ve gone through much of the elderberry syrup I processed in the fall. Also, we’ve have made a serious dent in the fire cider supply. I tinctured an enormous jar of heal-all and we still have plenty of that in addition to stinging nettle tincture and other herbs used for tea.

Also in my home apothecary are bottles from other herbalists. I tried several over the last year to see what might feel especially beneficial for me and mine, so that I can decide whether or not to make my own. One of my sons has sleep issues and responds well to the medicines in German chamomile, so I’ll be starting seeds soon in hopes of harvesting some flowers for a sleepy tea blend later in the year.

Another success we’ve had is with cleavers. I tried Appalachian Alchemy’s tincture and found it lovely for help with allergies and clearing out after colds. My partner especially benefitted from cleavers’ healing power. This shouldn’t be a surprise to me as cleavers grow abundantly in the yard—and I’m a big believer that plants often appear when we need them most. I’ll tincture some cleavers in the spring as well as use some fresh in green gumbo. So that’s on my list to forage in the spring.

Of course, like so many others, I have been excited to browse seed catalogs and dream of all the things I’m totally never going to get around to planting nor have any success with, following the signs or not. Tomatoes are possibly my favorite food but I’ve never had any luck turning seedlings into tomato plants. So I’m going to save my dollars for mature plants nurtured by someone else.

The signs will be good for planting the last week or so of the month. Now that those retrograde energies are starting to lift, I’m ready to get out the seed flats and other containers I’ve saved from the previous year to start seeds indoors. My partner has been helping me make or fortify soil in raised beds so that they’ll be ready for early spring veggies. I’ve also got some milk jug and other plastic containers for seeds that need a winter: the swamp mallow and some other native wildflower seeds I’ve collected need a period of cold stratification so that they will germinate properly. I love this part of the gardening, all the planning, and tucking those seeds into dirt with sprinkle of water, sunshine, and love.

Just as I’m getting ready for a new year of plant nurturing and learning, my heart and body are ready for a new year of nurturing and learning. The 17th through the 20th are good days for making big changes and I’m holding that in mind as I take stock. I’m ready to grow roots in new directions. These things aren’t unrelated from a plant-by-the-signs perspective. Planetary influence affects all living things. Just as the moon pulls the tide, the heavenly bodies exert influence on all living things—from my own self to the cheerful dandelion. But influence isn’t destiny. How we are influenced is an interplay among other environmental factors as well as where we are in our life course and other developmental trajectories. So, take it with a grain of salt.

All the stops and starts, all the delays of the previous year have reached maturity. We’ve pruned the deadwood. I’m leaning in to the slow-building momentum ready for new growth on my old vines.

As above, so below.

Also this weekend I finally decided how to use the big, juicy lemon from my little lemon tree. I wanted to make something with it and decided on a lemon-olive oil cake. I researched recipes online and came up with this (on the basis of what I had in my cupboard).

Recipe

Ingredients

1.5 Cups of Self-Rising Flour (I prefer Hudson Creme)

¾ Cup of Sugar

The zest and juice from one big, juicy lemon (~ 1 tbs zest & half cup of juice)

3 eggs

¾ Cup olive oil (or olive oil/butter combo- half each)

1 Cup of buttermilk (can sub whole milk or milk/plain yogurt combo)

A good pinch of salt

Instructions

1.     Preheat oven to 350

2.     Mix the sugar and lemon zest (smells so good!)

3.     Add the eggs and mix with whisk until fluffy

4.     Add salt

5.     Add olive oil and mix well

6.     Add buttermilk & lemon juice while continuing to mix

7.     Add flour, then pour into buttered baking dish (~9” deep pie dish or spring form pan)

8.     Bake at 350 for about 40 minutes. Top will be slightly browned & beginning to crack. Check by inserting knife or toothpick in the center of the cake; should come out clean.

9.     Most recipes say that you should dust with powdered sugar. I didn’t have any so I didn’t do that. But it sure does look pretty in the pictures. My kids said it needed to be served with whipped cream, and I agree that it would pair well.

Hitting The Wall

I did not keep up with chronicling my separation—obviously. Letting go was and is a long process, with my heart and soul cycling through grief, hope, sadness, exhilaration, anger, joy, and so on. Maybe I should have wrote through those conflicting emotions, but I didn’t want to. For no rational reason—I just couldn’t. Just like I didn’t couldn’t save my marriage. I had every reason to keep trying, but I couldn’t make myself any longer. I hit a wall.

What does it mean to hit a wall? I googled the idiom and was surprised to find that many of the top returns have to do with athletics, specifically running. It is when a runner pushes themselves to the point that they literally cannot go any further because they are too exhausted and too depleted. The wall is not external pressure, but rather one’s own body asserting itself and saying “enough.”

I hit a wall.

And the last year I’ve spent wrestling with myself because I didn’t finish the “the marathon.” So I replay this or that moment, sliding door moments where I made a decision to do this instead of that, a hundred or more moments that led to hitting the wall.

And so here we are. Now the separation period is over and the signed divorced papers are somewhere in the court’s process. The marathon has come and gone. I’m forming a new identity; it’s a frustrating process at times, but a happy one nevertheless. Most areas of my life changed over the last year or so: my kids are getting older so my relationship with them has evolved; I have had unexpected career opportunities; my writing and spiritual practice have aligned in ways I never anticipated; and I’m building a new romantic partnership with someone I’ve loved a long time. It feels like everything that defined me for the last 10 years has been upended. And so here I am, starting over.

A new year is ahead and I’m looking forward to building a new life, a re-enchanted life.

Marcescent

You’ve probably seen them in winter, those trees that hold on to their lifeless leaves. It seems strange: why won’t they just fall to the ground like they’re supposed to? There’s something engaging about stark branches against a winter-blue sky, which conjures up a meme that says something like autumn is that time of year where nature shows us how lovely it is to let go. It’s a nice thought, letting go, being bare, being vulnerable. And while that does happen with most trees, it doesn’t happen to all trees. In fact, I noticed that many trees this year were practicing something called marcescence—that’s when a tree branch holds on to its dead leaves. 

In order for a tree to lose its leaves, it needs to undergo a process called abscission which cuts off the vein that supplies nutrients to the leaves. In marcescence, that process is interrupted, the dead leaves stay attached, dangling on a tree until something forces them off. 

I apologize if the metaphor is a little too on the nose, but the dissolution of a partnership such as marriage, feels marcescent. Sometimes I get mad at myself for hanging on too long to this or that aspect of my dead marriage, but that process just may be protective. Although tree scientists (aborist? botanist?) aren’t sure why some deciduous species practice holding on, it is likely to have some protective factor as it often happens on younger trees or lower branches on mature trees. And I will trust that nature knows what she’s doing, even if I don’t understand. Some of my holding on is centered on what I think my kids need: for example, as I mentioned in my last post I visit the house and we have family dinners once or twice a week. I thought it might be something we do long term, but now it’s feeling more like a transitional practice as our family transitions from one type of family to another. And that’s okay—both the holding on and the transition. I know that I have to listen to my heart and gut, and to the others involved in the process, and we have to feel our way through this. The paperwork was the easy part, the teasing apart the emotional strands of our lives takes a bit more doing, involves a bit more holding on.

But spring cometh. One day, if not wind or a roaming animal, new life will force the dead leaves from the branches and into the air—either to be blown away by a happy southerly breeze, or to gently fall to the ground and rot, taking on a new role in the tree’s life. …hmmm, maybe I’ve overextended the metaphor. But the point remains: spring is here. Even on this blustery day, blooms and buds are emergent on the trees, new leaves waiting, waiting, in their own sweet time to unfurl, to eat the sun, to become anew again. Life moves on, maybe in unpredictable ways, maybe with a little holding on when we should be letting go, but life, change, and growth will have its way. Ready or not.

The Separation Chronicles: At What Cost?

For the past seven months I’ve hardly been able to think about any other question than “At what cost?”. At what cost comes compromise? At what cost comes pleasure? At what cost comes a life of integrity—not by the standards of others, but for my own sense of wholeness?

At what cost comes living authentically? Like, literally, what does it cost me and everyone involved? I haven’t been writing about what getting divorced is costing me (and others) because talking about the cost of things is awkward and vulgar. It makes people uncomfortable to talk about class realities, to talk about money. It makes me uncomfortable to talk about how terrified I am to be poor again, to talk about my worries about how this will affect my kids in the long term. And, besides, I’ve brought this all on myself, so don’t I deserve to suffer in silence a bit? 

I spent this weekend at my husband’s house, at what was very recently our house. He has taken the kids to a martial arts tournament and, given that we are also co-parenting three dogs who live in that house, I need to be there for potty walks and meals and snuggles. 

Because of the tight housing situation in the college town where I live, I will have to move at least twice before I am settled. My ex and I agreed that it made sense for me to leave anything I wouldn’t need right away there at the house, so that I could take my time packing it up to be stored in the garage where it would wait for more permanent arrangements. It’s also nice for the kids not to experience my sudden disappearance from the house that I have put so much energy into making a home these last two years.

I visit the house regularly to prepare a Friday night family meal and to help with dog walking when I can; but I haven’t spent the night there for six weeks. When I realized I would be spending the night, immediately I started worrying about where I should sleep. Not in the big bed that I used to share with the kids: my ex has that room and bed now (and, as we are both seeing other people, I don’t want to think too much about what might go on in that bed). Not in my sons’ beds: they’re not big enough to accommodate all three dogs who will want to be in the same room with me. Not downstairs in the bedroom that used to be my ex’s: too cold to be down there in January and it still feels like his room. I opt for the pull-out sofa bed in the living room—a place for guests. 

In a way, I feel like I have become a guest, not only in my old home, but also in my what I had thought was my life. Together we had the cute kids, the dogs, the light-filled house in a nice neighborhood in a good school district. We weren’t rich, but I was plenty comfortable. If the house or the car needed an unexpected repair, for example, it wasn’t the end of the world. Now, I’m in a different place, or rather an all-too-familiar-place, where an unexpected expense might very well feel like the end of the world. I have it easier than some who’ve been in my position—although I took a career break because of motherhood, I do have a job and eventually will have a house again (barring the unexpected), though maybe not light-filled, or maybe in the next town over where things aren’t so expensive. Being in a place of such uncertainty causes anxiety to bubble up regularly and I am leaning hard on my spiritual practices to stay the course.

At what cost is all this disruption? The separation agreement has been signed, assets divided, and I can tell you that separation, following my bliss, comes at a great financial and emotional cost. And it is scary because—although I have that steady little current that is holding me fast, that little current that has pushed me to take a hard left on the path stretched out before me—it is scary because I won’t know for sure until years from now—if ever—that I’ve made the right decision. All I can know is what a life of compromise and pretending was costing me.

Recently I read a line in George Ella Lyon’s poem Body Speaks (in Back to the Light, 2021, UPK): “You can’t keep what’s false/ if you want what’s true.” For a long time a lot of my life has felt false. Everyone says that to make a marriage work, there must be compromise. But I felt like I was making so many compromises, I was turning into something very false. I felt like I was hiding behind all the nice things in the life my ex and I had built. And it seemed to me that he was having a similar experience. I won’t go into to all the dramatic details about why I felt that we couldn’t find our way to something more meaningful together: I’ll say only that after much thought, I didn’t trust that what-was-between-us would carry us to other side of all-that-had-died, to the place of “what’s true.” 

But what is true? It is that steady little current that pulses stronger each day. It is the small, still voice that whispers encouragingly as I make my way through this dark forest. It is the belief in my own magic, in my own power. It is something beyond words. And getting in touch with that something is worth the cost.

Samhain Season

It is the season of Samhain, literally, summer’s end. It is a liminal time between life and death, growth and decay. It is a time of taking stock. And as the quiet settles in, it is a time of reflection and honoring all that has come before.

Last evening I took my dog for a walk in the dark. Daylight savings time has ended and it feels like 6pm is the darkest hour of the day. I live on a mountain ridge where there are no streetlights but where there are hundreds and thousands of trees. My heart was heavy as I moved along with road—I was struck with a deep realization, a knowing in my gut, not just on the separation papers, that this neighborhood I love is no longer mine.  

My dog distracted me from feeling sorry for myself when she stopped and stared into the woods. There was a rustling nearby and I hoped it wasn’t the bear who is frequently spotted loping around the hillside at dark. I took my flashlight out of my pocket and turned it on into the woods to the right of me, looking for eyes reflecting the light. I saw no eyes, yet the rustling sound persisted. I turned around noticing that the sound was coming from behind me as well, from the woods on the left side of the road too. 

And then I realized what I was hearing—the song of hundreds and thousands of leaves falling on the still night. A snowfall of brown, red, yellow, and orange. I stood and listened for a long while. And I sobbed, as I’ve been doing a lot of lately, but this time in humility. What grace. What a gift to be alive, under the loving stars, and surrounded by the lullaby of leaves finding their new home, their new life. 

[This post is a transition to next year’s theme, where I will be blogging about how I’m reacting and responding to this big change. When I think back to last year when I began writing about the wheel of the year, beginning with Yule, I was so, so settled in my life. It was unimaginable that in the course of a year’s time I would be packing my things, readying myself to make a new home away from my husband. To be on my own again.]

Wheel of the Year: Autumnal Equinox

The fall equinox is the 2nd of harvest celebrations, and for most of us in Appalachia, the biggest reaping. The corn and beans have come in. And the last of the tomatoes are ripening on the vines before the nights get too cold. 

It is a time of balance. We reap what we sow. That idea has particular meaning for me this year as I go through a big change—another separation and possible divorce on the horizon. We are reaping what we have sown in our relationship. But I don’t mean that to sound negative; although there are some serious moments of sadness, my husband and I have had a long and varied relationship. For my part it feels more like another transition than a break or rupture. I look through my previous posts and I wonder if I knew intuitively what was to come. 

Byron Ballard, in her new book Seasons of a Magical Life, says that she reserves this “Embertide” to be honest with herself about her behavior towards others and to make amends where necessary. She asks: “Have I held up my own sense of ethics, followed my own rules of engagement?” Oomph. In the complexities of a long-term marriage, that one is tough. I have and I have not. And at this point, making reparations is much bigger than a heart to heart.

But what I can work towards is creating more balance in our relationship, so much as I am able. We will be co-parenting. We will be working on our respective journeys of personal growth—and asking ourselves, how did it come to this, how was it that we had such wildly different notions of what was happening in our marriage. I think we’ve figured out the “how,” but understanding a way forward feels much more tricky. 

Ah, but this is a time of celebration. And as I write this the harvest moon is full and golden. My boys and I walked out into the night to try to take a picture as it rose over the tree line of the mountain where we live. It was a special moment, one I hope we always remember. And that’s what life is, ultimately, no matter how relationships grow or change, the part worth living is those special, often unexpected moments where we share with others in pleasure and wonder. Those moments bring balance and harmony to our lives. And that is all we can ask for in the end.

Wheel of the Year: Lughnasadh

Also known as Lammas (or Loaf Mass Day) by some Christians, Lughnasadh falls between the summer solstice and the fall equinox. Because it is the first of the three harvest festivals, celebrants typically bake bread with the year’s first grain harvest. In her book on the Wheel of the Year, Judy Ann Nock says that Lughnasadh is a time of both hope and fear as folk begin to bring in the harvest before blight or other natural disasters strike.

Nock says that Lughnasadh was/is an ideal time for handfasting. Handfasting is a trail marriage, lasting a year and a day. Beginning a handfasting in harvest season would allow a couple to have a chance to work together and overwinter together in close quarters. It’s fitting that this time of year, a time of hope and fear, is connected to romantic love. Aren’t all relationships—any time we open ourselves to love and be loved—a time of hope and fear? We are laid bare, made vulnerable. For what other emotional state can bring us to our knees—falling headfirst, leaping without looking, with hope for true intimacy and fear of disappointment.

How we rest in the space between hope and fear may reveal whether we will experience true intimacy or disappointment.

Recently I came across Terri Windling’s post on Myth and Moor where she writes about creative burnout as a time of fallowness, a time of the Underworld. Whether we are on the cusp of beginning a new creative endeavor or in the flush of falling in love, which is a descent to the Underworld if ever there was one, we stand at the edge in a dizzying trance. We are still in the Land of Summer but feel the call to something Other—though we don’t know yet what it is or how it will all go. And so we pause in uncertainty before making our descent. We pause in the space between hope and fear.

Residing in the space between hope and fear is pain. My own pain. Your pain. The pain of the world. All those traumas, little and big. It is a hard thing to sit in that space. To lie fallow. To heal. 

Sitting with pain has been the biggest challenge of my life—both in my creative life and in maintaining close relationships. I’ve always been fascinated by the story of Persephone, but when the time came for me to journey to my own Underworld, to confront my shadows, I did everything possible to distract myself from the pain. I drank too much, smoked too much, worked too much, and “loved” too much. It took me a long, long time to acknowledge the ways in which pain and the avoidance of pain shaped my relationships and affected my creative life.

And it’s still a work in progress. But now when I feel that anxiety, now when I’m able to recognize that I’m living in the space between hope and fear, I take time to sit with the pain, to sit with both the hope and the fear. To hold myself and others with compassion. I’m not always very good at it to tell you the truth, but that’s my promise to myself. One that I will make every year at Lughnasadh—a year and a day of committing to not only to love and growth, but also to the dark winter ahead.

Blazing Star (purple wildflower )

Wheel of the Year: Summer Solstice

Have you picked any fruit from your garden yet? Peas, strawberries, or those first tiny zucchini? Or found some peaches and other seasonal goodies at your market? Here in the mountains, the first flowers are fading, making room for plump fruits. We’re beginning to enjoy a Midsummer harvest—a promise of the rich bounty yet to come. Strawberry-rhubarb pie is cooling on the kitchen counter beside a big basket of North Carolina peaches whose sweet juices run off my chin.

Strawberry Jam waiting to be canned.

Of the eight spokes on the wheel of the year, the summer solstice, or Litha, is one I feel most of us celebrate intuitively. I need no rituals for I nearly levitate with energy this time of year with the sun shining, the flowers blooming, and the first fruits coming off the vine.  All of Appalachia is in throes of a celebratory love, in a place beyond language. 

But even on days when I feel puny, my spirit low, making me feel like I’m moving through mud, I can enjoy some fresh mint tea and bask in the sun knowing this-too-shall-pass. For here in the height of summer, when we’re covered in a blanket of green leaves and writhing blossoms, Litha is actually marking the beginning of the waning part of the year. The days will grow shorter from here on out. I take comfort in and celebrate this cycle: whether high or low or steady-as-she-goes, this moment will pass, heralding a new season.

I was conceived in late summer. And I always wonder if all the season long, I was calling to my mother, willing myself into existence. Bear me, bear me, borne me. My own firstborn, who surely called out to me across the firmament, for years, demanding my body, was conceived near the summer solstice with the help of modern medicine. This time of year we celebrate all that is in the throes of becoming. 

And in the spirit of celebrating, one needs sustenance. It has been a good year for peaches and I’ve been working on a recipe for Peach Cobbler. I love baking and experimenting: when I make something new I usually have 2 or 3 cookbooks open and a recipe pulled up from an online source. In Brandy’s Test Kitchen we’ve not quite perfected a cobbler recipe—it’s actually a bit of a trick to get the biscuit topping somewhat evenly cooked when it’s resting upon sopping wet peaches. But I did accidentally develop a mighty fine Peach Crisp recipe. I think it works so well because the peaches I’ve been getting are extra sweet and juicy. It’s so good, I might give up on the cobbler. 

Recipe for Peach Crisp

Put a light coating of butter and a sprinkle of sugar into the bottom of a 9” deep dish pie plate.

Add chunks of fresh peaches (with or without skin) or a quart of peach compote so that you nearly fill the dish.

Topping

½ Cup Self-Rising Flour (I love Hudson Crème SR)

½ Cup Rolled Oats

½ Cup Sugar (I like to mix brown and white)

½ Cup Toasted, slivered almonds (Pop them into a toaster oven for about 3 minutes)

Mix these Ingredients

Add ¼ Cup of melted Butter

Stir with fork until butter is evenly distributed & looks like damp sand.

Sprinkle the topping on the peaches and bake at 375. The peaches may bubble over a bit so I put my pie plate on a pizza tin before putting it into the oven.

Enjoy! 

Wheel of the Year: May Day

If the year is divided in halves, May Day, or Beltane, marks the true beginning of the warm half for those of us in Appalachia. Dogwood winter, the harshest of the little winters, has ended, and the breeze on the evening air is warm and sweet. Flowers bloom everywhere. Bees and butterflies flutter and buzz. And hopeful young women wash their faces in the dew of the morning of May Day. Technically the season of Beltane runs from the late days of April through the early days of May with the evening of April 30th and then May 1st being the main event. On May Day young people dance around the maypole, wear a garland of flowers in their hair, and in some times and some places consummated their marriage to be—or maybe just engaged in some heavy petting—by the light of the season’s first bonfires.

Speaking of bonfires, once upon a time I knew a guy, “Alec,” who was born on April 30th, which is known as Walpurgisnacht. Night of the Witches Alec would say with a sly grin and bounce on his toes, waggling his eyebrows at me. I was desperately in love with him and was nearly consumed by the fires of May Day for him. I yearned and burned and tried very hard to have a child with him. 

But at the time I had an actual boyfriend, To., who happened to live all the way across the ocean in Germany. He chuckled when I asked him about Walpurgisnacht. You won’t be surprised that the holiday is not actually a big deal amongst young, cosmopolitan Germans. The fires of my Beltane burned for To. as well, but they were no match for the ocean between us. 

The May Day season of my life has passed; and all its drama—for there were far more characters than Alec and To. in those days! As many as the petals of a dandelion. Oh how I did burn. The Beltane fires still flare on a regular basis, but I’m in no danger of being consumed. Somehow, by the magic of the seasons of life, I’ve learned to refocus that burning energy to things more productive—my work and writing life, managing the care and feeding of my children and the doggos. It’s nice to be grounded, to burn with the steady flame of a sturdy candle rather than a roaring bonfire.

Yet, you might find me out in the early morning, a crown of flowers in my hair, washing my face in the Beltane dew.

I was actually laughing here because I felt ridiculous. But I kind of like how it turned out. (A woman, eyes closed, lying on the ground with flowers.)

Wheel of the Year: Vernal Equinox

Signs of spring

No holiday is more personally meaningful to me than the spring equinox and the Easter season that follows—probably for vanity’s sake because I was born in April and my middle name, Renee, means rebirth. But who doesn’t love the longer days, the promise of summer in the sun’s growing warmth, and the world pulsing with fertility.

There is plenty of easily accessible information on the history and origins of contemporary Easter celebrations in the U.S., and I won’t go in to that much here. But the story of a maiden goddess returning from the underworld is a common trope. In the mountains, I imagine her footsteps leaving behind a trail of daffodil and crocus blooms. And fragrant wild onions as well!

Recently one morning when I walked outside to check the mail a movement caught my eye—a rabbit. Most likely, an Appalachian cottontail, with brown mottled fur and a cute fluffy tail. She stopped under the cover of a pine tree and stood motionless with her head turned in my direction. Under her spell, I stopped too and stood looking at her. I thanked her for visiting my yard and hoped she enjoyed the blueberry offering I’d left out the night before.

One of my early ancestors, William Richard McCann*, a resident of North Carolina, supposedly believed in the fae folk and practiced the custom of leaving out a bowl of milk or whatnot to appease the fairies inhabiting the land around him. Leaving such offerings of milk, honey, bread, or whiskey put a family in good relation to mischievous land spirits. I often think about my ancestor’s offering. Every time I have a spot of good fortune I wonder if it is the inheritance gifted to me by kin hundreds of years ago. In honor of my heritage I too leave out treats for the magical creatures that inhabit the mountains around me—whether it is bird food for the downy woodpeckers and chubby nuthatches or blueberries for the deer and cottontails.

On this vernal equinox, when all is balanced for a moment, in harmony, in that space just before the northern hemisphere explodes with life, magic, and wonder—all our winter longing made manifest—I give thanks for another spring, for another rebirth, for each breath my lungs hold.

*I have a reference for this; I found it mentioned in a McCann genealogy book. When I locate the photocopied pages lost somewhere in my files, I will give a proper reference.

Purple Crocus

Wheel of the Year: Imbolc Reflections

Of the eight holidays of the Wheel of Year, in the past I’ve felt the least connection with Imbolc—a traditional Gaelic holiday marking the midpoint between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox. It is a celebration of the growing light, and a harbinger of spring, but occurs in the depth of winter. But this year I’ve found new connection to this old celebration. Yes, it is a time of hunkering down, but it is also a time of stirrings, creativity, and divination.

Although Americans look to the secular groundhog, Phil, for weather prediction, the story is much older, and refers to the day that the crone of winter goes out one last time to gather wood for her fire. If the weather is good, she’ll be able to collect a lot of wood and winter will last a while longer. If the weather is bad, she’ll only be able to gather a small amount and spring will return relatively soon.

Rhododendron blossoms in snow. With the weather we’ve been having in Virginia, I’m anticipating an early spring!

This year, my 43rd year—and if I’m lucky, my own midpoint—Imbolc takes on special significance. In my earlier years I’ve cultivated a creative practice, something I do almost daily, almost instinctively now, and finally there are little stirrings, promises of manifestations. 

I was talking recently with a friend about Pema Chodron’s classic book, When Things Fall Apart. Although bitter disappointment can hit any time of year, there’s something about this time of year that can leave me feeling anxious and depressed. Will winter ever end—the wet weather, the cloudy days, the being couped up. It can feel the same with this season of my life—I work and work but can’t always see clearly where it’s going.

These buds form in the fall and hang on, a promise, until the warm sun of spring.

Imbolc is a reminder for me to live in the moment, even in times of confusion. To trust those gentle stirrings, to work towards a sunnier day when the trees are full of life and green. This year I am embracing this holiday that feels in the thick of winter. This year I’m looking for little signs of life, promises of things to come.

Wheel of the Year: Yuletide Reflections

[Advent wreath with all candles lit.]

Memories of Christmas Past. I grew up in a conservative Freewill Baptist church in West Virginia, a type of church that would later be branded as “evangelical”—a term I’d never heard until the Bush Jr. presidency when I was already six years deep into adulthood and questioning those initial religious teachings.

Rather than using political terms, what I remember is a congregation of earnest people attending a little, red-brick country church named after my paternal great-grandpa who had donated the land on which the church house was built. Our church was one of many in our rural community. Which, if you know anything about how protestant churches are established (spoiler: disagreements in a congregation spawn new congregations) is quite telling about our little zip code. For example, although it has changed, in those days it was frowned upon for women to wear pants to services; if there was a kerfuffle over women’s attire, a group of people might throw themselves up a new little church. 

Despite our many churches and small-town squabbles, the form of worship in any one of them was fairly similar. Some might sing only old hymns without the accompaniment of musical instruments; others might have drum sets (!) and sing contemporary rock-and-roll influenced songs; but most had an informal choir who sang traditional hymns accompanied by a piano and guitar. People fellowshipped by shaking hands or sharing a hug and smile; and after a time of communing the able-bodied knelt in prayer, our elbows resting on the padded seats. The holidays were celebrated in a similar manner. For example, during Christmas, I never knew of a single church that didn’t put on a nativity play in some form. It was a time to celebrate the birth of The Son.

Our Christmastime traditions were to share and eat fruit baskets (oranges, grapes & apples), sing carols, and gather with extended family to exchange gifts and cheer on December 24th. That night kids went to bed eager for sleep so that Santa could visit. After the final opening of gifts on Christmas morning, we had a ham dinner midday Christmas. If your parents were divorced and both sets living in the community, as was my case, you would do all of this twice. 

New Traditions. I was a very serious-minded young woman—off-putting, odd, and earnest—and I took my religion seriously. By the time I reached adulthood, while other kids had been sneaking beer and sex, I had read my Bible through several times. Because of all that studying, I developed an intense interest in the history of Christianity. Like so many others before me, the more I learned the more questions I had. I took deep dives into Luther, Jehovah’s Witnesses, The First Council of Nicea, Gnosticism, hermeneutics, various “pagan” traditions both historical and modern, Buddhism generally & Tibetan Buddhism (Kagyu school) particularly, and finally Integral Yoga. Integral Yoga [this is my definition] is an American school of yoga with strong spiritual ties to India (a simplification but I’m trying to be concise as possible). 

Yoga was the final, and to my knowledge oldest, tradition I studied seriously. After all those years of searching and burying my head in so many ancient teachings, I chuckled when in conversation with a swami I was reminded of an old lesson I had learned in childhood: have faith. Although I was a natural in Jana Yoga path (seeking knowledge), it was the Bhakti Yoga path (surrender and devotion to God) that my heart and soul most needed. I had read enough books, debated enough philosophers; I needed a grounded practice. I longed for community, for ritual, for knees bent in supplication and thanksgiving.

My swami encouraged me to find a spiritual community that honored my Christian heritage as well as the person I had become since childhood. In the decade after that conversation, I have found community, or communities, though not yet in the form of a congregation (moving, small children, & most recently coronavirus have made it difficult). But I have developed a practice at home.

In recent years I have been celebrating Advent this time of year. The last month of autumn is a special, quiet time for me, the earth around me goes into a deep sleep; and as an academic, it is a time of completing projects and taking time off before the new semester begins. I have not given up my love of knowledge and books, and enjoy time spent in reading and contemplation for each candle lit on the Advent wreath. I love reading of variations on the tradition, and people’s differing reflections as the weeks go by. This year I think of hope, faith, joy, and love, but also have been influenced by a newer tradition of the Advent of the Solstice, or an anticipation and celebration of the Rebirth of The Sun.

I’ve celebrated the winter solstice (northern hemisphere), or Yule, for many years. But this year is the first that I’ve made a real Yule log with wood, pine branches, and teaberries gathered from around my home, and practiced the Advent of the Solstice. In the solstice advent wreath, we reflect upon the four major elements and associations with each one: 

• typically the 1st week is air, the element of beginnings, the east, intellect & memory, and the colors white or yellow;

• the 2nd week, fire, the element of transformation, the south, action & creativity, and the color red;

• the 3rd week, water, the element of endings, the west, emotion & connection, and the color blue;

• and the 4th week, earth, the element of stability, the north, the body & groundedness, and the colors green or brown.

This year, when I’m decidedly middle-aged, I have reflected on how each element has represented the first half of my adult life, with me being overly focused on air with my search for knowledge, or on fire as I indiscriminately followed every passion that tempted my senses. I was out of balance and experienced a lot of chaos—divorces, constantly moving—during that time of painful growth. And then I had children, which grounded me in the element of water and my emotions, and has been inspiration for creating stability—although keeping things in balance continues to be a struggle. But I am maturing, growing roots, nurturing relationships. And realizing that all those early years were a gift in their own way—I can stand rooted, comfortable in my own body, having faith in my own knowledge and experience, swimming in doubt and fire and wonder. 

[Teaberry in snow. Small plant with red berry growing out of moss and lichen.]