Greeting the Dead – Dying Awareness Week

I was watching the movie “Re-Cycle” last night; it was rather trigger-y in some spots so venture at your own risk.  But one scene really stood out for me – in the Land of Forgotten Things were hundreds of graves, with the dead sprawled listlessly round dried flowers and long-burnt-out incense sticks.  They had been forgotten, and when the heroine of the film tried to venture through them, they stirred.  She had picked flowers previously, and she began to place these in the palms of the dead, who were holding out their hands.  They closed their fingers over these offerings and placed their fists over their hearts, momentarily appeased.

I struggled with my Dying Awareness Week entry because there is so much to be said, and it’s impossible to fit it into a single post.  But this small scene from a movie gave me the jolt I needed:  and so I want to talk about Remembering the Dead and Dying from a psychopomp’s viewpoint.

This is a really sticky wicket for a lot of people who are witnessing the dying of a loved one; I have found it pretty easy to Greet the Dead when I wasn’t personally involved.  But losing one of my own?  Yeah, that’s hard stuff – and yet it’s all part and parcel of life.  It took me a while to be able to ride that turmoil and be okay with it, but many others aren’t sure how to act, or what to say, or what to do.  I’ve seen it happen time and time again – people are often so afraid of saying or doing something wrong that they just disappear from the dying person’s life.  I have been guilty of the same.  Don’t get me wrong, dying is a very personal thing and everyone has their own way of approaching it.  The role of those of us who must bear witness is usually defined as being emotionally remote, yet supportive.  Personally I don’t do that – grief is for the living, after all.  I mourn and weep as needed, as part of my role as a Sacred Mourner.   Everyone is going to have their own approach, and I admit I do not support the “professionally distant” way of bearing witness.

But here is the thing – the best way, the easiest way, to work with someone on their way to death is a simple one:  ask them.  Really.  That’s it.  Perhaps the person in question won’t want to talk about it at all, and that’s something you’ll have to keep in mind, as well as saying “I may screw up from time to time on that, so please forgive me.”  Those are the people who want the professionally distant approach, and for them, that works.  There are people who right at the point of dying are absolutely terrified and they do not go peacefully; that takes nerves of steel to deal with.   Conversely, the dying may have very specific ideas in mind, may want to plan everything out to the letter and go with a smile – it does actually happen.  Regardless of the request, do your best, your absolute utmost, to abide by this.  Your grief is yours, but their death is theirs.   Do right by your dying ones; own your shit and your issues, and give the dying what they need.  Being “uncomfortable” isn’t an excuse to get out of it unless your own mental health is on breaking point – and again I shall point to Dying Matters and to Death Cafes for that.

When Marissa was diagnosed as terminal, we had a discussion about what I could do for her when she died, and I agreed it.  She also insisted I dress in my voudou whites for her funeral; as predicted this went down REAL well with her staunch Gardenarian, proper-English-folk Coven.  I am sure she was laughing her ass off, too.  When I came back from the funeral and I was texting a friend, I found I still had her number on my phone.  I laughed through my tears – if only it was that easy!  ”Hi, Marissa, enjoying the afterlife?  Is the food crap?  I’m surprised, the reception is really good, actually.”  She would have seen the humour in it, and indeed laughed madly about it with me, so I kept the number there for a while.  Now I’ve got a picture or three of her which I bring out now and again.  Remembrance is good, and what she asked of me, even though every time I find a photo it still kicks me in the chest.

Emotion is a part of my work – I cannot do anything without it.  I will readily admit when it comes to dying children I am such an emotional wreck I am unable to give these children what they need in their final moments:  I used to think this was because I wasn’t strong enough – now I realise it’s because the role of passive, professional “soul midwife” isn’t my calling.  There is a role for those who howl like something lost when a child dies, and I now embrace that role.

For my own work – and I know many other psychopomps have this as well – Greeting the Dead isn’t just for Samhain.  Sometimes it’s a regular part of devotions – we may find ourselves doing service for our own folk or for those we don’t even know.   This can take on many different roles; a disir altar of our Beloved Dead, performing community outreach for the dying, or cleaning up cemeteries in our local area (there is a Friends of the Church group in my very small village, and it regularly tidies the cemetery space – I am hoping once I get my driving test done I can start getting involved myself).  Greeting the Dead and the Forgotten is something I try to do once every three months; I had attempted to do it every month but actually found it very draining.  There are things about working with the Dead that many books won’t tell you, so I’ll highlight a few things here:

- The Dead aren’t always wise.   A lot of books out there highlight one’s ancestry and disir as being founts of eternal wisdom.  Sometimes they are.  But sometimes they’re just as cantankerous and difficult as they ever were in life.   Choose who you allow into your space, and find ways to keep a polite distance if you can from those you don’t.  Most of my blood family aren’t people I really want anything to do with other than a few exceptions.  In some cases, I’ve been able to make my peace with my dead – in other cases I know there’s no damn point, they’re just as frustrating in death as they were in life so I don’t have anything to do with them.  What you can handle and what you can’t requires you to have a fair bit of self-awareness – to me that’s the pinnacle of this practice.

- The Dead aren’t always kind.  In the film I mentioned, the heroine ran out of flowers.  As soon as she did so, the Dead stood up and turned from passive, limp creatures into the standard of just about every zombie-film out there.  This is an important and very overlooked part of working with the Dead, and it frustrates me somewhat when various sources state there is no such thing as demons or bad energy, as it sets up a lot of novices into thinking the Otherworlds are a benevolent Disneyland.  This is not the case, especially when you are just starting out – I was taught we are light a bright flame, and spirits tend to act like moths; a bright light will draw in the curious.  Sometimes, the nastier elements want to bask in the glow, or steal the fire for themselves.  In my experience it doesn’t happen often,  but it does happen enough that one should be capable of dealing with it when it does.  Know how to banish – know how to protect your space, and how to cleanse yourself after an encounter with the less-than-desirable.

- The Dead may not want to be disturbed.   There are many stories of honouring one’s ancestry and calling upon them help us with our issues.  Sometimes, they’re happy to do this – but calling upon the Dead is never to be taken lightly.  I feel my need has to be pretty damn great before I ask the Dead for anything – more often than not I find it’s my Dead who come to me somehow to try and help me rather than the other way round.  In this way, I feel they’re able to do what they want, when they want, and it isn’t me constantly knocking on their door to mess with them.  Remembrance is often fine; welcome, in fact, the Dead seem to enjoy being remembered.  But that doesn’t mean they want to be bothered.  Be respectful when you ask the Dead for advice, be grateful when they show up, and be sure to honour their memory in a way they appreciate most (make their favourite food, donate to a cause they held dear to their hearts, etc).

Remembering the Dead does not need to be elaborate ritual, it doesn’t need to require a Tumblr-worthy altarspace.  It just needs to be sincere – a small keepsake you carry round with you from your Dead is often enough, since the keepsake brings the emotion in your heart of those you loved and lost.  Bitter and sweet, painful and beautiful, all is memory.  And to be remembered is a great gift.  May we all be remembered, and not forgotten, when the time comes.

Dying Awareness Week

In the UK it is “Dying Awareness Week” – there is a lot of political bruh-hah around this right now which continues to make it into a political issue rather than a personal one, for many reasons.  To be truthful I don’t really give a toss about that sort of thing, but it does show there is a growing shift in our approach to death and dying.  Since I work as a psychopomp and sacred mourner, I am all too happy to see this happening, although it still seems to aim on sanitising death to make it more “palatable”.  At least people are finally talking about it, and about the need for those who are dying and for those who are bereaved.

I know a lot of chronically ill and terminally ill people, and so we are probably much more laid-back about death and dying than most (although there are still quite a few who had the very idea of it and run and hide at every opportunity of facing mortality).  In the UK we have Dying Matters, an organisation which helps people come to terms with their own mortality, and even offers some advertising for “soul midwives” – people who act as witnesses and people who ease others into their passing.  I actually still find the latter to be a bit “flaky” but it is becoming more and more accepted a practice and to my mind is a start in the right direction.  If it helps, then I hope more people do it.  What I really hope for is that this sort of service would be available for the poor, the forgotten and those who cannot pay for the service.  I am hoping that will be where I come in, but I’ve got a ways to go before I manage that.

There’s all sorts of assistance at Dying Matters from writing and recording a will, to bereavement services for loved ones and respite activities for children, outreach and support.  This is all rather important stuff, which needs to be out more in the public eye, hence I am linking it here.

This is the practical stuff – the spiritual part of dying I will try and write about as my contribution for Dying Awareness Week.  Please take the time to bookmark Dying Matters even if it’s a bit too scary for you to look at right now; everything dies eventually, and we all need to be prepared for it.

Dedication, Motivation, Work

It took a while for spring to show itself – and this week it’s been mostly rain (which is not entirely a bad thing, we had a stretch of two weeks with blazing sun and the soil was getting dry) but it is finally here.  The veg in my garden as a result is going great guns, and I’ve been eating salad regularly.  The broad beans and peas are now starting to flower, and I anticipate a bit of legumes to mix it up a little.   Considering there was nothing but little stubby seedlings a month ago, this is some great progress.    I’ve been picking salad regularly, munching my way through my greens, which has also helped on the personal fitness front considerable.  I’ve dropped 13 pounds (on top of what I’d already lost – I can’t even believe I’m typing that!), put on more muscle, and I’m slowly progressing through routines to gain more strength.  I’m painting more and more, and in two weeks I have my driving test – the car has finally arrived and is sitting in our driveway, the first new car I’ve ever owned in my life and I love it already.

This has all taken time.  It feels as if everything has just come to a head and is rushing thick and fast with the oncoming summer, but it’s all been a long time coming.  I ordered seed and soil and assembled the trough.  I waited a ridiculously long time for my provisional to arrive and had to find a new driving instructor.  I had to get a doctor to listen to my pleas for help and a diagnosis, had to go through various medicines and suffer the side-effects before finding something that worked.  I had to flail around a bit trying to decide where my path was taking me before I was able to settle into regular practice; it’s hard to practice something when you don’t know what the hell you’re trying to practice.

I think a lot of people don’t tend to see this part of Work; especially if one’s sole connection is the internet (which is my current issue right now).  On the net, the once-a-month- tidbits one sees tends to make the journey of practice seem like an easy thing, with snapshot-quick leaps in progress.  The truth is, the change is often very slow, very subtle.  I wasn’t seeing any change in my weight for ages because I was being stupid and measuring every day.  I then decided I wouldn’t weigh myself for a week – and boom, as if by magic, two pounds gone.  Not documenting the changes made the changes seem a lot faster than they really were, but of course I didn’t lose that weight overnight, it happened steadily over seven days.  Just like the veg in the photo didn’t just suddenly sprout up.  My meditation practice took months of trying to figure out what I was trying to accomplish, experimenting with things I thought would work but didn’t, and then stumbling upon things which did.

There was also a lot of discouragement on the way; the day I was so exhausted and fatigued I had to stop my driving lesson halfway and have a cup of coffee and rest so I didn’t crash the car.  The four days of crushing fatigue where I was barely able to eat, let alone cook decent meals and work out.  The total blank in my practice when I wondered if I was ever going to be able to connect with my P.T.B ever again.  Most people don’t tend to document their down-times, keeping the smiley face of “always being motivated, never giving up” – because for many people that is a coping mechanism.  There’s nothing wrong with that as a coping practice, but it can be somewhat misleading, can tend to make one feel they’re the only ones on the planet who are feeling unmotivated and stuck.    As I’ve been that “Everyone is able to do this but me” person, I therefore tend to write about those stuck-in-the-mud times as well as the times when everyone is flowing and brilliant – I know in the past I sometimes really needed to know I wasn’t the only one struggling, and so I put it out there.

Struggle does happen; lack of motivation happens.  Feeling like everything is a chore happens.  Dedication falters.  Believe it or not, this is normal.  And it will pass.  Mix it up a little, but keep carrying on.  Eventually the sun comes out, eventually the seeds germinate and bloom, eventually the spark happens and you can build from there.

Keep being dedicated, find your motivation, and work.

Challenge and Change

 Oya is the Queen of Change.  She has been so present in my life in so many ways that Change is something I tend to now take a deep breath about and go “Right, doing this” rather than kicking and screaming about it.  I have never been the type to say “This is just how I am, and it’s not going to change” because I know that’s the sort of phrase which gets Oya’s attention.  But then I’ve never understood the mentality which acknowledges one’s bad habits or flaws and seeks to hunker down into them rather than do something about it – one may be a Libra, or a Pisces, or have a grumpy personality but that doesn’t mean one has a “Do What I Want” card because of it.  I see these things as flags, as indicators of personality – and therefore something to use as a warning or a potential roadmap to working round one’s issues.  I’m obsessive, extremely-self-critical, and tend to veer wildly between being totally driven to get something done or absolutely adamant at giving up.  Those are flaws, and I am aware of them – and I am also able to combat them and compromise with them so I can function; that is learning how to change when need be.

I can thank Oya’s influence and her hand in my life (even when I hated it and wished for something “normal”) as it is Oya who has taught me no change is insurmountable.  We may hate it, it may be a challenge of years to set right, but we can change.  This has proven invaluable lately, as I am being given new challenges to face and new Work to do.  No, I haven’t liked it – I have caught myself on more than one occasion insisting that I’m too old, too fat, too tired, too ill, too busy – but Oya isn’t having any of that.  Neither, apparently, is Freyja. But when Oya would tend to just pull the rug out under me if I didn’t get to steppin’, Frejya just seems to stand back and wait.  I’ve discovered I’m not sure what is worse, the “Get up, Girl!” or the “I am disappoint”.   Either way, the challenge has been given, and I’m having to rise up to it and prove I am the witch I believe I am, and perhaps a bit more than even I expect.

There’s various aspects to what I’m doing – I won’t go into too much detail right now, but I will say the biggest challenge is to the perception of who I have been telling myself I have been over the past ten years.  ”Too old” – I’ve actually realised I had no idea what my real age was; I’d lost track in all the madness and mayhem of raising my son.  The reality is I’m two years younger than I thought, and I’m pretty sure 41 is no longer considered ancient.  ”Too fat/too tired/too ill” – yes, the chronic illnesses are there and there is no cure.  However the medication I am taking is controlling things nicely, and I’ve managed to return to strength training.  I’ve managed to lose 20 pounds, and more is coming off every day.  I’m lifting more, the definition is coming back into my arms, I’m getting assistance from other body-builders on diet and macronutrients, and I feel better than I have done in years.  There are days I have relapses, days when my body lets me down a bit and I struggle.  However progress is being made, and every small victory is earned.

Social interaction is something I’ve entirely forgotten how to do – many years out of the public eye tending my son has made me nearly incapable of speaking to other adults; I’ve forgotten how.  I either ramble inanely, or I go completely silent (better to say nothing at all than say something monumentally stupid).  I’m not being let off the hook for this, either; I will have to learn to make contacts and connections for my work, and Work.  I’m gritting my teeth and preparing myself for the attempts, but I’m not looking forward to it at all, I can tell you right now.  However, it’s very clear to me that just saying “I’m not going to change” is not acceptable.  My business and Work will be made or broken by my ability to make contacts and network, and so I must once again learn to don the social mask and flitter about.  I will need to remember to construct the Social Me; I did it in the past, I can do it again. I just have to re-craft it, and re-member.

I could speculate for hours on what all this sort of Self-Moulding 101 is leading to – and I certainly have tried the speculation route.  Truth is, I have no idea.  All I can do is do the Work; a lot of it feels like “wax on, wax off”.  It is frustrating, sometimes boring, sometimes seemingly pointless and designed only to point out my faults and errors.  It sometimes feels as if it is bordering on spiritual self-help, which sets my teeth on edge; I want to be doing devotions and Woo, not this “How does this make you feel?” squick.  But ranting and railing doesn’t do much good – this is where my path is taking me right now, and therefore I will walk it.  Wax on, wax off, paint the nails and for the sake of the various gods, woman, put some moisturiser and makeup on.

Yes it’s a challenge.  Yes, it’s a change.  And yes, damn it, I will do it.

Walspurgis – Going A-Maying

I’m extremely eclectic; at first because I was self-taught and went a bit “Pick and mix” as the inexperienced are wont to do, but later because the Powers That Be which approached me came from various backgrounds, quite a bit of it due to my personal ancestry.  I know how well that goes down in many circles, but that’s the way I roll, and I answer to my P.T.B for that, not any circle of Man.  So everything I do for various observances is a total mish-mash, and my current observance of Walspurgis also has hints of Beltaine in it.

My altar for current active Work has a spirit bottle to Oshun, a scrying mirror for Hela and Hekate, offerings and pieces I associate with working with Freyja.  One of my bottles of kriek lambic sits there soaking up the energies before I pour it in offering to Freyr.   I have no set pattern to anything I do; I merely tend to follow my gut, doing what feels right at the time.  The altar was constructed by “yes/no” gut instincts I’ve developed over years.  There’s nothing on this altar to Oya, for example – I love Her dearly, but she and Oshun do not get along; I don’t even place offerings to either of them in the same room if I can manage it.  I have sympathised with Oya for years on this, but lately I can also see Oshun’s side of it as well – neither of them is to blame because Shango couldn’t keep it in his pants.   Oya gets her own honorifics when the time is right, but right now, during the spring-time, I’m working with deities of love and beauty and sensuality and the mysteries and magic these P.T.B. brought with them.  That’s another post in its own right, but for now I sing the praises, and do the Work, and am glad to greet the spring after months of bleak winter and bitter cold.

I am not a tidy-witch; I’m pretty much the “woman in the cottage in the middle of nowhere” type of witch with stacks of books and stuff scattered every-damn-where.  Even my garden is chaos of domestic and wild.  Grape hyacinth and heather is nestled in with St Johns-wort and the tulips I planted in fall, choked throughout with wild primrose and ground elder.  Yes, it’s a mess, but so what?  It’s living, and growing, and looks rather lovely in its own way.  Over the year I’ll plant tagetes and California poppy, yarrow and even more tulips (can’t get enough tulips, me).  Herbs and flowers with co-mingle in the wild back garden, bringing colour and chaos every spring.  Kriek will get splashed liberally in this area, bread offered, and bee pollen.  The bees love this part of the garden, it’s the first stop during the year, and I want to be sure it provides well for them.  I whisper good news and secrets to the bees as they hum contentedly through hellebore and heather, violets and primroses.  May they spread my news far and wide.

For the past eight nights (with one or two nights when I was too exhausted to stay up) I’ve been lighting beeswax candles, offering mugwort-infused brandy, and burning incense in honour of the Walspurgis influence.  Various UPG compares Walspurgis to the time Odin hung on the World Tree for nine days and nights, and upon the ninth, he died and ripped the runes out of the void between being alive, and being dead. I honour this sacrifice for knowledge, this suffering for wisdom and magic, and tonight at midnight, I blow out all the candles, sit in darkness, and then light the entire wheel in a blaze, holding my rune-beads in my hand.  Last year I gained a new way of confirming divination – I’m not sure if I’ll gain anything from the observance this year but my UPG with Odin tends to put stress on “Something offered, something given”.  This observance I do never goes un-noticed.

There are various things I want to do – offerings of the kriek lambic I made a few months ago will get splashed liberally about. Kriek is a drink made from cherries, slightly sour, and remarkably low in calories compared to the other beers and wines I make.  Since I am working very hard to become lean and strong again to fit with Freyja’s recent challenge to me, this is a good thing!   For my practice, the cherry tree has considerable significance; I associate it with Freyr, and my cherry tree is also my offering space to Freyr – you can probably see the antlers, beeswax, wishbones, eggshells, corn of the cob, and so on which I’ve placed and buried through the years.  The branches have offering bead strands I’ve made out of dried petals and buds of flowers (I dried some hollyhock buds last year and strung them on embroidery floss – they look rather nice, actually!).

A lot of the Beltaine/Walspurgis centres around eating, drinking and being merry. I can’t get myself ratted tonight as I’ve got driving lessons tomorrow and my need to get my driving license over-rules overindulgence.  But I will still try to enter into the spirit of the thing; I saved my live wreath from Winter Solstice and allowed it to dry in my drying cupboard – the plan is to burn it tonight in a small bonfire outside, provided the weather holds.  A glass of kriek will be enough to honour my obligations without making me too shambolic.  A sip from the mugwort-infused brandy (also from cherries) will hopefully give me dreams I can later interpret for the year.

My observations are quiet, without groups of people or covens.  They’re personal, and while I sometimes miss the idea of being involved with other groups, that’s not my focus right now.  That will come eventually, but I suspect I’m always going to feel a bit like I’m outside the pack; this doesn’t get to be used as an excuse to not interact however (and again that’s another post entirely).  But for now, I will honour my P.T.B in my own way, and cheer the Springtime in.

May the year bring you everything you need!

In Praise of Mugwort

Mugwort is a weed you’ve probably passed a hundred times and never thought anything about it; it’s rather pretty in its own way, with silverish leaves and slightly furry undersides but otherwise it doesn’t seem like much.  But dig a little deeper and you’ll find a herb which has a very long history and a lot of uses.

A Modern Herbal tells us it got its name from being used to make homemade beer before hops were used in the UK.  It has been used as a culinary herb even up to 80 years ago as a substitute for tea (though I can’t imagine it tasted very nice, it’s rather bitter).  As well as being a stimulant and a tonic, it can help to promote sweating in a feverish patient (diaphoretic).  It’s a mild medicine, but it isn’t solely for its medicinal use I refer to it now.

Mugwort is known all over the world as a herb of protection and a herb of prophesy and divination, in particular with dreaming.  Why it promotes vivid, active dreaming we’re not actually sure but it’s a herb which really tends to deliver results – so much so it’s purported to not actually need to even be ingested to work; a simple pillow of mugwort will do the trick.  In truth, a little mugwort tends to go a long way; I added about a teaspoon of the herb to a bottle of cherry brandy, and with just one sip of the stuff I have vivid dreams all night long.

Mugwort is an easy perennial to grow but can also be somewhat invasive, so I have it in a large container outside in my garden – I harvest for smudge braids, for Walspurgis observance as I’m doing now, for the first mead of the year and also for the last.  I’ve dedicated the herb to Gerda and to Mani; Gerda is the one I dedicated the entire garden space to.  Mani is not directly related to dreams but he is the God of the Moon, and the connection works for me.  I use mugwort rarely because it is Sacred and therefore I feel it won’t do to get too casual with it – the current Walspurgis vigils I’ve been doing are the first time I’ve used the fresh herb in a year – but every time I do use the herb in a dreamwork capacity I am staggered how such a small dose of the stuff can so greatly assist my Work.  For the past few nights I haven’t had my dream diary close to hand and then been caught totally unawares by morning.  I’ll remedy that tonight and actually keep a better record!

I’m sure people take mugwort solely to “trip ballz” – such is the West’s penchant to turn the sacred into recreation – but mugwort doesn’t really have that kind of action.  It seems to need the subconscious mind to be open for it to work, and that can take considerable practice.  I’ve been a Dreamwalker most of my life, and even so I find mugwort challenges me considerably to stay aware enough in lucid dreaming to be able to dance across the hedge.  The good news is that mugwort is a gentle herb and seems quite happy to work with one to get to that goal, without bringing you onto the very edge of sanity as other herbs may do.  I do not react well to many of the herbs other witches and shamans use, but I’ve got a good working relationship with mugwort.  I tend to treat my patch of mugwort as a living entity in its own right, much as Grandmother Hellebore, and therefore I tend it gently, listen to its needs, and only harvest as required.  I only tend to use mugwort for Dreaming purposes once every three months or so – again, I feel one shouldn’t get overly comfortable with using herbs on a regular basis although I’m sorely tempted to put mugwort into just about everything!

Mugwort isn’t just a herb for dreams, however – it’s also a very good herb for protection.  Clumps of the stuff used to be suspended over doors to ward in Japan to protect against evil spirits.  We have it here in Britain thanks to the Romans, who planted it alongside the roads as they felt putting the leaves into their shoes would prevent foot-ache from long marches.  Clumps were suspended over doors here in the UK, and it was burned in Ireland as incense.  It is purported to be a purifying herb, and can be used to sanctify your workspace when you start a Working, as well as to bring you “back to earth” at the end; you can carry it as an amulet as well to protect you either in this world or in other-worlds.

I use mugwort much as I use sage – due to working with Lahkota, whenever I smell sage it’s an instant trigger to my mind to Sit Up and Pay Attention.  I can almost feel “The Look” my lodge mother would give me if I was still whispering with friends when the sage was lit.  The smell of burning sage tells me it’s now srs bsns.  Over the past year I’ve been training my senses with sensory cues, and now mugwort also gives me a similar message to start to gather myself for Work.  However, mugwort has its own unique abilities – for me, it almost acts like a key.  Or maybe that isn’t the right word; I find mugwort is almost like a guide into crossing the hedge.  Mugwort can open the door for me to do my work in the Otherworlds, but it’s not a one-way-trip sort of plant; it can just as easily help me come back from my Work and ground me.  This makes it a very special plant, indeed – in my experience many other herbs just tend to jolt you through the door with a kick and a laugh, but you have to stumble your own way back.  With mugwort, it’s almost like there’s a helpful hand there to lead me in, then wait for me at the gates with the patience of a parent waiting for their child at the end of the school day.

Perhaps that’s the over-arching feeling I have about mugwort in general; it is a gentle, playful and compassionate kind of herb.  It can help you cross the hedge and can also help to purify and protect you on the way. While I’ve heard of mugwort as a “beginners herb” (insinuating it’s just something you use till you move on to the heavy-hitters), I have found that mugwort is really the only herb I need for my purposes.  It doesn’t have the street-cred of being a walk-on-the-edge-of-death such as henbane or amanita, but for me it isn’t the point.  To have a working relationship with this herb is a great honour, and I’m very happy to see it growing again in my garden this year and to be Working with it again.

First Mead of the Year

The sun is blazing outside and it is beautiful; spring is here finally and the garden is full of bees.  There are dandelions everywhere!  This is both a blessing and burden – it doesn’t please my neighbours, but it does mean I can harvest dandelion root and dry it out for use in various prayer beads and offering sets.  The heads are useful as well, and I harvest them when I can but leave a fair few for the bees.

Because it’s such a beautiful day and more heather honey arrived from my supplier, I am making the first mead of the year – a metheglin of nettle, ginger, and dandelion flowers.  I wanted to wait till a sunny day when the nectar was high in the flowers and the nettle was sending up its shoots.  A quick blanch to get rid of most of the stinging needles, then into the mashing bucket everything goes, awaiting the heated, skimmed, then cooled honey and water which will drench the lot and bring out the qualities of the herbs into the mead.  The buds on the ginger have been gently cut off and planted into soil to continue to grow my own ginger for my use.  This is  celebrating spring with all the weeds most people overlook; it’s my goal to only need to purchase honey for this first-year mead in future; everything else will be harvested from what I have in my garden and from the forest.

All my herbs are coming up and making themselves known.  The mugwort I started in a pot last year is sending up new shoots; the wormwood should follow soon as well but it’s not quite ready yet.  No matter; I can still start the maceration of cherry brandy which I use in my up-coming Walspurgis observation – I am not a reconstructionist, nor am I an Odinist, but I respect the Allfather for his dedication in discovering the runes so I perform a rite of honour for nine nights.  One aspect of my observance is to offer alcohol laced with herbs.  I tend to use cherry brandy – thick as blood, red-brown and heady-strong.  In goes the mugwort.  For nine days, more herbs get added, more brandy – growing stronger with each infusion until the stuff induces riotous dreams and, sometimes, inspiration.  I’ll bring out the rune-carved beads made from ash for my Working, and light the candles, one more for each night.  I’m looking forward to the observance and hopes it will bring me a bit closer to understanding the runes, and what sacrifice for inspiration means.

My back garden is my wild space, where I grow my medicinal herbs, fruit trees, and murmur to the bees which come to visit the flowers.  My front garden however has to more-or-less conform to social expectations and that means doing my least-favoured job: weeding and keeping things tidy.  I’ve uprooted dandelions and poisoned off the rest with salt and vinegar water; sometimes to be a good caretaker you have to know when to weed and prune back, control populations and keep the peace.  Too many dandelions means they set off hundreds of seeds into neighbouring gardens, which doesn’t best please the locals.    I have to be able to manage my garden as well as harvest from it, from fruit to flower to herb.  It’s all part of the Work; if I can use some of those roots for my herbwork, then I gather them.  If not, into the weed-bucket they go to break down to compost over time.  Believe it or not, bindweed and nettle make an amazing fertiliser when diluted; when concentrated they make a herbicide.  Nature provides if one is willing to do the work – it certainly saves on having to buy tonnes of fertiliser, though I’m always buying more soil for growing potatoes and topping up potted plants and trees.

My front garden is a collection of aesthetics and medicine;  calendulas are pretty and reseed themselves, as well as being useful for beads and infusions.  Roses for brilliant blooms and for petals for pot-pourri or wine.  Mallow for roots and beautiful spikes of flowers, bergamot for tea.  lavender and mint and peony for seeds to be used in amulets of protection or money-drawing.  Some I’ve planted for appearance alone, and some are toxic and remind me to respect their presence.  I suppose in its own way, the front garden in more respectable, but it’s wild, too: I have planted many brilliant perennials which self-seed in the hopes it will choke out the ground elder and spare me the trouble of fighting the stuff, and the tulips will spread as well, with time and luck.  It’s a fine balance between giving Mother Dirt her head to grow as she pleases, and yet keeping it socially-aesthetic.

My windowsills are covered with dirt from seed plantings and inquisitive cats.  My desk is stacked with papers and cupboards crammed with clutter which I hope to clear out over the year.  There is much to do and all is abustle – but today I garden, and skim foam off honey, and revel in lovely green, nectar-filled smells.

And that is what the first mead of the year is all about for me.