Beginnings, also endings...

 Coming up to Samhain in the northern hemisphere, it seeps through into my awareness, even in the southern. As cackling pumpkins, and silhouettes of pointy hat wearing women, with a fine way to travel, appear out of nowhere. Thoughts shift deeper to ancestors, family that have crossed over, especially my brother, Dylan. I realised i didnt have any photos of him up in hq, so pulled out all my boxes and folders with family pictures and other gathered images to create a collage pinned to my cork board. Cranked the stereo and went with the process....

Outside, Ive been watching the green, crysalis like, buds on our Tree Datura growing, and then today they began to unfurl into flower. Like the wet wings of an emerging insect the flowers took form and opened out into the distinctive trumpet shape. I was drawn into the flower, intoxicating in its lovelyness and the play of light within.

Where there are beginnings, also endings. I found a small Eastern Brown snake dead out front of our place. I was fascinated by her beautyfull colouring and the silkyness of her scales, so smooth, but her spirit was still noticeably present so I was real respectfull. Brown snakes have a nasty bite and can be aggressive. I was surprised to see her, as the local snake expert told me they tend to avoid Carpet snakes, despite their shyer nature. We have a couple of them resident, including a big mama.

I put her quietly to rest at the base of a big ol tree.

Some spring success....

Having brought in three cubic metres of soil in autumn to improve the baseline fertility of my beds by raising them, mulching them, and then just letting nature take its course. Now, when I peel back the sugarcane mulch, theres a happy little ecosystem under there in the soil, microbes working away, and worms!

I created beds in new areas based on a bit more knowledge of how the sun works in the garden. A new area that only gets morning sun is showing promise for when the summer heat kicks in. Up here its wipeout material. Not that suns much of a problem for the more reptilian amongst us, who can simply retire to a cooler spot...

After feeling like a brown thumb last year, this spring I decided to have another go at growing from seed. I kept it simple. Roma tomatoes, large chillies, lettuces, bush basil, borage, calendula, marigolds, cosmos, bok choi, pumpkins and red poppies. This time I sat the seedlings in any kind of waterproof trays I could lay my hands on, including the hideous plastic ones that meat from supermarkets come in, which stopped them drying out so fast. When you add water, the excess drains through, forming a reservoir for the babies to draw on, which also serves as a drinking bowl for catfriend...

Ive had some luck with the seedlings and am now starting to plant them out! Ending up with way more plants than I could have afforded to buy in. I gave them a good soaking with a mix of seaweed emulsion and charlie carp fertiliser to help them settle in. Seems to be working. The climbing beans I planted straight out, and watered in the same mix, are just starting to peep shyly out from under the soil.

I used all open pollinated seeds. The goal being to gradually build up the plant population to self seed away and spread, whilst gathering some as backup. The other strategy Im experimenting with, is to simply sprinkle a few seeds around things as I plant them out. I figure if Im watering the area anyways, may aswell see if others can benifit and sprout. It happened organically in some of my pots, like around the lovely motherwort plants that get a regular drink, I have my first ever dandelion! Which threw up two seed heads I could then distribute elsewhere. Free greens!

There have also been a few surprises, unexpected flowerings occurring off their own bat. I think the garden is getting the message that I'm here to stay awhile and I appreciate its offerings. The real estate agent told me its been years since anyone gave a damn about the garden, as I could tell when I arrived. So its nice to see it begin to flourish some more. Its so luxurious to live amongst a garden where your feet are directly on the ground, especially after ten years in a third floor flat. Hopefully, the whole scene will continue to build abundance as I improve the soil and plant out more and more babies.

  

Hybrid adobe and inspiring garden plots....

Today i bused off to a hybrid adobe workshop at Mullumbimby Community Gardens, with no idea exactly what 'hybrid adobe' meant but hopefull that whilst the specifics were to 'make garden bed edges', that the techniques learned could also be applied to building. Turns out we were creating garden bed edges in the shape of a love heart in the childrens space. A preliminary concrete shape had been laid, onto which we were to work, using our hollow rectangle forms filled with the hybrid adobe mix pressed down. Pictured here is the soil for planting in in the middle, then the concrete base to the upper. With the first layer of hybrid adobe below, and the brick form filled with mix.

The mixture was 3 parts sawdust ( sieved to remove big chunks and pieces), 2 parts sand and then adding one part concrete. Mixing the sawdust and sand properly first up, adding the concrete continuing to blend, and then just enough water to activate the concrete. Taking a handfull out and forming it into a ball it should gel, without excess fluids. The moulds overlap the previous brick by about two inches, the gap formed as the mould presses down, later blended, and matched to the underlying concrete forms edge. Heres layer one...

Which dried pretty sucessfully before we all added layer 2.....

Now by the end of the day its getting close to finished!

I took a break to walk around the gardens and simply photograph some of the beauty to be had. Spring rocks, and some of the plots were truley inspiring in their abundance....

All in all, it was a fine way to spend a saturday. The little people will be able to clamber all over the garden bed edges quite happily and the same mixture can be used to make house walls. I found out through chats that there are a variety of brews that can be used for building. Like 'cob' which is simply clay and sand mixed together. Im also interested in the brews that can be used to render strawbale buildings, or the rammed earth into tyres which become the walls of 'Earthships'. Hhhhmmm more researching to be done!

Colour charts and a red nasturtium ....

Im studying Natural History Illustration by correspondance, which is great in terms of flexability but a tad dangerous for the ol procrastination and general delaying of the inevitable. I was doing ok until we hit watercolours, and therefore some colour theory.  My usual painting technique involves seeing what colours I have and making the best of them. For the course we had to buy specific colours and then ensued very specific colour mixing charts, eek! I was afeared of them somewhat, being more comfortable in black and white. So 3 months (I know) and several attempts later, theyre finally done!

Now I can move on to the assessment excercise in colour. So first up is a tonal master drawing and then a colour sketch, which basically maps out all the ingredients, with a swatch of each colour mixed. That gets sent in for comments and then I can proceed to add watercolours to master drawing. It all seemed very anal to me at first, but having completed half of the process i can see the sense to it now. Any mess ups are made on the colour sketch, not the original drawing.

So I chose a red nasturtium, Tropaeolum majus to be more formal. Its the first flower from the seedlings I pinched off someones front garden, it was so abounding in them I doubt anyone even noticed. Its symbolic of my struggle to get vegies and herbs going in seaside environs which is actually coming along this spring! Still, a very proud mother, hence the illustration.

 Spring blessings to southerners, and happy growing wherever on the planet you find yourself!

Broken Head....

Heres a photographic journey of a walk around the headland, at the southern end of our beach, Broken Head. It never fails to blow my mind. Enjoy....

Esther Dean on dowsing....

Here's an excerpt from an 2001 article on Esther Dean, pioneer of no dig gardening, where she discusses her use of dowsing.....

"On this sunny morning, the fabled gardener is waiting on her front porch, pet magpie on her shoulder, looking exactly as if she’s stepped out of the pages of a children’s storybook. She’s the classic image of the fairy godmother: bright eyes, apple-cheeked face, hair swept into a neat bun, her manner and figure warm and cuddly.

As she shows you around her garden, introducing each plant with its own little story or homily, there’s a sense of wonder in her expression, in every sentence.

She disappears into the kitchen to get the morning tea, and just as you’re half expecting her to pop back out having sprouted wings and a wand, she does something equally fey. “Do you know about dowsing?” she inquires brightly, plonking down a dish of her favourite dowsing pendulums and various shells, stones, brooches, crystals and rings on strings.”It’s truly so helpful... I’m a member of the British Society of Dowsers,” she adds, producing a booklet.”See all the eminent people who belong to it, all the initials and qualifications after their names. We’re not cranks, you know. Dowsing is an ancient skill, old as time.”

Soon she’s demonstrating her technique, lifting her favourite pendulum, a wooden spindle on a string and suspending it over a plate of apple tea bun. “ Is this bun good for us to eat?” she asks the pendulum, and it immediately starts rotating in a wide circle. “That means it’s positive, or feminine,” she explains. “What about this arrowroot biscuit?” The pendulum remains still. “  Hmmmph. That means its neutral, another one of those dastardly genetically modified products that have to be stopped! You’re looking sceptical dear....”

 “Yes, because it looks like you’re moving your hand to make the pendulum swing like that,” I blurt out. “ Let me try it.”

Doubting journalist holds pendulum quite still over apple tea bun, declaring, “See, it’s not moving!” Leaves hand in place, turns head to look at Deans in the ye and continue the conversation. Then, lo and behold, the blessed pendulum starts whizzing in a circle over the bun, just as it had done for her.

“I don’t believe this.” I say laughing at the absurdity of it, then test the biscuit.

“Concinced now?” queries Deans, preening. “ You have great dowsing skills, dear, you must use them every day of your life. Come her...”

Her kitchen is cluttered with plates of vegetables, bowls of fruit, mushrooms, croissants, salmon and many other things. Above the sink are three wooden pegs, painted red, on string-her dowsing pegs for shopping. “I test everything before I buy it.” She swings the peg over the tomatoes:”Are these good to eat?” Then each field mushroom: “Is this good?...No that ones trouble, out it goes, into the compost. And this cheese?”

How do people react in shops when they see her swinging a peg over a banana? “Oh” her eyes widen, “some look at me as if Im a bit odd. Others ask, ‘What are you doing?’ I reply, ‘Just testing to see if it’s good – do you want to learn how? They usually say no thank you, or shy away.

“I use dowsing when I buy anything, like clothes, shoes. I ask,’is this colour or style right for me?”

Doesn’t it take forever to do the shopping like this? “Oh no, Im very quick at it, years of practie. Here’s a tip – tie your dowsing peg on a piece of old pantyhose around your neck. That way you can keep it hidden, then stretch it out when you need it, and you never lose it.”

The pet magpie struts into the kitchen as if it owns the place, and pecks at the fridge door. “Oh you want to be fed Maggie,” sings Deans, opening the fridge and offering a ball of minced meat to the waiting beak."

Energy as magic....

"My body is all sentient. As I go here or there, I am tickled by this or that I come in contact with, as if I touched the wires of a battery."
                                   Henry David Thoreau 

I picked up a stash of pagan books and mags at a garage sale about a month ago, which Ive been working my way through since. In one volume I read a definition of magic that stuck with me in its difference. An exercise was given of placing your flat palms close to, but not touching, another persons and moving them apart, then back real close. To simply feel what you feel. Be that heat, a buzzing sensation, pins and needles or something else. That feelings the energy I call magic, the force or current used in magic, said the author, Ms Galenorn, and I rather liked that. Of course you can do it solo and still feel something, depends on ones tendencies and situation. I just liked that she included bodily felt sensation in a definition of magic.

Sensitivity to these types of feelings has occurred in other practices for me. In Tai chi, or Qi gong the presence of such energetic sensations gives feedback as my body moves through the physical excercises. At the end of a session I place my hands on my dan tien, or energy centre (either at the heart chakra or just a little above the navel) to let raised energy flow into the area, for health, calm and centring. When I place my hands close to plants I feel heat, tingling, like a circuit has been activated. Holding this stance a while seems to both aid green folk’s growth and my own earthing out in an exchange of energy that has long been valued as therapeutic. 

The different aspects of earth as a source of such energies is epitomised in the ancient art of dowsing. For water sources, mineral deposits and questions of daily life the dowser consults a pendulum or forked stick which moves in reply. Even in this age of technological gadgetry, dowsing survives, because it works. It can be used for everything from sexing a plant, finding underground water sources, checking seed viability to querying food quality. The tracking of energetic ‘ley’ or ‘song’ lines in the earth, (a bit like the acupuncturist tracing meridians in the human body) resulting in some of the ancient standing stones, monoliths and sacred sites being where they occur. Small lesser known sites that may draw us in included.  
  
"A basic principle of magic is that changes in the energy body can create changes in the physical body and vice versa." 
                                          Starhawk and Hilary Valentine in ‘The Twelve Wild Swans’

" The techniques of healing are simple enough; most of the training is about getting the healer out of the way. Healing is done with spiritual energies that come through the healer but do not emanate from her; she is the messenger not the message. Sadly, many people working with healing energies, and not only healers, forget this. Working with energy does not make you special in any way, any more (or less) than plumbers or mechanics are special. Its a skill which a healer develops, practices and applies, just like any other; moreover, it is a skill which everyone has."
        Elisabeth Brooke in ‘A Wisewomans Guide: to Spells, Rituals and Goddess Lore’ 

Some people may try to convince that large amounts of money need to be forked out to access such energy. Simply beginning with the hand excercise mentioned above sensitises one to feelings which can be built on, by shrinking or enlarging the 'ball' of energy between your hands and moving with it. 

I paid a relatively small amount for my Reiki attunemens and certification. Not because it wasnt the real deal. My teacher was a devoted meditator who saw it as a part of her dharma to spread this tool to women on low incomes. The price doesnt necessarily qualify the lessons...

Poetry as invocation....

I have begun reading Robert Graves 'The White Goddess' several times and not finished. Yet it is a thread book, that one can trace later texts to and that indeed traces threads back through time to the more ancient texts which he refers to. So Im trying again and I thought Id share a few tangents and tastes from chapter one....

Graves suggests that the traditions of the Welsh Bards were, like the Irish, memorised learnings of tales passed down to them by elders in their tradition, in a series of inititaion like revealments. A deepening of soul, echoed in the poetic words spoken, that could strip a man to the bone or flesh up his wounds.

He describes the evolution of different styles flowing on historically from such ways in Wales. The wandering minstrels, and the court bards. The courtly poets being subject to pressures of content and form by king, then church (recorded in its written texts). Whilst the other was free to perform in any manner they preferred,  indeed suggesting that they held some of the previous magical use of the word that traditional Welsh poetry is honoured for. Poetry as invocation, but of what?

This is where Graves introduces his theme of she who 'will suddenly transform herself into sow, mare, bitch, vixen, she-ass, weasel, serpent, owl, she wolf, tigress, mermaid or loathsome hag. Her names and titles are innumerable. In ghost stories she often figures as 'The White Lady', and in ancient religions from the British Isles to Caucasus, as 'The White Goddess.' Indeed, Graves puts forward that the best of poetry is dedicated to a vision of her, that makes the hairs on ones arm stand on end. She is the muse of the master poet. In parallel dancing her relationship to the God, echoed in seasonal cycles of death and rebirth, as also proposed in Fraziers 'The Golden Bough'. 

Both these texts were about unearthing prechristian traditions. They went on to influence later minds like Gerald Gardner, and in the case of the Golden Bough, also the patterns of annual festivals celebrated by many pagans today. They are of another time, the 50s and 60s, but i do believe they hold keys. 

 Caitlan Mathews quotes Wallace Black Elk in reference to the piecing together of whats been left to us by previous generations, 'There is ' he said, 'no such thing as a forgotten tradition. It is possible to neglect such traditions, but these can always be recovered. No tradition ever dies until the last person who honours it dies.

"Discover thou what is
The strong creature from before the flood,
Without flesh, without blood,
Without head, without feet,
It will neither be older nor younger
Than at the beginning;
For fear of a denial,
These are no rude wants
With creatures.
Great God! how the sea whitens
When first it comes!
Great are its gusts
When it comes from the south;
Great are its evaporations
When it strikes on coasts.
It is in the field, it is in the wood,
Without hand and without foot,
Without signs of old age,
Though it be co-eval
With the five ages or periods;
And older still,
Though they be numberless years.
It is also so wide;
As the surface of the earth;
And it was not born,
Nor was it seen.
It will cause consternation
Wherever God willith.
On sea, and on land,
It neither sees , nor is seen.
Its course is devious,
And will not come when desired
On land and on sea
It is indespensible.
It is without an equal,
It is four sided,
It is not confined,
It is uncomparable;
It comes from four quarters;
It will not be advised,
It will not be without advice.
It commenceth its journey
Above the marble rock.
It issonorous, it is dumb,
It is mild,
It is strong, it is bold,
When it glances over the land,
It is silent, it is vocal,
It is clamorous,
It is the most noisy
On the face of the earth.
It is good, it is bad,
It is extremely injurous,
It is concealed,
Because sight can not percieve it.
It is noxious, it is benificial;
It is yonder, it is here;
It will decompose,
But will not repair the injury;
It will not suffer for its doings,
Seeing it is blameless.
It is wet, it is dry,
It frequently comes,
Proceeding from the heat of the sea,
And the coldness of the moon.
The moon is less benificial,
In as much as her heat is less.
One being has prepared it,
Out of all creatures,
By a tremendous blast,
To wreak vengence
On Maelgwyn Gwynedd."

It is 'The Wind'. Riddled by Taliesan as a child....

Resources:
Lyra Celtica: An Anthology of the Poetry of the Celt, edited by EA Sharp and J Matthay, 1896
The Encyclopedia of Celtic Wisdom: The Celtic Shamans Sourcebook by Caitlan and John Mathews, 1994
The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion by Sir James Frazer, 1950
The White Goddess by Robert Graves, 1962

Soils and health...

On the weekend I went to a gardening workshop with a mate, organised by 'One Organic' it has reinspired me. That the future of food production is in smaller scale lots tended with intention and loving care, rather than large scale agronomy where the pressure of making a profit is applied. That the foods and medicines harvested reflect this input and approach. That there is a relationship between soil fertility and our health.

'Being a servant of the land instead of making the land a slave'.
 
An example of the interrelationship between the soil and our bodies, is the balance of microorganisms. The proportion of friendly to nasty in the soil is 85% to 15%, exactly the same as in the human digestive tract. However some folks nowadays come closer to the directly opposite figures of 15% friendly to 85% nasty. You can imagine why you might feel lack lustre in such circumstances and in the context of soil, why plants trying to grow in such conditions might be lacking in vitality. The answer is nourishing ingredients in both cases.

For soils, one answer is 'green manure', not unripe poo (although that too helps), but  a crop thats planted out, usually peas, legumes or beans, allowed to grow to a certain height, then cut down to fall back onto the soil and break down. Thus making available the nutrients gathered by the crop for what ever gets planted out next. Creating available nutrition and compost.

For humans one answer is to include living and fermented foods in the diet. Enzymes are living parts of our digestive processes (and the soils), we are born with them, but in finite amounts. Living fruit and veg, not overcooked, vine ripened, contain within the enzymes needed to digest them, hence reducing the use of a finite resource.

 The Findhorn community is an example of working with poor soils to cocreate abundant nature . They began as a small crew of people on low incomes living on the Scottish coast, who set about making a garden on sandy soils, with wild weather conditions. They became dedicated to working with both the spirits of the land and the plants, consulting them daily as to how to proceed. What to plant, where to plant it. How to nourish the land. The abundance and size of their harvests came to be recognised world wide.

So our vegie patch has been planted out with a mix of mung, black eyed and adzuki beans as an experiment in green manure and Ive pulled out my books on Findhorn to reread.  Inspired once more thanks to folk who believe in the magic of growing and preparing your own food as medicine.

Resources:
.
The Findhorn Garden: Pioneering a New Vision of Man and Nature in Cooperation
by The Findhorn Community, Turnstone Books and Wildwood House Ltd, 1975

Amazing foliage....

How often do we think to thank or adore the humble leaf? They are a source of food, medicines, charms, paper and clothing even, yet have a way less glamorous reputation than flowers or fruits. In the wildly subtropical part of my garden however, I have come to a place of noticing how many aesthetically pleasing and unusual leaves can be grown. There's something lush and exotic about such plants, who's beauty lasts all year round. Im not sure what practical purpose it serves for the plants, perhaps like brightly coloured frogs it says to predators 'toxic don't eat me'. Indeed the insects that attack my ferns and staghorns seem to be leaving these guys alone. Many of them are specific to low light areas, so perhaps the colours play a role in this too. Anyways, just thought Id share some of them as they are so surprising....

The Green Woman Tale...

Part one:

As science broke down plants into the parts of them ‘active’, or companies focused on introducing ‘new’ wonder herbs, there was something that fell away, was veiled. It wasn’t that the information wasn’t valid, but that it was touted as the only route to understanding and clear seeing. One that missed that unnameable blend that nature creates in a plant, that’s not measureable. A kind of essence....
Sam had watched her aunt when she came across a plant she didn’t know....
There was a recognition and respect with which she approached it, a sitting with. Deep breathing, so slow as to be almost imperceptible...like the pulsing of the plants own inhalation, exhalation. Carbon dioxide in, oxygen out. Receiving...giving....receiving....giving.... each life form echoing the other. Some observers might see nothing going on, but it was a simple ritual ancestors had practiced back through time....
Perhaps there were physical similarities to plants she knew, a shared hereditary that could give clues as to its strengths, never assuming over familiarity with a potential new friend. A small piece in the mouth and chewed, spat out immediately if the taste was unpleasant. No one said you had to eat a whole lot to get to know a plant! If it passed this somewhat intuitive test agreeably, she held it in her mouth and felt for burning, tingling, other sensations, any change in taste. If there was none , then she swallowed. Then she waited, feeling overnight for effects. Then, again, a little more, repeating the same process. If no ill effects were noticed, over time, it was considered edible. But if there were noticeable effects, they would be explored carefully, they could be clues to medicine contained within.
Nowadays it would be sent off for testing, active ingredients explored and nutritional percentages analysed. If it proved ‘valuable’, they might be isolated and reproduced, to be bought as pharmaceutical drugs. All the while emphasising the danger of utilising the plant for common folks, without degrees...odd paradox. It was the taking away and then reselling it back to people that seemed dodgey. Surely once medicinal properties are identified, one aware of the range of processing, in tradition for so long, could access it and if it was poisonous you can bet it’d be remembered!
What a way to gather plant knowledge, through experiential learning. There were enough manuscripts gathered now that could be cross referenced if needed too....
All this was jumbling around in her mind, along with her bowels, as the bus shook along the dirt road. She was on her way to visit said aunt for a couple of weeks, annual pilgrimage.  Same time every year. Get away from concrete and computers. Fear encouraging news reports on violence and impending doom. She was headed for the perfect antidote. Auntie Clarissa wasn’t your average grey haired pucker cheeked robust smiling eyes stereotype, she was all that plus a kick on her like a mule! You just knew the kettle’d be on the boil in preparation for your arrival accompanied by an opinionated rave on her latest project. Simple pleasures that’s what I need she thought, enough with appointments and timetable living...
She gazed out at the passing world hazily with the odd percussive bump...
“This is your stop me dear”, the bus drivers voice woke her from internal ramblings. She gathered her bags and jumped up, “thanks”, “Nice to see you around again luv”. She bounced down the steps and almost right into the series of individually crafted mailboxes that marked journeys end, and the lanes. One an old dairy tin, one an old bent shovel, one aged but elegantly carpented...
She checked the box and got set for heading up the lane, that cup of tea seeming elementally desirable as the bus kicked back dust into her vision. Hang on, there was something in the box. A small parcel, oddly enough in Clarissa’s own handwriting, addressed to Sam. That’s odd , still I guess she’ll reveal all, in her wise way. It was heavy in her hands, and her curiosity was barely able to be kept at bay to not bust it open then and there. Full of surprises as usual she thought absentmindedly. At that point she had no idea how right she was...
It wasn’t unusual for Clarissa not to be around when you arrived, she might be off wild crafting or just meandering about soaking in the day. Sam sat down, the kettle was on the pot belly stove which wasn’t lit, she probably got distracted half way through, the fire was laid ready to light. Sam looked at the parcel she held. It was brown paper bound in string, with enough sticky tape to stop an army, but being one mere woman she found a knife and cut it open. Inside was a leather pouch, soft to the touch with wear. Inside it was a set of playing cards and a note. No, they weren’t  a deck to play poker with she realised as she shuffled through them, they were some kind of divination or tarot deck. The drawings were mostly in earthy tones, pencil with watercolour washes layered over. The imagery was detailed, figures seemed to blur boundaries with plants and animals interlaced with labyrinthine patterns, like Escher’s art they warped and confused seeing. The note...sure enough, was in aunties script, more scribble actually, but she read on...
“Got called away, someone’s trying to shut down Edna’s medicine making, say its unhygienic and unsafe, danger to public health, never heard anything more ridiculous in my life! She’s so house proud it’s virtually an obsession. Anyway love, might take a week or so to sort this out, so make yourself at home and I’ll see you when I’m looking at you. The sheer arrogance of so called regulators, the things these people do to ones nerves. ”
Sam could almost see her shaking her head, and smiled. “Oh yes the cards I found in a rare cleanup, they belonged to your mother, never really fancied them myself. Anyways, enjoy them, but don’t get too serious eh?” No Clarissa, and yes I am happy to water all your multitudinous, slightly limp plants.
They are engaging, she thought gazing at the card she held, as her vision traced a vine like sworl of lines, morphing into a vortex, almost trance inducing, as they became a waterfall and then a river. A leaping salmon that had such eyes she felt guilty as she thought with her belly, fresh fish.....mmmm. But the card was so engrossing it took her a time to connect with her inner ravenous hunger and put it down, leaving it upturned, the others in the bag. Transfiguration, she thought absentmindedly as she bent to light the fire and looked around her....odd word.....
The house was brimming with natural chaos, “Seems they got the wrong woman with Edna” she thought. Cuttings at various stages, potted up plants, piles of paper with illustrations and notes, books, vases of unusual flowers, and a vine that had wedged a way through a crack and was firmly making its way towards the study. Although there really wasn’t any distinction between ‘the study’ and the rest of the small cottage. The sofa had a doona on it for handy napping and there were bookshelves in every room. To give credit where due, her medicine area was scrupulously organised, with a book at the end of the shelves listing what was in stock, or needed topping up. Sam knew Clarissa rarely treated anyone, her main relationship was with the plants, and the tinctures, dried herbs, flower essences, infused oils and god knows what else, were a side tangent that possibly Edna had some of. Hence her aunt was partly responsible for her troubles. Edna had been a chemist in the 1930’s during the great depression, after which she turned and applied her knowledge and skills to what she called ‘peoples medicine’ and she and Clarissa became firm friends. One trained by science, the other by growing and wild crafting.
Sam headed for the fridge. To her delight there was a variety of tempting smelling cheeses, some smoked trout and bread. Any tomatoes Clar? Perfect. She prepared her snack, deciding after to go harvest some parsley, mint, chickweed and see what else was up in the garden. The garden was a continuum of the houses energies, the two blending into each other, and then finally into the forest....
The relationship between us and plants has been around as long as we have existed. Our ancestors were probably algae, or ate them, as they developed limbs and animalian conciousness in primordial slime, she thought. Returning her gaze to the card she noticing something she hadn’t before, a hemlock plant dappled with purple on its stem not unlike the colouration on the fishes skin. How did I miss that? I must be tired. Garden later, cat nap first. Sofas ready, willing and able to provide. It felt good to be here, the to do lists she had left behind seemed a million miles away as she slipped into sleep. 
 She dreamed of a man with a trout skin cloak, dappled in greens, blues and purples. A man with wild eyes and a feel of the shaman about him, who spoke languid as water. Touched u are, like your grandmother, and he reached out a hand and placed it on hers, cold and damp, there’s danger and you know it. That’s why your here innit, before they come, to save the ol ways from em. She raised her eyes to his and saw they had no pupils, round and dark like pools. Watch yourself, they come in forms to deceive, he  whispered in a burbling and bubbling, then was gone like a vision, and she awake as morning. Jesus that fish must have been off she thought scrabbling for distance, her conscious mind alerted and shaking off sleep....

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If you enjoyed this part, the tale continues. Just look on the sidebar for the link to the page where it is.

The forest of compassion....

            The path towards the forest that contained the trees of sadness was a well worn one. Many bare footfalls had indented it into the earth exposing roots that could trip one if unaware. A hollow wind moved between branches carrying memories that haunted tear stained eyes, drying the salty wetness. Autumn had left the trees exposed, their tortured limbs twisted with grief. 

An empty place one might think and yet where the trees touched each other there was a smoothness to their trunks, as if a warm energy had been exchanged massaging the wrinkles of worry away from them, and on the ground below this smoothness small sproutlets of greenery were appearing, unfurling fern fronds, orchid stems flourishing in the humid moisture the shared tears of branches created.

 If a traveller was to lift their head for a moment and reach out to touch the smoothness the whole forest would shiver in gratitude and empathy and a whisper of music would echo through the space. The loneliness of the trees speaking through instruments no human hand had created, for who wants to wander long in the forest of sadness and yet so many find themselves there, some becoming lost and never finding their way from amongst its arms.

 For the ways to and from there are as many and varied as there are creatures who walk, swim or fly on the globe that its roots reach into, and for each person the way out is different.Some in a daze of forgetfulness remember no other landscape and become rooted to the spot, paralyzed, in time they grow roots and wooden limbs and find themselves one of the very trees they once wandered amongst. 

So it is also the forest of compassion for it feels with the journeyers who pass its way and it is this compassion that fertilises a small field of white roses in the very heart of the woods, where the paths are softened by silk-like petals and the air is perfumed. If one finds her feet walking this path she is changed forever, it is here that friends sit quietly waiting to gently offer a way home.

Tarragon or 'Little Dragon'....

The first thing that drew me to Tarragon was its botanical name, Artemisia dracunculus, translating to 'Little Dragon'. With a name like that I figured she must be pretty cool, shallow I know. She is from the same, rather potent, family as Wormwood, Southernwood and Cronewort.

However finding info on her seems tricky. There is some discussions about how to tell French Tarragon from Russian or Spanish. It seems French is the most sought after and difficult to grow, as she rarely flowers and nearly never sets seed, identifier number one. She's grown by dividing rootstock, where as Russian and Spanish flower and set seed. Second identifier seems to be that chewing her leaves numbs the toungue, although I found that with the plant pictured above from my garden and she's flowering away happily. As I havent tasted the French kind to know its apparently 'distinctive' flavour, I can't as yet tell if the aniseedy taste of the plant I have is said plant. They seem also to share the same botanical name at times, which is confusing.

My gut response to Tarragon is that the ability to numb ones mouth suggests a sedative or calming medicine to me, which would make sense considering her family roots. The aniseed flavour a relationship to digestion. Maude Grieves says that Russian Tarragon is eaten in Persia to induce apetite. Infact Tarragon is probably best known for being popped into a bottle of vinegar where its flavours infuse into what can then be used to flavour dressings or pickles. The essential oil it contains, identical to Anise is lost in drying.

With a name like 'Little Dragon' one could easily imagine her having protective qualities, as Scott Cunningham suggests, but also to be earthing or grounding. Being that the symbol of the Dragon as representative of the Earth is a global phenomena. Some folks refer to the grid of energy lines crossing the planet sometimes called Ley Lines, or Song Lines, as 'Dragon Lines'. Certainly the potency of her flavour brings one into body and hence present with earthly realms.

Garden paintings....

I came across this design on a forum and had to make one for our garden it was so very apt. I just used acrylics straight on wood and then sealed it with a varnish afterwards. I enjoyed the process and end result hanging in the garden, so that i followed up with some other designs, including the celtic knotwork piece below. Its a really simple way to create outdoor artworx using recycled timbers.

Garden beds and a back pack full of concrete....

For the last few weeks as I walk to the beach Ive been going past a garden thats getting a serious makeover. Part of the leftovers of which were a large pile of bricks and smashed up concrete that I had my eye on for raising the egdes of my garden beds so I can add more organic matter to the soil. Last night I finally asked the owner if he'd mind me raiding the pile, he replied 'no worries'. So today I did laps with my backpack carrying chunks of concrete and then arranging them in place. On about the 6th lap the owner came out and asked what I needed after this? So I tell him my plan, at which point he directs my attention to several rather lavish piles of soil and mulch. "The job goes another 3 weeks but there should be some left over" he indicates, keeping my cool while my inside goes WOO  HOO, I say well we'll see a bit later then. Joy joy, I then proceeded to begin daydreaming. Ive built two vegie beds and another one out the front and hardly touched the pile! So tommorrow Ill go around and build up the other beds. Its a blessing for this carless chick to have such resources walking distance away, and I can even borrow their wheelbarrow to move stuff. I just love that its all being done with materials that were gonna be chucked. Just like my garden at the flats!

      herb and vegie bed to be

garden beds and steps at flats

The sage smoke twists....

So I am here for another innings. My shack by the wilderness of ocean shore, my suburban hermitage and place for touching poltices to wounds and healing salves to scars. I find new gentler troubles, the daily details that having enough, just enough, clarity of mind allows me to engage with, in their common place natures.

When should I do the dishes, how high will I allow their organically growing mount to reach, Ill sweep today, the ants are moving into the kitchen again I note, cleaning away far more diligently than I.

I stroll through the dappled light of overhanging trees in my garden, trees that drop parts of their branches each time a storm passes through, smothering my lawn thats a tended but wild being. Full of sandy gaps and filled with native groundcovers and creeping things, its hardly manicured, more brushed, like matted hair. Children lived here before we came, my feline companion and I, the paths of their racing play were eroded into the grasses growth, that now with time and rest from tiny feet recuperate and send out new shoots.

I dont have a lawn mower, my whippersnipper shreds and teases the tips from the greenery and leaves missed stalks swaying rebelliously. The soil here challenges me to nourish it as I learn to do the same for myself, to be kind.

To offer myself a cup of tea, lemon balm from the compostuous balance which is my herb bed, failing that a whiskey. I think of Cailleach when i have a dram, and place a glass upon my altar, hers for the taking, offered to the base of the datura when shes taken her sips. It flourishes under such care, promising trumpets again when the season is right.

I wonder what they would smell like burned as incense, would it send the soul flying? Some times the odours we expect are reversed or refuse oversimplified categorisations. The lemon peel I dried in the oven was citrusy but not as much so as frankincense, predictable and mood lightening in its consistancy of scent. The dried rose petals not sweet as I imagined but woody.

Journeyings bind me to Wolf and Hawk who watch over and guide me in the Otherworlds, as I reconnect to my medicine. Gathering in and growing it up, memories come back and old ways return. Solidifying practices for dealing with, and being in the world. Things that once gave fright become allys in a metamorphosis that keeps me on my toes. The sage smoke twists....

In the oceanside herb garden...

Now that Ive signed another years lease on our home I feel once more connected to it in solidity and inspired to put some lovin into it. After building a higher retaining wall out of some old pavers I spent yesterday emptying out a years worth of broken down compost onto the herb patch, very satisfying. The more organic matter I can add to the sandy soils here the better for growth. Time to utilise the cooler autumn, which is when the herbs and veg that summer sun frys, can have a chance to come into their own.

The Wormwood is looking close to being able to take cuttings, and has grown along the soil. I figured just building the soil up under it there might be roots striking along the layered stems, much like what you can deliberately do with rosemary. Motherwort is sending multiple sprouts up from her base and thickening up. Echinacea is spreading her clump like self happily, the flowerheads have finished and I harevsted the seed. The Evening Primrose hasnt looked back since planted, I know she can become a bit noxious in some areas and can believe it if her growth combined with production of seed.

My rosemary that I bought as tubestock from a wee roadside stall now has multiple stems and new growth. I lost about three other plants, which was odd, as I assumed mediterranean plants would go off here. Havent had much luck with lavendar or sage either.

I thought the 'Banes' would do well here in the shadey parts of the garden but had no joy growing from seed, so that experiment was cut short. Perhaps its time to have another go, i still have some Henbane seeds soaking in a jar of water in the fridge.

As you can see Im still learning the climate and conditions in Suffolk and dont have the dosh for bringing in loads of soil. I did invest in a big bag of Dynamic Lifter which I have periodically sprinkled around. Recently I heard that a couple of handfulls soaked in a bucket of water makes a great liquid fertiliser. Now that Ive seen the soil with the compost spread through it I bodily get the adding organic matter thing, also mulching. I emptied two big pots of soil into the herb bed, one of which had mulch and the other didnt. The difference in moisture and worm content was amazing.

I planted out lettuce and tat soi seedlings. I have a rather unoriginal theory after failed crops that being in the subtropics it makes sense to have a grow at plants from the same zone, tat soi, bok choy, chilli, capsicum, lemongrass, thai basil, purple basil, gingers and such. I also happen to love these kinds of flavours in cooking. That reminds me, round the corner is a ballistic lemongrass plant that I want to take some starter plants from, its growing lushly straight in sandy soil no problems.

This morning i awoke to find that the brush turkeys had scratched their way through the whole bed, decimating the seedlings and damaging some herbs, buggers. Id forgotten about their rather invasive habits. Banshee screams greeted the turkey which was innocently, and rather stupidly, sitting on the fence nearby. It reminded me of the advantages of hanging pots and planters. My last lot were actually designed for shoe storage and the fabric rotted through eventually, but I hear you can now buy official type ones that are probably made of some kind of plasticy materials and therefore last until the next millenium.