The stories this old tree could tell, I thought as I admired the twisted branches and massive trunk of the huge oak. It stands at the edge of the park, just out of reach of the lawn mowers and leaf blowers. The bark bears scars, large and small. Ragged arms reach out, broken at the ends by storms or simply the wear and tear of so many seasons. Just how old are you anyway? I ask aloud, making my own path through the underbrush to get closer to the ancient ancestor that has survived here for ages. A woodpecker, annoyed by the intrusion, scolds me from where it fled onto a neighboring oak, another old but smaller tree, obviously planted when the park was born out of a cow pasture almost a hundred years ago. I compare the two oaks, the lone elder giant and the newcomer who is part of an orderly row of kindred oaks that line the asphalt lane through the park. Again, I wonder what stories the old one could tell.

Empty shells of acorns litter the ground. It was a good harvest for the squirrels this year. The shells crunch underfoot as I get as close as I can to the tree. I notice a fresh wound where the rough bark has been stripped away.  Something catches my eye and I stoop to pick up an antler recently shed. It resembles a forked branch. Gently I touch it to the tree’s gnarled trunk and ask who else has been here. I close my eyes and let the stories come through me.

Caught up in the swirling spiral of tree-memories, I am taken back to the sapling’s early days. The silent tread of moccasins, the whisper of bow and arrow, and a hunter kneels beside the stag who is breathing his last breath. A song rises into the air, grateful and humble, before the knife makes quick work of the forest’s gift. The sapling bends in the autumn wind and another night falls. Under the full moon, a pack of wolves passes by, marking their territory.

The sapling grows taller and stronger as seasons pass.  Men with axes clear away many of the other trees, piling the wood up to make shelters for themselves and their animals. The animals also clear the land. The oak is now tall enough to provide enjoyable shade for these people as they work and play nearby, so they let it live. Passenger pigeons darken the sky in huge flocks. Gunshots echo over the hills, bringing them down.

At night, a hungry wildcat stalks through what’s left of the forest, drawn by the noise and scent of the animals penned in wooden stockades. Again, the gunshots roar and the wildcat screams one last time. The wolves huddle together as if they could protect each other from the blasts. An elk peers out from the shelter of the woods, then turns back to find refuge deeper within the darkness.

The people move westward, abandoning the pasture they cleared. The oak remains, roots and branches thriving, scattering acorns that are carried off and buried or sometimes sprout where they fall. Now the tree, an elder among the rest,  overlooks the beginnings of a more open woodland. Wolves still prowl but the elk and the wildcat become scarce and eventually disappear. The oak survives in a matrix of younger trees that are barely a hundred years old.

Again, the land becomes a pasture. Cows graze and laze in the oak’s abundant shade on summer days. Boys steal into the pasture from the little town that is growing around the bottom of the hill, playing hooky from school, looking for mischief, and always wary of the bull that may be lurking behind the knoll. They climb into the oak and dare each other to swing from the strong armed branches.

By now the wolves are all gone. But a man comes one day and remarks to his companion, “This ugly wolf tree…”  The tree waits patiently. It has no choice. The man continues, “…is a valuable wildlife unit in the vast stretch of North American woodland…” His companion shakes his head. “Worthless!” he replies, tapping the trunk. “Hollow, no good for lumber, should be cleared away. It’s preventing the growth of anything around it!”

But a number of wolf trees survive to this day, elders of the eastern forest, their value finally appreciated. The term “wolf tree” was first used in 1928. Merriam-Webster dictionary defines it as: “a very large forest tree that has a wide spreading crown and inhibits growth of smaller trees around it.”  Today the remaining wolf trees may be as old as 300. In a reversal of roles, the trees growing around them have now grown large enough to encroach, shade and kill off the wolf trees. These ancient elders deserve our respect and preservation, as they continue to offer refuge and resources to the wild residents with whom they share the passing seasons, spreading seeds for future generations.

Look for wolf trees near old stone walls or at the edge of what were once pasturelands. They’re usually standing tall and twisted among a group of smaller trees, their trunks thick and their crowns spreading wide. They will seem to be out of place. If you are lucky enough to find one, stand close and listen well. Perhaps it has some stories to tell.

 

References:

Public Land Journal website – http://www.publiclandjournal.com

American Forests magazing, Fall 2014

 

 

 

Starting with the Wolf Moon in January and running through February into March is truly the Season of the Wolf.  This period is marked by holidays around the world that are centered on wolves. One may wonder why this time of year is wolf-time.

The main reason is because wolves are more vocal now, entering their mating season. It may come as a surprise that they do not actually howl at the moon as they are often depicted. In reality, they lift their heads skyward when calling because the sound carries farther that way. Wolves are also likely to be more visible during this time of the year, since food may be relatively scarce at Winter’s end and they are driven to hunt beyond their usual territories. With their presence increasingly noticeable from sight and sound, naturally wolves are on peoples’ minds.

They are both feared and honored, hated and loved.

Many superstitions surround the wolf. During the wolf festival in Bulgaria at the beginning of February, it is forbidden to spin, weave, sew or open scissors and no clothing can be made or mended because supposedly that draws wolves to the home. Who knows what’s behind that strange belief?

Another ancient wolf festival is Lupercania in mid-February, a Roman celebration deeply rooted in pagan lore. According to legend, a wolf nursed and raised the infants, Romulus and Remus, when they were abandoned and left to die. Lupercania’s root word comes from Latin “lupus” or wolf, although it was probably originally a pre-Roman fertility festival.

There are many stories of wolves taking in lost children as their own. In parts of Ireland, the wolf was seen as a guardian, especially to youngsters. The hag-goddess of Winter, the Cailleach, is sometimes pictured as riding a wolf, as she is the protector of all wild things. Unfortunately, there are no more wolves in Ireland today.

Fear, hatred, and greed have endangered this species, especially in North America. Wolves are shot on sight and hunted down because they will kill farm animals. Rarely do they attack humans. And the myth of the werewolf has been reduced to a Hollywood caricature, although rumors still persist in some parts of the world.

It is important to restore the wolf population to what was once their natural habitat because it’s been proven that wolves are actually good caretakers of other wildlife. As an apex predator, they prey on sick or injured animals, leaving only the strongest to survive. The wolf deserves our respect and support. Please consider making a donation to Defenders of Wildlife or another reputable group that works to protect these creatures whose strength, cunning and beauty we celebrate, as of old, at this time of the year!

(Wolf Moon at the top of the page by Jerry LoFaro)

 

 

 

 

In my tradition, Imbolc is a time of initiation and rebirth. It marks the end of the Dwelling-Within Time and we are encouraged to share what dreams and transformations have occurred over the Winter. We acknowledge that we are different people than we were when we celebrated Lughnasadh, which is opposite Imbolc on the Wheel of the Year. We may or may not look the same but our lives are different now. Mundane events such as a career move, a birth, a death, or a change of residence could have happened. On another level, the Winter could have brought a new vision, a new totem, or even a new name. Imbolc marks the first thaws, the first signs of Spring, and we move in harmony with the season.

Whether or not there are new Witches being initiated and brought into the Circle, on Imbolc everyone is challenged before being allowed to enter, as if they are joining us for the very first time. This opens the way for us to express who we are now, emerging from the dreaming and the darkness. Both Lughnasadh and Imbolc are times for dedication or re-dedication. Lughnasadh is more of an outer dedication, a renewal of vows to the land and the Craft itself, while Imbolc is for making more personal commitments, to one’s hearth, home, and inner life.

This brings us to one of the main figures associated with Imbolc, namely Brighid. She has many facets, as do we all. Among her many roles are Healer, Smith, Brewer, Protector and Warrior. She is the Keeper of the Fire. A flame burns constantly at Her altars and shrines, tended with great care, as symbolic of Brighid’s ever-living presence.

As we celebrate Imbolc, time of rebirth in Nature and renewal within ourselves, we say aloud our names, our Winter’s dreams, our intentions, and bring to light whatever seeds have been sleeping in our darkness. We are challenged at the edge of the Circle to proclaim ourselves anew. We call on Brighid’s fire to illuminate our hopes and inspire us as we waken, with all of Nature, into Spring. May the blessings of Imbolc be yours!

(above image created by Helen Mask, previous Brighid art by Laura Cameron.

Well, its complicated! For some unknown reason, the International Herb Association made a very peculiar choice for this year. The 2020 Herb of the Year is…Rubus spp. Instead of one herb, Rubus spp. is a gigantic and widely diverse group of plants in the Rosaceae (Rose) family, mostly berry-bearing with woody, thorny stems. The best-known of these include blackberries, raspberries, and dewberries but if you Google “rubus spp” you will see for yourself just how many different plants fall into this category.

So I’m following the lead of the Herb Society of America, who has named Raspberry (or Brambles) as their choice for Herb of the Year. Raspberry (Rubus idaeus) is familiar to everyone and offers the most interest to herbalists.

Raspberries originated in Asia and were brought to North America thousands of years ago. Archaeologists have found evidence that the earliest humans ate these. Native Americans, in particular the Cherokee, Iroquois, and Mohawk Nations were using the  been found in Roman forts. Palladius recorded the domestication of raspberries as early as the 5th century. They are easily grown and thrive in any temperate climate.

Over the decades, raspberries increased in worldwide popularity. In medieval times, the juice was used for everything from providing the red in illuminated manuscripts to treatment for wounds. Mention of raspberry leaf first appeared in print in the 1597 edition of John Norton’s “The Herbal”.

Late Summer is the best time to harvest the berries if you dare to brave the thorns. They are delicious eaten fresh or preserved by drying. The sprouts of the canes (branches) are also edible when peeled. Young leaves and sometimes root bark can be brewed as tea. The roots of some species can be used to treat stomach upsets, diarrhea, sore eyes, and female ailments

The berries are a summertime treat everywhere and the leaves are equally tasty when brewed as a tea. If you’ve never tasted red raspberry leaf tea, you’ve missed a delicious experience. Most people cringe when herbal tea is mentioned but raspberry leaves have none of the grassy, bitter or otherwise dreaded taste often associated with medicinal tea. Surprisingly, it tastes nothing like raspberries, rather something like a mild black tea and contains no caffeine. Try it sometime!

Raspberry, especially the leaf, is known as a “women’s herb” because of its use as a tonic for general female functions, particularly good for pregnancy. It strengthens the womb, aids fertility and childbirth, and helps with breastfeeding. The reasons behind this are because raspberry leaf is rich in vitamins and minerals including magnesium, potassium, iron, calcium, Vitamins B, A, C and E. B-vitamins help settle nausea, soothe leg cramps and improve sleep. Vitamin C is an overall immune booster.

Here’s a recipe for a blend of herbs featuring raspberry leaf:

1/2 cup raspberry leaf, 1/4 cup alfalfa leaf, 1/2 cup dried nettle leaf, 1/4 fenugreek seeds, 1/4 cup fennel seeds, 1/4 cup dried chamomile flowers, 1/4 cup dandelion leaf.

This makes enough for 36 cups of tasty and beneficial tea! Mix the herbs and store in glass jar. Add 1 Tablespoon of the herbs to 2 cups boiling water and simmer 10-15 minutes, depending on the desired strength. Strain and serve. (or if you don’t have access to these herbs, teabags with similar ingredients can be purchased from Traditional Medicinals Company under the name “Mother’s Milk Organic Tea”.

Given its gentle healing nature, it should come as no surprise that raspberry is a feminine, Moon/Venus-ruled herb. In addition to its association with women, the sweet berries are often considered a symbol of love, often an ingredient in love potions. In olden times, the brambles were hung above windows and doors for protection as well as placed there when there was a death in the house, to keep the spirit of the deceased from returning once it has departed.

There are other healing applications for this herb.  Tannin in the leaves works as an astringent, soothing sunburn, eczema, rashes and other skin irritations when used externally. A mouthwash of the leaf-tea is good for the gums. It’s a good idea to keep some raspberry leaf tincture on hand for any of these situations.

How to Make the Tincture

You’ll need: 1/2 cup – 1 cup raspberry leaf; 1 1/2 – 2 cups boiling water; 1 1/2 cup – 2 cups vodka or rum; a clean, glass quart jar with air tight lid.

Put fresh or dried leaves in the jar and pour boiling water over, just enough to cover the leaves, stirring if needed. Fill the rest of the jar with the vodka or rum and cover tightly. Keep in cool, dark place , shaking daily, for six weeks then strain through cheesecloth. Store in a jar or in tincture vials.

IMPORTANT NOTE: ALWAYS TALK WITH YOUR DOCTOR BEFORE USING ANY HERBAL REMEDIES. Raspberry leaf may elevate blood sugar in diabetics. It may also increase estrogen levels. Do not use if bleeding or spotting during pregnancy.

Cultivating raspberries is easy. The plant is not fussy about soil, although it will be more productive in slightly acid to neutral soil. It doesn’t need much space to fruit out plenty of berries, which can be harvested for years to come. Raspberry is self-fertilizing, that is, you only need one plant since it is pollinated by bees. Expect to see fruit a year after the first planting. Pruning should be done each year for best growth because the fruit-bearing canes only live for 2 years and dead canes need cut back so new ones can grow. If you want to grow raspberries, wait till after the last frost date then prepare a sunny spot, sheltered from wind and not too wet, by digging a hole big enough for roots to spread. Mix in some compost. For best results, get a year-old cane from a good nursery and soak the roots for an hour or two before planting. Set it in so that the crown is an inch or so above ground level. It’s not a good idea to plant it near any wild berries or there may be unwanted disease. Before fruiting, raspberries bloom with lovely white flowers. They are hardy with from zones 2 – 8. Not only will they provide you with years of enjoyment and health but they will also attract birds and butterflies.

I hope this article has inspired you to seek out the many joys and benefits of Rubus idaeus, the 2020 Herb of the Year!

 

 

 

 

 

Orange is the color of transformation, seen in the sunset sky as well as in leaves of changing trees at this time of the year. Samhain marks Autumn’s fullest reflections before Winter sets in. Nature draws into itself, slowly curling inward as if to sleep. Shades of copper and orange draw attention to the West, the lowering Sun, and the magnetic, alluring twilight. A finely woven spell of falling leaves and brilliant dusk tugs at the heart with inevitable sadness, as another year and another season vanish with the turning of the Wheel.

The focus of Samhain is Life giving way to Death. The bright hues of Summer  fade to the pale glint of Autun. All the radiant energy that abounded in grass, trees, flowers and fruit now dissipates, whirled around by the chilly winds, down into the Earth to be hidden from sight. Round and around, the drying seeds and curling leaves spin, swept into untidy circles that grow smaller and smaller until they disappear completely, absorbed into the brown ground. Some animals and insects also coil inward for hibernation deep within the snug bed of Earth.

Even in humans, there is an urge to go deep within now, whether it is a desire to explore the inner self or simply the need to snuggle securely into the nest for Winter. This is the Dwelling-Within Time, heralded by changes in weather that warns all of Nature’s children to take cover in whatever places are most safe and warm, to fall into a restful sleep. Turning inward, shedding Summer skins for Winter coats, we move together to explore what lies deep within, all the way down to the bare bones of essence. The forests seem barren and the fields empty of any visible life. A stillness settles over the land as life is withdrawn to the shadow-lands of dreams and visions.

The Snake is universally recognized as a symbol of death and rebirth. Not only does it coil into a circle which symbolizes the never-ending cycling of the Wheel, but it periodically sheds its sin, emerging from its ghost-like shell like a new creature.  Serpent are also well-known representatives of wisdom, embodying the magickal axiom “to keep silent”, as one must be very near to a snake to hear its whispered message. Despite their tough skin, they are extremely sensitive creatures. They are widely considered to be messengers between the visible and invisible worlds. At Samhain, these messengers are worthy tokens of the season. Borderlines and points of transformation are places of tremendous power. Any creature able to pass between phases with the liquid grace of the snake is truly gifted.

Exploring what lies beneath the worn-out Summer skins may require journeys across the borderlands of consciousness, deep into the spirit world. It can feel like a plunge into a deep, quiet pool, silently shattering familiar surface reflections to reach through and touch whatever is at the core. Look beyond mirrored images and see beyond, daring to peer into the shadows. Under the skin, below the waters, on the other side of the glass, through the sunset haze life parallels the infinite wonders of the universe with astounding balance and symmetry.  The precious knowledge brought back from these journeys is the essence of what some call psychic experiences.

At Samhain, it is easier to pass between this world and the Otherworld, as the gates between earth and sky swing open. The last fruits, flowers, nuts and vegetables of the garden must be taken in by Samhain or they will be claimed by the Others. The Dread Lord walks the windswept fields his chilly breath raising prickles on our skin, as unseen hands strip the last bounty from branches and stems. In the darkening days, Earth pulsates and hums with the songs of hearts drawn underground until the slow throb of power gradually fades into silence.

Emptiness creeps into the landscape, hollowing everything with Death’s presence. Liberated from bodily forms, spirits roam the lengthening nights. Yet, in the true paradoxical sense of borderlines, there comes a feeling of heaviness and acute awareness of the physical weight that binds and weighs and pulls down into Earth. Just as dives who probe deepest waters must readjust to normal gravity when they emerge, so must those who fly so freely on the wings of spirit feel their fully material bulk upon return.

At Autumn Equinox, the dual forces of Nature faced each other across the heavens, in perfect balance reigning together over the Earth. Now, at Samhain, the hourglass turns over and the sands shift through from Life to the realms of Death. The secrets of Life and Death are surrounded by every kind of taboo and superstition stemming from fear of the unknown. It may range from vague anxiety to deeply rooted dread at Samhain when we see the powers of transformation vividly etched into the landscape all around us. As days shorten and darkness lingers, the inward spiral spins in the wind and the rain.

Curling inward and downward into the hardening ground, the dry leaves, burrowing animals, weary insects and blown seeds seek their audience with Death. The emptiness created by absence of animation is balanced by the deep strength of life force held suspended on the other side of the shadows, for those with eyes to see it. It is like a huge sigh drawn in but not yet released. Bravely but humbly, Summer’s children seek out the Lord of Death, called from his realms of silent Earth to lend his powers of healing and change as an aid to crossing the bridge between worlds.

Like Autumn’s breath, awareness of Death brings a cold sadness to the heart, as all beloved enjoyments must eventually pass away. Mourning the departure of a cherished companion or lamenting the leaving of another season weighs heavily, pulling down with the burdens of remembrances or regrets. When Death and Life confronted each other at Equinox, the sunset of the season, each flowed out to the other in compassion and mercy, their merging place forming a point of infinite peace. As the Dread Lord opens the door through which we all must pass, the weight of sorrow rolls away. Feet that shuffled slowly around the inverted spiral, clumsy and rooted in clay’s numbness, are unbound, free to dance across the threshold as lightly as stardust. Leaving the hollow skin behind, the dweller lingers only briefly, like the colors of sunset, before the sigh of Dearth wafts it through the twilight into the silent darkness.

Crossing the deep, quiet waters, reflections of al kinds appear on the calm water’s surface, images of eternally balanced borderlines. Looking back at the dying orange and copper sunset, the colors could be either dawn or dusk. The curling fingers of clouds that clutch at distant hills could be gnarled with age or freshly unfurling. The empty eyes that stare back from the watery mirror appear to be shrouded with sleep but are actually gifted with remarkable clarity. Behind the vacant eyes, a sense of fullness and completion rejoices as awareness of past, present and future merge. With every lifetime remembered and treasured, the inner peace grows and the opposite shore approaches. The pale shell of snakeskin lies ghostlike and forgotten on the threshold of Death’s door. His servants, the winds, carry it off with a hissing whisper.

Haloed by Autumn bonfires, the Dread Lord looms gigantic, silhouetted black against orange blazes. His presence is sensed before seen, and nostrils quiver at the scent of his musky mists. Trailing remnants of the past like a white train of empty snakeskins, the final glide into darkness comes at last. His beacon arms reach out to gently embrace all the colors, shades and spectrums which bow before him He wraps every sparkling strand and tattered rag of life around and around, like a wonderfully woven winding sheet, cocooning spirits securely in the threads of Life and Death. Wrapped in this tapestry of dreams, a deep sleep falls softly. Only a bare essence of inner light remains, reduced to a distantly flickering candle on a faraway altar on Samhain.

What is remembered never dies.

 

 

 

On the last morning of Summer,

The last chrysalis glistens,

Bejeweled with dewdrops,

Sparkling in the dawn.

 

One last time, its golden gems,

Hinting at treasure within,

Glimmer, then darken

As Autumn’s shadow falls.

Emerald fades to dull brown

While mystery unfolds inside.

Jewel-case turns translucent

Then releases its gift.

Newborn wings flex, testing strength,

Pumping life into those limbs

Instinct draws her to sunshine

And to her maiden voyage.

 

On the last morning of Summer,

The last chrysalis glistened.

She soared away on Autumn’s breeze

Into ancestral skies.

 

 

 

 

 

When a friend came to pick me just before sunset yesterday evening, we were both amazed to find the air thick with dragonflies. They were everywhere, and as we rode to our destination about five miles away, the dragonfly blitz continued. While it wasn’t unusual to see more than the average number of butterflies and other insects around my home (certified as both a monarch way-station and pollinator habitat), it was absolutely freaky to still be surrounded by dragonflies within such a distance. Both of us are nature-lovers and rather mystical, as well as being science-oriented. As we rode through swarms of dragonflies, oohing and aahing, we pooled our collective knowledge of entomology and myth, trying to make sense of what was surely a once or twice in a lifetime phenomenon. Was it an omen? Some sort of environmental disturbance? By the time we arrived at our destination, a bookshop/coffee bar located on an escarpment that is known for its singular weather conditions, no more dragonflies were to be seen.

Curiosity in full kill-the-cat mode, as soon as I got home I hit the internet, heartland for every kind of information/misinformation, and searched “dragonfly swarm”. There were several good articles but all at least three years old. Eventually a news item popped up, showing a weather radar map featuring huge blotches that were, yes, dragonfly swarms (along with other insects and some birds). The radar image of the swarms extended from Indiana, over Ohio, into Pennsylvania. There it was, even more intense than anyone could imagine!

Having worked for several years in the Entomology Department of Carnegie Museum, I already knew quite a bit about dragonflies but never heard of such a huge swarm. There are two reasons why dragonflies swarm: 1) migration; 2) prey. Or both combined. Almost everyone has seen a relatively small swarm hovering over a pond or even the backyard grass, stalking for food. The tri-state cloud, though, was a truly exceptional event. Indeed there was a weather front moving in, rain on the way after a few days of hot weather. Sometimes insects get trapped in a weather front, providing a feast for dragonflies. It was also right at dusk, when prey is most easily seen by dragonfly eyes because of the position of the sun on the horizon. At summer’s end, too, termites and gnats hatch in great numbers, favorite foods of the gossamar-winged predators.

Any combination of these conditions could have caused the dragonfly blitz. All science aside, it was a glorious sight. There is so much news lately about an “insect apocalypse” that it was heartening to see so many feeding on what must have been thousands of bugs. Something was right with the world for a change.

A few fascinating facts about dragonflies.

The ones we saw swarming were most likely darners, obviously named for their resemblance to darning needles. Some common nicknames for them include “Devil’s Darning Needles” after a folk belief that sassy children have their mouths sewn shut by dragonflies while they sleep, “Snake Doctors” based on a legend that dragonflies protect snakes by stitching up their wounds or even bring them back to life, and in Norway they are called “Oyenstikker” which translates to “eye-poker”.

Despite these weird nicknames, dragonflies are harmless and among the most beneficial insects to humans. In half an hour an adult dragonfly can eat its own weight in bugs. Their favorite foods are mosquitoes, gnats, flies, ants, and termites as well as (unfortunately) butterflies and moths. Sometimes they even eat other dragonflies.

One amazing feature of the dragonfly is the ability to hover. Having two pairs of wings enables them to do this and makes them the strongest flyers of all insects. They can even hover in strong winds.

Their eyes are amazing too. Compound eyes give them a 360 degree view of life. Their eyes are composed of 30,000 ommatidia, mini-eyes that each has their own cornea, lens and retina. They can’t see as clearly as we do but can see ultraviolet and polarized light which helps them navigate.

Dragonflies have six legs but can’t walk. They perch instead. Their legs are rounded into a basket-like shape that makes it easy to snare and eat prey while on the wing. Rarely does anything escape.

As for the omen meaning of dragonflies, naturally they symbolize the ability to change course quickly and adapt to circumstances with balance and poise. Seeing a dragonfly is supposed to mean transformation or change is coming, since they are creatures of metamorphosis. I’m not sure what a massive swarm of dragonflies can signify, though, except perhaps amplifying the usual interpretations by thousands, a mind-boggling omen to contemplate.

 

 

 

 

 

Fifty years ago, that was me, third from the left, perched atop a painted bus and hearing Santana jam for the first time in my life. Very few, if anyone, had heard of him then. I kept asking the guy next to me the name of this band and for some reason, probably because he was in an altered state of consciousness, he wouldn’t speak it above a whisper. So I kept asking, not quite hearing, and he kept repeating in that mysterious whisper, as he was invoking a secret sort of spell. I was duly enchanted.

Attending this festival was part of my ongoing transformation in what I am today, a Green Witch. I was 18 years old and had fled my parents’ home for the third and final time, in search of my own path. Woodstock was an affirmation of all of my starry eyed ideals  – love, peace, and freedom.  Since then, I have participated in many Pagan gatherings and festivals over the decades, still yearning for that vibe. Sometimes I found it. Sometimes I was deeply disappointed.

On this fiftieth anniversary of Woodstock, I look back, look down at my feet firmly grounded, and look ahead. There’s no use trying to go back, as much as I’d love it. I wonder how many Woodstock “veterans” are left, since we’re aging, fading, and dying off. All we can do is take whatever gifts we received from the experience, carry them on with us, and pass along the best of them to whoever we believe will wield them well.

The vision was to save the world. Today it’s more vital than ever.

We are stardust. We are golden…and we’ve got to get ourselves (and our children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren) back to the garden.

 

As an introduction to my Ochfochlach (an 8 line bardic poetry form), I offer a simplified synopsis of Blodeuwedd’s tale from the Welsh Mabinogion.

Forbidden by his mother, Arionrhod, from wedding any mortal woman, Lleu obtains the help of his wizardly cousins, Gwydion and Math. They create a wife for him from the flowers of Oak, Broom and Meadowsweet. She is called Blodeuwedd or “Flower-Face” and true to her flowery origins, she is as fair as the blossoms of May. With the requirement of marriage done, Lleu becomes sovereign of the land.

After awhile, Lleu must go away on a sovereign’s business, leaving his elvin wife alone. A hunter, Gronw, appears on the doorstep seeking shelter and he and Blodewedd fall deeply in love at first sight. They plot to murder Lleu, even though, as it happens in many Celtic legends, he is invincible unless caught in very specific circumstances.

The plan is for Blodeuwedd to coax Lleu to demonstrate this combination of highly unlikely situations in which he can be killed. Trusting his fey wife, who pretends to be afraid he might be murdered, Lleu shows her just how ridiculous her fears are by acting out the whole scenario before her eyes.

A bath is prepared on the banks of a stream, then covered with thatch, so it is neither indoors nor outdoors. Lleu climbs to the rim of the bath and poses confidently with one foot on the back of a goat. Given the once-in-a-lifetime chance, Gronw, who has been lurking nearby, casts the specially made spear and pierces Lleu’s side. The deed is done and the two lovers are free to be together.

When the spear strikes Lleu, though, he turns into an eagle and flies away, nevertheless wounded. His loyal cousins, Gwydion and Math, track him down and heal him. They also track down Gronw and Blodeuwedd. Gronw is killed and Blodeuwedd is turned into an owl, a creature of the night, banished from daylight forever.

There are countless interpretations of this myth, depending on which character’s viewpoint is adapted. It can be argued many different ways, but there is no right or wrong reading of it. My “Ochfochlach for Blodeuwedd” is my personal response.

“She wants to be flowers but you make her owls…” from “The Owl Service” by Alan Garner.

Conjured, created, blessed and cursed,

Not woman, not flower, but fantasy first,

Man-made beauty, wizard-nursed,

Alive! With loving heart.

Given in marriage, heart untold,

Wedded but willful, heart so bold,

Punished and banished, heart of gold.

White wings unfold, dark Art!

 

Art Credits:

Blodeuwedd by Yuri Leitch

“Blodeuwedd Meets Gronw” by E. Wallcousins (“Celtic Myth & Legend”, Charles Squire)

“Little Blodeuwedd” by Tammy Wampler