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It was last year, in the latter part of July, when I once again found myself reflecting on my grandmother’s love for the season. In turn I was filled with a new understanding of some valuable life lessons.

As I’ve written before, my grandmother was always very set on making sure a gathering was held on or around the first harvest. I thought more about her need to assemble her ten children, wonderfully diverse fifty-something grandchildren, and anyone else who wished to attend. I thought about her mother, the daughter of Irish immigrants who farmed in Minnesota.

My relatives and I have such fond memories of the gatherings. We talked, we laughed, we played games, and we ate. And I know that we were all nourished by the passion that Grandma felt for bringing us together.

How conscious was my grandmother, who also grew up on a farm, of the festival of Lúnasa? On some level, I would say very much so. I wondered whether or not she had ever heard the tale of Tailtiu.

I also re-visited a story that my grandmother wrote, about her mother, many years ago. It had been decades since I last read the story, and I found that much of the information was gone from me (GG loved to dance!). In summarizing her beautifully written piece, my grandmother wrote three words that she felt were key in describing my great-grandmother’s values: Industry, Independence, and Citizenship.

As I look back, I realize that the people and places I have come to surround myself with today mirror my grandmother’s gatherings in many ways. And that realization makes me smile as I wonder what this year’s harvest will bring. I wish everyone all the best.

I’ve included a photo of my husband, taking a break from playing his guitar to chat with one of my cousins at a more recent family gathering.

In honour of deer, and the deeply interconnected lives we humans have shared with them for thousands of years, I’d like to relate the true story of my very special encounter with two handsome young bucks.

One day, eleven years ago, and right around this time of year, my husband and I discussed the fact that we had seen no deer in our yard, or on the street, since we moved into our new community a few months before. There were many deer in and around town but it was clear that they were not in the habit of wandering through our immediate area. Having previously lived with deer eating, sleeping, and even rutting in our backyard much of the time, we missed them.

That night, as I relaxed in bed after closing my book, I realized that I was gently stepping out of my body, in a manner which had occurred once before (and then again a couple of years later). I was aware of my actual physical surroundings, although the walls and furniture were less distinct; the soft light that surrounded me was like the glow of a candle. I walked across the room, through the bedroom door, and along the hallway, where I looked down to see only the upper part of my body. I felt detached, but not because my legs were invisible. That didn’t concern me at all. I moved with purpose toward the dining room window. Once there I looked through the glass, and into a dense grey mist that obscured the front yard, as well as the road and houses beyond.

Before long a small golden light appeared, and grew quite quickly to reveal the figure of a handsome young buck. He sported a set of antlers, but was still quite young, and so very proud! We looked at one another for a minute or so and then he turned to his left and sauntered through the mist, which had begun to lift, allowing me to see him walk up to, and nibble, the vibrant peach-coloured roses beside my neighbour Dorothy’s front door.

I watched the buck for a short while, then turned and floated back down the hallway and into bed. The next day I had some memory of the event, but it was fuzzy. I was thoughtful, peaceful, and even a little giddy. On some level, I must have known that something special had happened.

Otherwise, it was an average day, and that evening I made the rounds to lock up for the night. I approached the dining room window, which was open, and as I reached out to close it, something caught my eye. Across the road, feasting on the very this worldly peach-coloured roses next to Dorothy’s front door, was a beautiful young buck! I was stunned as the details of my recent encounter on the threshold came back to me. For some time I stood, transfixed, and absorbed the scene before me.

How wonderful it was to receive two such unexpected visits, one from a very old ally, and the other from a brand new friend. Perhaps I was being encouraged to connect with the energetic nature of my new environment, and being reminded that there was much to enjoy and explore in the unfamiliar, wildish land that I had made my new home. And perhaps the Stag, appearing in his youthful guise, was quite simply reminding me to remain full of wonder – to stop and nibble the roses.

The young buck pictured is standing in my grandparents’ apple orchard, where deer have long been present, and appreciated.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve listened to talks during which a number of speakers discussed the significance of bridging. As I’ve been working on the same train of thought, and had planned to entitle this post Herbal Bridges, I’m even more inspired to write about how our senses serve as rather potent magical bridges.

The first post on this blog, Sensing the Moon, is the sharing of a wonderfully spontaneous experience, and is very much about bridging. I encourage you to discover the beautiful simplicity of allowing the natural world around you to engage your senses in this way. Perhaps you too will be transported to a timeless meeting place, a place of belonging and connection.

One of my favourite signs of Spring, one that I have enjoyed many times lately, is the call of a blackbird. Imagine a long ago ancestor, resting by a pond on a soft spring day, listening to the very same song. What an amazing musical bridge. I could swoon.

On a different note, I’d like to touch on a key teaching of Druidry – the importance of building relationship with the place where one lives. Being aware of the scent of the Salish Sea, or of how a salmonberry tastes, connects me in a very tangible way to the place where I was born. And, importantly, this awareness creates bridges, built with meaningful shared experience, between me and the First Nations people on whose traditional lands I live.

The photo for this post was taken during an especially memorable herbal medicine workshop, and includes one of the most sociable cats I’ve known.

This year, more than any other that I recall, I have been filled with gratitude for the nature of mothers. My own beautiful Mom passed away twenty-three years ago, and perhaps the death of my father has brought forth a special consciousness of the many seeds that my parents planted for my siblings and me.

My Mom was a creative, generous spirit who walked with a bright flame held before her, even though a big part of her remained in the shadows, well beyond the circle of light. Mom’s encouragement, and belief in my potential, however it might bloom, was an ever-loving gift.

And so, in memory of my beloved Imbolc birthday Mom, who always greeted me in the morning with, “Good Morning Mary Sunshine!”, and with Blessings of the season, I wish you all much nurture and growth.

The snowdrops pictured were the first I saw this year, growing just down the road, in amongst some ferns. Although not immediately obvious, the flowers were beginning to glow in the falling dusk. Have a good look at those three little beacons, and experience the warmth of their light.

A couple of days ago I managed a short walk in the snow, a must-do activity, even though I’m still nursing a badly sprained ankle (a first!). The neighbours’ houses are still well lit up for the festive season. Last year I noticed that many more people were taking the time to decorate, and clearly have done so again this year. On one street every house is beautifully adorned, undoubtedly the result of a shared initiative to spread an extra light-filled message of cheer during these difficult times.

Before the Winter Solstice, I find that the magic of lights fills me with excitement and joy, and afterwards with a distinct feeling of appreciation and peace. It would be easy to say that the thrill of the holidays that I experienced as a child was simply still with me. I’m happy to say that it is, but isn’t it amazing that we actually feel, and know, so much more?

I’ve been pondering the innate knowledge we have that the return of light brings warmth, food, and much needed energy to our minds, spirits, and bodies. What wonderful common ground such deep understanding can gift us with – wherever, whenever, and however we experience the light.

I love the photo I’ve included in this post, taken during a Christmas visit with family in Southern California. Happy New Year everyone!

As Samhain approaches, with its tradition of divination, I thought it time to share a little about the two oracle decks that I’ve acquired over the past few months.

I recently received Maggie Black’s second self-published oracle deck, ‘Tree Whisper Oracle, The Secret Garden’, a magical, verdant companion to last year’s ‘Tree Whisper Oracle’. Maggie’s new deck is another expression of the creative energy her life-long relationship with the trees and tree spirits has inspired.

Both Tree Whisper oracles are effective gateways for me. I tend to work with them by gazing into the images, allowing the tree spirits to dance and play, or to simply be still. If they wish to share their wisdom, I am listening. I’ve been working exclusively with ‘The Secret Garden’ over the past few weeks while the light half of the year is with us. Soon, I will turn to the first ‘Tree Whisper Oracle’, with its more autumnal and wintry images, in order to align with the dark half of the year.

The other wonderful deck I’d like to mention is ‘Wisdom of The Cailleach, An Oracle & Journey with the Old Woman of Ireland’ by Jane Brideson. There are two editions published with a third, I believe, planned for next year. I’ve not received permission to share images, and am aware that Jane is taking a little break, so I’ll provide a link to Jane’s website – as well as Maggie’s.

To set off on your own journeys with these decks, or to learn more, please have a look: Maggie Black: https://treewhisperoracle.wixsite.com/website and Jane Brideson: https://theeverlivingones.blogspot.com/.

A great-great-great grandfather of mine was a tailor, and lived on the Isle of Skye. When I visited Skye, and was touring a museum, I learned that a tailor was often a community’s storyteller. Due to travelling distance or inclement weather, a tailor would often complete a job all in one sitting.

My imagination was sparked. I could easily picture my ancestor, sitting by the fire, work in hand. On the floor before him sit the children, their faces aglow in the firelight. Perhaps mother sets her darning aside when she looks up to see that father has picked up his fiddle, eager to tie his own thread of magic into the tailor’s story.

For several months now, I’ve spent a lot of time crocheting, a bit of time knitting, and feel as though I’m carrying on a meaningful tradition (especially when I sit in the comfy rocker next to the fireplace). My interest in these crafts, one that I’ve explored, on and off, since childhood, has been kindled so strongly that I’ve been taken by surprise. Or have I? My relationship with Brigid has long inspired a focus on healing, and it’s clear that the crafting energies of the forge have now been stoked. What a potent combination.

I’ve donated a number of crochet projects to fundraisers for a women’s shelter, and had the pleasure of gifting my sister with a shawl for her birthday. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to re-discover skills as I embrace the crone. I will continue to create shawls, largely made from recycled or second-hand yarn, working with the cycles of the moon and, I trust, Brigid’s blessings.

A couple of weeks ago, while puttering around in the garden, cutting back plants, I was hit by the wave of grief that had been gently flowing towards me, ebbing, then flowing again with a little more strength – determined to not simply wet my feet.

After my father passed away in early April, I received much comfort from the burgeoning power of Spring. It’s life force was palpable; I was thankful for the sustenance that it offered, and allowed myself to be lifted by it’s strength.

But the seasonal tides that carried me through the spring and summer months naturally slowed, leaving me back on the shore, watching their retreat. Over the following weeks, as I observed changes in the trees, and decay in the flower beds, I felt the loss of my Dad more keenly. My thoughts turned to how much I’d miss seeing and touching him, and hearing him laugh at the jokes that I knew he’d love.

Yet the crisp morning air and cooling rains are welcome; I greet them with open arms and still-bare feet. And as the returning waves wash over me, so fresh and invigorating, I am reminded that the coming darkness holds the promise of new life, growth, and abundance.

The photo I chose for this post was taken the day my Dad passed away. I had been out of town for a week, staying with my sister, and hadn’t planned on travelling home until the next day. But a strong need to return overcame me, and it wasn’t until I was on board the ferry that I realized why: Before me was the beautiful sun, setting over the island where my Dad had been born, many years before, on one fine August day.

I’ve embraced the Hermit throughout the month of August (An Lùnastal in Scottish Gaelic), and although I gathered with friends at the end of July, I celebrated the festival of Lùnastal on my own, beneath the first shining crescent of the new moon. I offered praise and thanks to the new moon and the harvest, while very mindful of their connection.

It was the first time that I’d celebrated the harvest in this way. I was drawn to do so in honour of my late father, who felt a great connection with the Highlands of Scotland, and was known to observe and comment on the look of the clouds, the health of a tree, or the phase of the moon. I’ve no doubt that he carried on habits long-held by our ancestors who, like my Dad, lived close to nature.

While growing up here in multicultural Canada, I was thrilled by the many rich samplings of music, dance, costume, and food that were on offer from friends and neighbours, as well as the greater community. It wasn’t until I was well into adulthood that I recognized how full of culture, Highland culture, my own family was. Grandma, whose grandparents were farmers from Scotland (and Ireland) always insisted on a large gathering around August 1st, my Mom and her sisters were passionate about good hospitality, and the Hallowe’en (Samhainn or Samhuinn in Scottish Gaelic) bonfire was always at our house. I could go on, but I’ll save it for another day.

And so, as the moon grows to fullness over the coming hours, the gratitude I feel for all that I may harvest also grows. I wish you all a happy and bountiful season.

I found some barley growing in the back garden. After harvesting, I propped the stalks against a fence to be photographed with another surprise – a young volunteer Red Oak.