Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Cold River: The Ancestors Who Follow

The water is always brisk, clear and fast moving in Cold River. As a young girl, I often accompanied my father when he went fly fishing, hopping from one rock to another and exploring shallow pools, careful to avoid the rapids that seem gentler today than back then. I had no interest in fishing myself but marveled at my father’s expert skills and the surrounding landscape.

To get to his favorite spot, we passed over Durgin Bridge, a classic New England covered bridge still standing today. Dad told us to close our eyes and make a wish after he beeped the horn. I thought that the horn part was part of the magic but understood later that it was a safety precaution to warn others of our approach.

I was flooded by these warm memories yesterday as I picked blueberries along the banks of Cold River – the river of my childhood. The harmony of the currents beckoned me back to that place from so long ago. Again, I was not alone as my ancestors followed me from one prolific bush to the next.

I harvested a good crop of berries, enough to make the usual jam, pies, syrup and possibly wine (there is still so much aging from last year). The Red Winged Blackbirds called out, allowing me to catch sight now and then, their song mingling in perfect phrases with the delicate breeze.

It wasn’t long before I decided that I must take off my socks and sneakers so to feel the soft grass beneath my feet. This provided immediate relief from the afternoon heat and reestablished my endless desire to connect with Our Mother.

As I picked and ate a good amount of  berries, I gave thanks to the offerings available to me and thought of how fortunate I am to be aware of these simple gifts. I resisted the temptation to actually go to the river and jump in. I wasn’t wearing my bathing suit and the thought of heavy wet clothes was unappealing. Instead, I dipped my feet in and closed my eyes, immersed in my place in the world, exactly as it was meant to be.

When I opened my eyes, they fell upon the sweet mountains that surround us like grand protectors. I thought of the great spiritual connection of my ancestors to the sacred Mount Chocorua and Whiteface, and how it has transcended into my own being and I gave thanks.
Journal: Babies Breath

Friday, July 27, 2012

Moonfield – Awakening

It seemed like forever before the rains came. I know better than to anticipate; waiting like this makes me somewhat edgy. The air was still and the energy thick, influencing the tone within.

I mistook the wind for rain more than once, rejoicing prematurely only to be humbled by my impatience and expectations. It was a wise choice to go berry picking, barefoot, under a fickle sky.

I passed by the once perfect, now departed daisies, whilst following my well worn path. The mints seemed to be reaching out like eager school children, “Pick me! Pick me!” But it simply was not their turn.

I avoided the drama of the Blue Jays’ agitated clamor just beyond the fringes of the trees, the protective, persistent chirping of a chipmunk and the telltale signal of the approaching end of summer from the drone of the Cicada. Clearly in it together, we shared our tension.

However, my breathing came easier with the picking of each berry. From each passing, wordless song in the nearby wood, I reclaimed my inspired center and optimism. I stayed with the task, reeling myself back in when I wanted to wander somewhere else (but I did check on the flowering Milkweed on behalf of the Monarchs).

I considered powerful connections initiated in the New Moon, pondering limitless possibilities. I fought the impulse to retreat to safety, determined to tap into the fullest extent of my potential and higher souled aspirations.

I fell asleep to the sound of falling rain and awoke to the same – a gentle reassuring melody quenching both the parched earth and my spirit. Against my better judgment, I found myself amongst the black raspberries, barefoot (again) and with a tee shirt. My flesh provided a feast for ravenous mosquitoes. Ah, but I did well just the same. I encountered a few spots of mud that squished agreeably between my toes.

The rain stopped, giving way to tightfisted clouds, unwilling to surrender. I took note of a very unique spider that I tried to capture on film but just could not bring myself as close as need be. My peering at him and positioning of the camera caused us both to wonder.

Today I will leave my comfort zone in nature and on the page, and return to my canvas, which has been waiting far too long. It is through various mediums that we find new channels of creative expression and a deeper connection to the source. The seeds have been planted. The time for new growth and creation in the Moonfield awakens.
Journal: Scarlett Lily


Wednesday, July 25, 2012

A Flower from a Bee – A Lesson in White Clover

It is no secret that when I harvest flowers, I am in the company of bees. Today I wore a flowered skirt with the colors of purple, green, tan and orangey red. I stopped and waited patiently for a curious, plump bumble bee to buzz around me to see just what kind of flower I might be and then bid him farewell when he realized that my nectar is of the spiritual kind.

Although it will delight in my memory with each cup of tea, I really thought that I was done with White Clover this season. While in amongst the Yarrow, I noticed a crop of fresh, creamy white blossoms with an impossible pinkish hue. I tried to stay with the Yarrow a bit longer, but could not resist the allure of the simple beauty and delicate wonder just out of my reach (Yarrow is quite patient with me and my endless curiosity).

So I found myself sitting with them in the middle of a well defined patch. The bees were mostly of the small sort and didn’t notice me as did the bumble bee. I waited a moment to get a feel for the movement of bee to flower before plucking.

Red Clover, although really purple, gets all the fame when White Clover is truly where dreams of bees are born. I admit that I was smitten by the Red Clover for some time, but I have awakened to the sweetness of their smaller, milk white sisters.

Did you notice that they look like an embellishment for an elegant dress, perhaps of antiquity? If I were to have such a dress, surely I would wear a sash of lacey White Clover (the ones with a hint of pink) or an innocent crown of them mixed in with Daisies and Black Eyed Susans.

From my spot on the warm, green earth I could see the other patch where the White Clover moved slightly with the wind. The bees and I were in Heaven, or so it seemed. I smiled as I reached for the next blossom, which was approached by a small bee at precisely the same instant. I pulled back and watched as he and the flower collaborated. I never take a flower from a bee.
White Clover
Genus – Trifolium

White Clover is magical and generally overshadowed by Red Clover. Although I am a strong supporter and advocate of Red Clover for its flavorful offerings and health benefits; I enjoy the same of White Clover.

Raw or cooked leaves of White Clover are edible. It is preferable to harvest the young leaves before the plant flowers. It can be steamed like you would spinach or you can use it in soups and salads.The young flowers are great in salads as well. Dried flowers and seed pods are excellent when ground into a powder and sprinkled on rice and pasta dishes. 

Maryjane's (Organic Edible) Wildflower Cake
I have used the stem and flower (intact) for edible cake decorations.

Crushed dried leaves add a hint of vanilla to cakes, breads and other baked merries. Even the root is edible after being cooked.

My favorite use of this wonderful flower is as a sweet herb tea made from fresh or dried flowers. My Native American ancestors used all parts of White Clover for medicinal purposes in relation to purification, cleansing and healing a wide array of disorders.

Of course like all folk medicine there is a spiritual connection. If one carries either White or Red Clover; it is said that he/she will possess the ability to detect witches and good faeries (I prefer to meet them by chance or with my own intuition).

Sweet White Clover Tea Infusion
Flowers and leaves: Fresh ¼ cup ~ Dried 2-3 teaspoons
Just Under Boiling Water – 1 cup
(1 Sprig of Mint – Optional)
Strain into tea cup and steep 5-7 minutes
Add honey, maple syrup or dash of fresh lemon juice as desired

Journal: Babies Breath

Monday, July 23, 2012

Find the River (Never Let Go)

Yesterday, I planned to take my childhood friend Mela for a swim at the lake.

“The bottom is so sandy, even way out deep.” I told her while plucking and eating luscious black raspberries. “The painted turtles sunbathe on the rocks and sunfish nibble at your toes when you stand on the ledge. You’ll love it.”
As appealing as this thought was, it occurred to me that it was actually the river that I longed for.

I took her for a walk through the gardens and fields, down the pathway by the pond and to the edge of the woods, pausing along the way to mingle with flowers and what others might consider weeds. (The sweetness of the black raspberries was almost overwhelming).

Over lunch I confessed that I would rather take her to the river to visit the waterfalls and walk in the woods. I frequented this place since I was a young girl, going there often with my family and a handful of girl scouts, one time carefully crafting a sit upon made out of a vinyl table cloth, newspaper and yarn. I refresh my creative spirit there. It is a sanctuary, indeed.

We drove up the bumpy dirt road towards the notch and I felt my excitement grow as we neared the falls. I was stunned when I rounded the corner to see the parking lot overflowing with cars with license plates from various states. There were cars parked along the roadway. I stopped, hesitated and reconsidered our original plan to go to the lake. I was unaccustomed to sharing this slice of heaven with tourists. When did the secret get out?

On auto pilot, I squeezed my car into a space; Mela had never been to the falls and seemed excited in spite of my disenchantment. We got out of the car and I stopped to read a plaque that explained the legend of “Cow’s Cave.” Someone had crossed out the part that said, “Some believed the cow died…” Underneath that same person (I assume) wrote, “THE COW LIVED.” I breathed a sigh of relief that someone restored the authentic story. We grew up with that legend and I was somewhat miffed that suddenly the cow might have died. Who said so? If the cow died, the legend would as well.

We wandered down the pathway towards the water. I expected to hear the welcoming resonance of rushing water and was puzzled by its absence. We were met by the sound of people shouting instead. It was more like a crowded beach resort than the sanctuary that I knew.

We approached the falls to see that it was a mere trickle over the huge granite rock. A man stood beneath it in water up to his knees looking as if he was taking a shower with poor water pressure. There was an entire area roped off with signs explaining that there was bridge work being done. Bridge? Who needs a bridge? I looked down river and signaled for Mela to follow. Groups of people littered the river’s edge. They had chairs, coolers, beach floats and I-pods competing with one another.

We continued on downstream and I was taken aback by the low water level. It was barely making it in some places. I recalled areas that we typically crossed from one bank to another, perilously walking on a fallen tree and hopping from rock to rock. Yesterday, any river crossing was underwhelming, requiring a simple step over an almost empty riverbed.

Each pool that we encountered was shallow, almost lethargic. We passed several groups of people until I found a private spot where we could sit on the edge of a rock with our feet in the water; it was not deep enough to swim. What had become of this place I once called Heaven? Where is the river song, now silent?

Below us were two couples with riotous music, a huge blue cooler and drinks in red plastic cups. I tried to comprehend the unfolding scene. Why do they have so much stuff? When I parked the car, I placed my pocketbook in the trunk and then put my keys in my shorts pocket. The only thing I brought into the woods was my camera.

Mela and I sat and talked, catching up on recent news. I had a difficult time concentrating. For me it was not as if nothing else was going on. I watched as yet another family emerged from the woods upstream. They had so much gear, they were struggling. They hauled their cargo on a wagon. Their two little boys had massive yellow Tonka dump trucks, like what my boys loved to play with. They settled in, spreading out their blankets, chairs, cooler, beach bags, newspapers and toys. I sensed a clear lack of joy.

I’m not certain when I became lionhearted, but it has surfaced more in the past decade. In these times I must balance compassion with courage and passion with restraint. It was clear to me that the people I witnessed along this magnificently dwindling river, as humans, have become alarmingly detached from the environment and much attached to possessions. My gut instinct warned me of the inherent dangers of this way of being.

I focused on the boys, who were about four and five years old. They made familiar motor sounds while pushing their bright yellow trucks through the shallow water. Their parents were deeply involved in setting up the false, manmade environment that they dragged down the trail with them.

Weary from their blindness, I imagined approaching them and asking, “What about sticks? Did you know that all boys love to play with sticks? And what about that frog over there? You are missing him! Don’t you want to explore, pretend, and collect precious rocks embedded with glittery mica?” I thought of our many rock collections more precious than gold.

I wanted to urge the parents to allow and encourage their sons to play, imagine, discover and be in awe of the river and woods. This is who we are! I begged silently for them to be part of it; to belong to that which they belong.

I wanted to suggest that they turn off the radio so that they can hear the music of Our Mother – birds, wind, bees and the various tones of water as it moves under, over and around rocks. Be playful in nature. We must remember and honor the divinity of life, for which we belong.

With a fraction of joy, I looked at my feet in the clear, cold water and conjured my river memories. My dreams almost escaped, floating downstream on a tender green leaf. I held tight with help from a yellow butterfly near the mossy bank.

I was thankful to Mela for taking photos as I was uninspired. I lay back on the rock and closed my eyes as the sun warmed my face. What has become of us?

The only requirement when communing with nature is to be completely present. Nature does not call for devices other than what is necessary to capture, enrich or sustain. Know, honor and accept her offerings. If we as a species are removed from or missing these vital elements of which we are a part of, we have lost the ability to evolve.

We must find the river and teach our children and our children’s children to keep it flowing within.
Journal: Bittersweet

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Keeping in Touch:The Other MaryJane

Today I remembered. I carried somewhat large rocks to my new herb garden wheel. I found a rock pile that was slightly buried with decomposed wood and moss. Most of the rocks were the perfect size for boundaries and pathway edges. I rooted around in the pile, which is situated on a gentle slope, and I tossed selected rocks near the five pound bucket that I used to carry them.

I was careful to fill only a third of the bucket with a few good rocks at a time and carry one with my free hand. I opted for lesser weight and more trips, as I want to maintain my strong back and not over do it. Every once in a while I stopped to reframe the chore at hand. I looked ahead at the herb garden and thought of how grateful I will be when I have finished lugging the rocks and how they will serve as a decorative and functional part of the whole.

Quite hot and sweaty, I gave thanks for the cardio workout and expected outcome. When the wind wasn’t blowing, I was surrounded by aggressive deer and horse flies. I have learned that having a determined mindset helps to endure their relentless attacks. If you swat at them or react in a manner that indicates that they are getting the best of you; they have won. Every so often, one will land and bite. However this happens less and less as I create my own vision of them circling and not landing (I wish I knew this trick when I was a kid).

Oftentimes, I stopped and stood with arms outstretched as the fresh breeze washed over me, drying the sweat and reinvigorating my senses. Generally, I try not to lose focus on the project and I monitor each step. It is significant to be attentive to what you do. Be present. For instance, if you are washing the dishes, wash the dishes. Watch how the soap bubbles reflect and capture the light. Feel around the edges of the pot with your hands and notice how smooth it feels when it’s clean. If you think about your shopping list or how you shouldn’t have eaten that chocolate ice cream that you thoroughly enjoyed earlier, you have just missed the moment that you are in. Paying attention to washing the dishes is where I began the practice of completely being present. Even if it seems dull or unpleasant, you should experience it fully and perhaps it isn’t as dull as you imagined. It is what you decide it is.

So that being said, today I found myself watching where I placed my feet when I walked. The ground is uneven and soft in some places and hard and dry in other spots. It is somewhat dusty now, as much of the topsoil washed away in torrential rains and it has been a dry week. It was once my favorite pine grove and it has been cleared. I used to mourn the loss of the grove, but now I am working in the earth to bring about new life. There is purpose in my work. I honor the memory of the grove each time I pull out roots and debris.

After making the last trip with the rock bucket, I sat on a boulder at the edge of the woods and sipped my water. The sky was clear and bright blue with a few real (not manmade) puffy clouds sailing by. With a fair amount of deer flies swarming around my head, I looked past my damp ringlets and marveled at the landscape. Like a spirited artist’s canvas dotted with wildflowers, trees, ponds, vegetable, herb and flower gardens, I paid tribute to all that I loved. At that moment, I was one with my grandmother; the original MaryJane.

I have a vivid memory of her wildly digging poppies and daisies with bugs swarming aggressively around her head.

With untamed curls framing her face she said, “Mary, you will love these.” She put the shocking red poppies in her basket and bent down and dug a few more before turning to the daisies. “They’re my favorite.”

Like my grandmother, I often declare so many plants as my favorite. It’s almost impossible to choose just one.

I watched with deep admiration while I swatted the bugs, unable to comprehend why she didn’t seem to notice them. I now know; I hadn’t discovered the art of acceptance and disregard of such things. I took my flowers home and planted them in my garden, grateful for her wisdom and generosity as they graced my garden wall, multiplying with each season.

She worked tirelessly on the farm. She was not only a master gardener of flowers, herbs and vegetables; she canned, pickled and baked everything that grew in abundance. She also cooked for all the farmhands at the boarding house, as it was a rather large dairy farm.

I am thankful that I had the insight to invite her to my home to actually make a batch of strawberry rhubarb jam. Hers was what would be considered ‘blue ribbon’ and I enjoyed it tremendously. She made her jams and preserves the old fashioned way without gelatin and she sealed the jars with paraffin. She was my teacher. I became a master at jam making, baking, wine making and basically preserving everything that was in season, from peaches and berries to rhubarb. I think of her every time I engage in this activity, which is yearly.

Today, as the sweat trickled down my face and the small of my back and as I took each step, carrying the heavy rocks for my garden, I thought of how I had become like her. I was at one with the earth and our stories, although somewhat different had merged. I am strong of body, mind, spirit and will, just like the original MaryJane. I know that spider bites, torn flesh and tinges of pain from reaching, bending and pulling are part of the joys honoring Our Mother. The fruits of our labor are the fruits of our heritage. I am a descendant of a long line of ambassadors of the earth.
Journal: Periwinkle

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

The Magic of Plants: The Power of Mugwort

I am constantly learning and in awe of Our Mother and that which surrounds me. I have been transplanting, thinning, pruning and sorting through a variety of herbs and plants that grow wild and in old, well established herb gardens that have been here for decades. These plants have meandered about the property and are mixed in places you wouldn’t expect. So I am discovering, researching, identifying, rearranging and allowing room for healthy growth and companion planting that makes sense.

One project, other than the recent addition of mint and violet gardens, is a huge herb wheel that I am creating. I have many of the herbs in a holding area, and have cleared a spot for another new herb garden. I adore digging in the earth. The smell of dirt alone is pure joy. My heightened reconnection with Gaia has brought about a fresh sense of oneness that radiates from my core.

My latest lesson in all this is related to research. I read that Mugwort is known to promote and enhance dreams. In addition to a variety of other uses, many people make, sell and use Mugwort for dream pillows, or to hang near their bed for dream work. Intriguing.

Herein lies the lesson. There is more to the Mugwort Dream story. If one has a healthy and active dream life, which I do…, this can be too much and actually initiate nightmares. I did not read enough about this before acting on it. I largely focused on Mugwort in relation to moxibustion – a traditional Chinese medicinal therapy – and for possibly brewing ale.

I started with a bundle of Mugwort hanging by the head of my bed. The only thing that I noticed the next morning is that I had an unusually difficult time with dream recall. I never have this problem. I always remember my dreams in great detail and keep a journal.

I did not give this too much thought as I went about my busy day. The following night when I got all settled in my bed, I reached up and rubbed some of the Mugwort between my fingers, tugged off a few leaves and tucked them into my pillowcase. I inhaled deeply, thoroughly enjoying the heady scent before falling asleep.

I tossed and turned throughout the night and my dreams did not seem necessarily bad, but it was hard to tell because they were all broken up and not cohesive as my dreams usually are (in terms of dreams). I realized that I was a bit weary as the day wore on and attributed it to the many changes in my life and that my unconscious was processing accordingly.

Again, the next night, I (foolishly) wondered if perhaps I did not have ‘enough’ Mugwort in my pillowcase. I really only had a few sprigs to begin with. So I stuffed an additional, small handful of leaves into my pillowcase. I really do love the scent.

I had a night filled with terror. My dreams were frightening, disturbing and unlike any dreams I had experienced. In fact, I am still affected nearly a week later. I quickly got out of bed and took my pillow outdoors and pulled off the case and turned it inside out, shaking all the Mugwort leaves to the ground before tossing it into the laundry. I then went into the bunk room and grabbed an extra pillow and fresh pillow case. I took the bundle of Mugwort down from beside the bed and returned it to my herb drying room.

I fired up my computer and googled “Mugwort Nightmares” and got all the answers (that I missed in my initial reading).

The vital lesson for me is to trust my intuition and expand my research, which will strengthen my wisdom regarding the magical properties of the plant world. I am an experienced researcher, but my focus has primarily been history, psychology, ancient wisdom and music. Wildcraft has always been present as a way of life; however, I am broadening the scope. I have a book case filled with books on the subject, many field guides and related reference material. I have been studying herbalism, permaculture and wildcrafting for a minimum of two hours a day, usually more and then I spend several hours literally in the field.

I have discovered that the more I work with herbs and in the wild; the more my intuitive senses are awakening to my Ancient Self. I give thanks to the divine power of nature and all that connects me to the sacred wisdom of the Ancients, which continues to strengthen with each passing day.
Journal: Babies Breath

Monday, July 2, 2012

Birth Day Gifts

June 30, 2012

Today is my birthday. I woke up at about 4:25 AM for no apparent reason. Usually when I wake up too early, I convince myself to go back to sleep. This time I was simply wide awake.

I decided to go downstairs and look out the window in hopes of seeing a deer or moose in the yard. I didn’t.

I sat in my rocking chair and listened to the dawn chorus while imprinting the stillness between darkness and daybreak. After about thirty minutes I rejected the idea of coffee, returned to my bed and slept until about eight o’clock.

When I awoke the second time it felt more like an ordinary day, even though I know that no two days are alike. Everything is transitioning. I sense a sort of pull and rise to a higher vibrational level. I am somewhat restless, but more confident than I have ever been and at a time when an earlier version of me would be in a panic.

I finally have the courage to completely release what does not align with my higher souled aspirations or intentions. I held on tightly to that which was a vexation of spirit and did so because I believed that I needed to for a weekly pay check. Of course being financially secure is important, but at what cost? There is no room for the new when the old bulges at the seams.

I struggled with this conflict for the past few years – you know when days turn into weeks turn into months turn into years sort of thing? The logic is right there. The question begs to be asked. What’s the worst thing that can happen? There should be a rule with that question and that is when you come up with an answer, that you believe it. Otherwise what’s the point of going there?

I realized that although it isn’t the worst thing, (we all know that things can worsen)…being stuck was ickiness in the height of its glory. It sucked. I dreaded the days of being confined. I tried to alter my perception, discover meaning in my work, love unconditionally and release everything.

Usually when I refer to God or the Creator, I think of Sophia…the feminine face of God. Over the years, Sophia nudged me repeatedly, giving me bold, clear signs to leave. Sometimes I remember thinking that if the signs were any more obvious; I would be struck by lightening. She wanted me to leave and we both knew that I did not belong there. Well, sort of. I did belong there, at least until the point when I finally left, because there was something left to learn.

Nothing happens by accident. In the face of dishonor, hostility and unwarranted stress, I reached deep into my reserves and carried on with grace. This is not the first time I have made this choice and it is the correct one. I often wondered how I would manage to sustain this. It helped to meditate in the morning and sometimes on the way home from work it got to the point where I gave a primal scream, which cleared my head. I knew it could not go on.

I am grateful that Sophia followed through with Her plan and that was to release me or for ‘me to release me’ from my version of Hell. Enough is enough. Salvation waits patiently.

My gift is having the freedom to follow my path in peace. I am grateful for the amazing opportunity to be in nature every day, honoring and working in the earth. I am grateful for the act of creating and trusting the ultimate universe.

I have had a wonderful spring and early summer in the wild. Today I sat in a field of white clover with a multitude of bees dancing atop creamy pink blossoms, surrounded by Elderberry and pink and white Aster. I am thankful to be amongst and witness these harmonies and celebrate.

I am especially pleased that the Asters are so plentiful. Many of them are taller than me (5' 4"). I have been harvesting pink and white Yarrow, along with Ladies Mantle and many others.

I got an email from Shelby letting me know that he arrived safely in Vienna at yes, you guessed; 4:35 am. At least I know why I was up at that hour for what seemed random at the time.

Hearing from Anna and Miles matters most on this day. They called within minutes of each other, both being over 3,000 miles away. The umbilical cord is not severed, it continued to grow. Oh to be a mother.

I heard from my sisters via various means. We are so different. I am the quintessential Earth child, while my sisters are considered somewhat 'normal' and mainstream. They are more like soccer moms and I homeschooled and raised my children singlehandedly on a small farm while we hiked, canoed and snow shoed during the day and played music together at night. In some families this situation would be the elephant in the corner of the room, but in my family we have always acknowledged this vast difference. My mother often laughs when she says; Maryjane marches to the beat of a different drum. I respond, You mean I’m an artist? (smile).

My mother called me and we talked about lots of little things, like why the squash plants were growing nicely and then are suddenly rotting on the ends, how her computer won’t download Adobe, my thoughts on Obamacare and politics in general, and what time of day I was born.

My dear friend whom I refer to as my Southern Sister and her husband sent me a package that I received last Wednesday. I waited until today to open it. I’m a stickler about waiting to open gifts until the appropriate day. She gave me an antique maple syrup tin that is shaped like a log cabin. I flipped it over to read that it was from a company in a small town in Vermont that I am not going to mention because it is where the “Medicine Caves” are located. It is not a tourist attraction, quite the contrary. It is the region where my Abenaki ancestors are from. She discovered this tin in an antiques shop in Austin Texas. Synchronicity. And she gave me a cute little tea pot with Red Peppermint Rooibos tea, which I thoroughly enjoy. (I am sipping a cup right now).

So if this is the end of my journal entry, it is because nothing else worth mentioning happened as of yet, but it is still early. I will go for a walk (barefoot) in a bit as the sun is slowly sinking and it is cooling off. I might have to water my (newly planted) calendula and sage. Everything is thriving from all of the rain that we had in the past week. Today I prefer to view a lush and healthy landscape in innocence and ignore the steady onslaught of chemtrails in the skies overhead.

During my walk, I will have a visit with the great White Pines and sit on the Prayer Rock and give thanks for all of my blessings.

The moon is bright and yellow and almost full. Fireflies are gracing the trees, grasses and reeds by the pond.
Everything is coming into sharp focus.
Journal: Marigold