The still room

No, not a room which doesn't roam, nor usually a silent room. Mrs Beeton would have known at once not only what kind of room it is, also each detail of the necessary things within it and the best recipes to fill its shelves. A place in which to prepare medicines, cordials, oils, herbal teas, flower waters, soap, and so many other things which were once common in large homes before industry took over from the housekeeper and modernity sought to hand over the herbswoman's craft to pharmacies and laboratories. In my cottage it's an outside room near the kitchen, on the way to the herb garden. Untidy bundles of almost dry herbs hang from the ceiling. The window is small, the still room relies for ventilation on a few air bricks strategically placed. Too much light and the herbs would be spoiled, too little and they will grow musty before they dry or develop fungi and be unusable.

Sleep herbs

A medicinal pantry is so necessary when one lives in the countryside. Some herbs are staples and none more so than the kindly lavender. Here it grows wild and tall, attempting to reach the skies. Its scent is strong on sunny days, of course, but even on dark, cloudy days it caresses when one walks by. My favourite preparations are sleep pillows with purple cotton, the dry flower and some essential oil drops. Sometimes I add dry chamomile and a few drops of melissa oil. The other excellent friend is a tea of lavender flower, valerian root, hops and passion flower. Both so easy to have ready and willing to be a friend in need.

New moon offering

Today begins the new moon and by the hearth a large copper bowl, big as a punch bowl, will be set. Inside, red wine which has been mulled with honey and cinnamon and a little saffron. Once cool, milk has been stirred in, rich Irish milk with its cream yellow and thick. An offering to the snakes which protect the home and the grounds. Monthly nourishment which renews our mutual bond and keeps fresh the link of mutual aid.

Bringing the past into the future

The fire crackling in a chimney is like a portal. One which moves sinuous as a snake and darts as salamanders do, always showing a way, a path and in the case of those flames, a destiny. In an alcove, near enough the pleasant and fragrant fire with apple wood, an altar and a witch. Candles also give of their fiery glow, in a different way and with a different purpose. Old moon prepares to give way to the new moon. A time in which burning away what no longer serves is essential.

My cottage is having a spring clean, it's April after all. The comfrey has tiny blue flowers in the garden and the hyssop its first few leaves. The feverfew sings out its lemon green scent and colour next to the violet leaves. This garden will have three altars before the month ends. Within, new herbs will be added and the gentle lavender will give ground to more striking shapes and scents. This little piece of England will begin to resemble more the mediterranean. Still, butterflies and bees will find pollen and water while squirrels visit suddenly and run along the highest wall. Every witch does well when a garden of herbs is near. I am no exception. I take from it what I need and give it what pleases me to see flourish there, in rich soil well tended. Within everything is being turned inside out, pantry and cupboards shedding what is no longer needed and a list has notes of what will be added or replaced. In autumn I prepared herbal mixtures to keep cotton and linen safe from moths and sweetly scented. Now into the bonfire they will go, along with outdated medicinal herbs stored two years ago. Furniture is being poslished with wax and lavender essential oil. Curtains and carpets washed and dried in the timid sunlight of April. Parts of the past are being preserved for the future. Others entirely discarded.

A maiden from Chile

The Morrighan has to be saluted in this post, for She took a decision and judged us well. Well matched, well chosen for the task. When has She ever done things ill? She paired us, two witches, to welcome people and lead rites in her honour in a small town in the centre of Chile. Love entered our lives when the task was accepted and doors opened wide to form a community in a new way. We flourished under the Morrighan's gaze.

Lammas: when the God dies

The wheat has been harvested and the chaff lies still on the fields. The sun daily burns the plants with its heat and water is nowhere to be found. There is a feeling of great strength in the land but also of being just one step away from balance. The lend slowly moves summer towards autumn but too slow for the plants, too slow for the animals. The Old rites might bring the balance back or at least keep away most of the harm. Who knows.... it feels as if the God is not being honoured, not being observed in his yearly struggle to give himself as the sacrifice: perhaps the rituals are as much part of the process as His self given over and in abdicating this responsibility, we curtail the power and doom the suffering creatures who cannot but be the sacrifice without our help.

A poem for him

EL



Te llevara a conocer el interior de una llama,

escuchar el viento rugir,

asustar a los niños llamando duendes,

esconder la luna para que no vea

lo que la haria sonrojar.



Se dice eterno y quien podria refutarlo

cuando sabe el nombre de dios



Pide pescado para cenar,

prepara brebajes e inciensos

de yerbas tomadas por mis manos.



Pierde bufandas tan rapido como las compra:

un Dr Who chilensis

"made in heaven"