Opening The Door To That Bigger House

I am tired of not dreaming big enough.  I didn’t realize I was dreaming small.  All I know now is I want I must dream BIGGER.  And that begins right now right this minute.

What I really want is a big kitchen.  With a double sided sink, a garbage disposal, a sprayer.  Big double sinks, not small ones.  Something I can set the pans in to soak and the pans fit.  Lots of countertop space.  Lots of cabinet space.  A hanging rack for pots and pans.   Room for a butcher block.  Room for a big kitchen table.

A breakfast nook would be good, just somewhere for the family to meet and to be together.  A dining room would be nice, but is not necessary.  So long as there is space for the family dining table, I am good.   If we have room for a hutch or china cabinet or two, that would make it even better.

I want an actual separate laundry room.  It can be in the basement or whatever, but I don’t want to have to look at my washer and dryer or have them be part of my kitchen experience ever again.

I want to have a working fireplace.

I want a big bathroom, for the master bath.  A huge claw foot tub.  Something I can lie all the way down in and stretch out.  Something where the ceiling is taller than I am, so I can stretch and turn while I am under the spray.  I want there to be enough room in the shower for at least six or eight people.  Not that I ever want to have that many people in the shower with me; I merely want the space so I can dance or stretch or do yoga under the shower’s spray.  Or anything else that comes to mind.

It would be nice to have at least two bathrooms, what with all the kids running around.

I want tall ceilings.  I want plenty of headspace.  Vaulted ceilings more like the living room in the house in FS.  I want tons of windows in every room.  I want lots of natural light.

I want at least four bedrooms.  I want a full basement.  I want more than enough room for an office.  I want space for the exercise equipment.  I want space for my art studio.  I want plenty of storage space for all the yarn and fabric and other supplies I tend to collect.

I want big closets all over the house for everyone.  I want everyone to have plenty of space to grow and evolve and be themselves.

I want a big family room.  I want a decent living room.  I want lots of space for books and movies and anything else we need to have lots of room in the house.

I want an actual garage, a two car garage at that.  I want a patio in the back, all wooden and with a screen overhead, with plenty of room for a table and chairs.  I want a covered, maybe even screened in, front porch too.  It would be awesome if we could have a sun room somewhere too.

I want a big fenced in yard for the dogs and the kids.  If we could have a swing set or fort or something for the kids built in the back, which would be incredible.  I want the yard landscaped and wonderful.

I do not care for carpeting.  I want hardwood floors In every room except the kitchen and bathrooms.  There I would prefer tile or slate of something stone-like.

I Am No Longer Angry

I am no longer angry.

It is sort of a strange feeling.  I expected to feel anger, rage, seething resentment.  I have none of those emotions.

There is none of that.

I have a leaking roof.  Not just a roof, but a ceiling.  My bedroom ceiling leaks in no less than two places, one of which is right over my head.  After the last storms came through, the ceiling began to sag and grow interesting spore.  I called the man in charge of maintenance.  I did not expect any action to follow his words.  In the year we have lived here, he has yet to do anything even remotely close to keeping his word.  I am no longer surprised.

The Universe is speaking to me.  I know She is.  I hear Her.  She is quite persistent.  She is not loud or raucous or obnoxious.  She is merely consistently there, always telling me the same thing: this place is no longer right for me.

Last time I received that message, I was afraid.  I was more than afraid; I was terrified, mortified, insane with never-ending bouts of fear, and helpless anger.  It took me years to overcome that fear, and anger.  Letting go of anger is not easy for me.  It is an emotion that I know all too well.  I am used to it.  I wear my anger like fuzzy old slippers, carry it around with me as if it were my security blanket.  It’s true; my anger has been my security blanket for  far too long.  I am not really certain why that changed, other than the fact that I have changed, that I not only see things differently, I now look at them differently as well.

This time, I am hearing, move on, woman, move on.  I am not angry.  I am not afraid.  I still worry, oh yes.  Please do not get me wrong.  Nevertheless, the worries are not my main focus and obsession.  They are merely a fact of life.  There is always stress related to any move.  It is just a matter of course.  There is nothing I can do about that.  The only thing I can do is change the way I react, change the way I deal, change the way I metabolize and internalize things.  I have been working on that for years, for years.  It seems all my hard work really has begun to pay off.

I am more concerned about how to get to where we are going than I am worrying about where we are.  I am doing the best I can where I am, handling things to the best of my ability, working on the things that I can work on and letting the rest go until I can manage them.  I feel far more secure in myself, in my abilities, in my talents.  I feel far safer this go round.  I feel more grounded.  I know I am blessed.  I know when I truly have need of something, it will appear before me.  I am confident in my ability to recognize the opportunity when it comes before me and to grasp it with both hands, without greed, without jealousy, simply with acceptance and gratitude.

The journey to this space has been long and hard.  Too many years have gone into this moment.  I would be overjoyed and overly proud of myself, but I am genuinely not wired that way.  All I can do is take a step back and stare with mouth agape, in awe, and wonder if I can manage to maintain this attitude, come what may.  I certainly hope so.

The Best Banana Bread I Can Make

The Ingredients:

To make it Faery banana bread, add 4-6 droppers full of lavender spirits compound (liquid herbal extract-I use Herb Pharm).  It’s roughly 40-60 drops per dropper full.  You can add more or less as you like.

To make it delicious, but not necessarily strictly faery, although faeries will still eat it right up:

¾ cup softened butter

1-1/2 cup white sugar

1-1/2 cup brown sugar….or you can do 3 cups brown sugar, omitting the white sugar, or any combination thereof that appeals to you

4 eggs

6-8 ripe bananas, all squished and mashed and yummy

16 ounce sour cream

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 teaspoon maple syrup….or you can do 2 teaspoons vanilla, or 2 teaspoons maple syrup, either way, so long as there are two teaspoons of vanilla/maple syrup

4 teaspoons ground spices * of your choice (see below for more on this)

½ teaspoon salt

3 teaspoons baking soda

4-1/2 cups all-purpose flour

A note on spices:  I use a variety and combination of Chinese 5 spice powder, allspice, ginger, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom.  I often use a very scant pinch of tea masala as well.

The Assembly:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.  Grease your loaf pans.  I have two large glass loaf pans and one smaller metal loaf pan.  This recipe fills all three right up.  You can make four smaller loaves, two larger loaves, as you see fit.  Usually, I make up the three loaves and we are good.  This all depends on the size of your pans.  I never fill ours more than ¾ of the way up.

First, I combine all the wet ingredients and use an electric beater to pretty much liquefy everything as best as I can, to make sure all the lumps from butter and banana are combined.  Then I add the spices, salt, baking soda and stir it some more.  Next, I add the sugar, beat that in well.  Last comes the flour.  I try not to ‘over-stir’, but since I have no real idea what that means with banana bread, where I want to make sure everything is very well-combined, I make sure everything is combined and then keep mixing until I feel confident there will be no pockets of spice, or butter, or flour or anything that didn’t quite make it into the batter.

Divide batter into loaf pans.  Fill pans between ½=3/4 of the way full.  This bread does rise, although not amazingly so.

Bake for roughly an hour, an hour and twenty minutes.  When done, a knife through the center will come out clean.  Depending on your spices, the loaves may be rather dark, so do not always use that as a determining factor in doneness.

The Story:

When I was first married, I bought a copy of Fannie Farmer’s cookbook.  I didn’t really know much about cooking or baking or anything else, but I wanted to learn.  I wanted to be a good wife.  There was a recipe for banana bread in that book that when I made it, with very little tweaking, the banana bread was the most amazing, moistest, most delicious bread.  Everybody loved that bread.  After I got divorced, I tried to make the bread, using the same recipe, using all my normal tweaks.  It didn’t turn out.  Now, I’d made the bread all those years in AR.  We moved to MO and the bread didn’t bake right.  I tried again in MD, as well as WV.  It still didn’t bake right.  We think it may have something to do with the altitudes and humidities, as I had an issue with pancakes not fluffing up right in MO either, but as soon as we moved, the pancakes, made the exact same way in every state, were suddenly tall and fat and fluffy.

My children love banana bread, even if it is not tall and fluffy and overwhelming prize-wining delicious.  I make it often.  My daughter is known for buying bananas by the bunches, and letting them go brown on the counter rather than eating them.  For these kids not to eat a banana sitting in front of them is quite the trial.  I collect recipes.  I receive cookbooks and whatnot from all over.  I’ve been working for years to find a way to ‘fix’ that once wonderful banana bread recipe.

Then I found it, by fluke.  I was doing research on something else entirely (vegetarian samosas actually) and I found myself printing out a series of banana bread recipes.  I did what I normally do, combined them together and added my little tweaks.  Then I tweaked a bit more, changed things up a bit.  And bingo!  I found the right combination, which is the recipe you see above.

It is true that banana bread that sits overnight develops a more complex and interesting taste.  This is one reason I have to make at least three loaves.  The smaller of the three loaves never makes it til morning, unless I am baking at midnight.

This bread is light, fluffy, decadent and amazing.  The sour cream adds that whatever it is we’ve been missing all these years.  I have yet to find a better recipe.

A Note on Faery Food:

We love faery food in this household.  If I can say, this is faery whatever, I increase the likelihood of my ultra-finicky daughter eating it by a good ninety-nine percent, instantly.  My lavender spirits compound is a most amazing elixir.  I can drop a dropper full of lavender spirits into an instant pudding mix—voila, faery pudding.  I can drop a dropper full into a pre-made cupcake mix—voila, faery pudding.  You get the picture.  I have a recipe for candied lavender I plan to use one of these days.  I can’t wait.  In place of plain water or, some days, even milk, I can use jasmine tea, or chrysanthemum tea, or rose tea.  I use rose petals and lavender petals fairly interchangeably.  I’ve made plain old shortbread cookies, with ground lavender and/or ground rose petals.  I first talked the girl into trying taco meat by adding ground lavender to the meat as it fried and cooked.  Whatever it takes to entice the wee faery in us all, as well as those around us, then I am happy to oblige.

La Loba Part 2

The fire died down long ago.  It is all ash now.  The hearth is not completely cool, but it is warm enough to tolerate.  The old woman gathers ash into her large stone bowl.  There are chunks of debris, maybe wood, maybe bone.  The old woman doesn’t seem to bother.  She sifts through, gathering bits of all, placing it into her bowl.  When the bowl is full enough to suit her purposes, she sits down, squatting alongside the fire pit, pours a small amount of water into the dust before her, then takes up her pestle.  She begins to pound and grind down the bulky substrate in her bowl.  Ever patient, she grinds and pounds and stirs, adding a touch more water from time to time.  She does not seem to mind the boring repetitively of her task.  Her body moves back in forth rhythmically with her work.  She sings, a glad sound pouring out of her heart through her vocal cords.  All is good.

She has worked all day.  Now it is time to sleep.  But the old woman is not yet done with her task.  The ash now turned into a smooth clay, the woman works quickly but with concentration as she shapes and molds and forms the clay into the form she wishes it to have.  She wipes a bit of her own tears and saliva and blood along the framework of this creation.  It happens so fast you’d almost miss it, if you weren’t looking for it.  She digs a shallow hole at the edge of the fire pit and places the figure tenderly inside.  She rubs ochre salve all over the form.  Then covers it back over with dirt.  Her job for now is done.

Younger men from the tribe come, building up the fire, stacking wood, adding tinder, starting the flames.  Many come to dance and sing that night, free from the gaze of judgment.  Many feet stamp and stomp atop that little buried clay base, completely unaware of its existence.  The old woman bides her time until the festivities are all over.

The moon is full and gone and heading home to hide for the day before the old woman rises stiffly to her feet.  Her old joints complain mightily, but she pays them no mind.  Again, the ashes are hot, but she uses a branch to shove them aside.  She knows exactly where she buried her tiny figurine.  She heads straight for it unerringly.  The earth has absorbed the heat from the fire, the sweaty energy from the dancers.  The old woman hisses as she snatches the figure out of the ground and cannot set it down fast enough to cool her raging fingertips.  The old woman smiles in triumph.  This task then is done.  All it lacks now is the reconnection.

La Loba Part 1

What is She re-making?  What is She re-making?  As She stands over me, with her basket strapped to Her back.  With that bowl in Her hand.  With that translucent transcendent smile playing over Her lips and burning out through Her eyes.  What is She re-making?  Why, She is re-making me, of course.

Do you not know how broken I have been in this lifetime?  How broken I am right this very moment?  Can you not look at me and see how I am truly all in pieces inside?  Do I hide it that well?  I don’t think so.  I can’t even sleep beside the man I love without spending half the night awake and pondering the moment when he will see how terribly shattered I am within and he’ll get up and walk away because there is too much damage for him to comprehend.

First, She builds a huge bonfire.  Piling stick and log and branch.  whatever She can carry.  I am willing to help her.  Neither of us carries tools.  We both use our hands.  There is no talking, although She does tend to hum quite a bit, softly, under Her breath.  I find it to be very soothing.  I would be lying if I told you I was not anxious or afraid.  I have an idea of what happens when the fire is lit.  I do not exactly look forward to that.

In time, the stack of wood is high enough.  Things are arranged properly to entice the flames to burn high and hot and thoroughly.  I myself gather the dried grasses and leaves that will serve as start material.  This time, it is my turn to hum, only I am not quite so steady, although I do try to be respectful and keep things quiet.

I sit beside Her.  She takes what looks to me to be two rocks and claps them together at the edge of our fire pit.  Sparks immediately leap forth, like little red and gold dragons flying through the air, feasting upon the bounty we have set before them.  We wait for the fire to grow strong, to grow big.  We wait side by side, me sitting by Her feet.  I know I am crying.  She strokes the back of my head as if I were a child.  I know it is coming.  I know it is a release.  I do not seek to run away.  Not from this.  Not this time.   She sings to me, as we sit there.  I don’t hear the words.  I only hear Her voice.  I have heard it for years, calling to me; I simply never paid it any mind.  Now it seems as if that is all I have left to hold on to in this place.

She stands, brushing off the seat of Her skirt.  I rise too.  I don’t bother dusting off.  Soon, it won’t really matter.  I know what I have to do.  She takes my face in Her hands and kisses me, both eyes, my forehead, my cheeks, my lips.  She pats my arm.  I do it all myself.

I turn to face the pyre.  I step inside.  I must burn until I am gone.

Trying To Capture That Feeling

I spent about an hour, playing with markers and pencils, trying to recreate the one image that for some reason means Home to me…that red tree in the picture there…I had scribbled it mindlessly a couple years ago in a notebook…probably doodling while on the phone or something…..here are the prototypes…some have gone on and become finished pieces that will be displayed…elsewhere…but here is my Dig Tree Progress….and part of my journey towards finding Home….

New Art Journal Begun

I am in the process of taking so many journeys that I need guide books for each along the way, or so it seems….here is the start of my Hestia’s Hearth Journey as we search out our new abode….there is not much in it….yet…but I plan on it being filled…one of these days…as we find our Home…as we create our own rituals and happy places….and I look forward to that as well….

Restoring The Dig Tree

prompt found at:

The Dig Tree

I find myself standing amid the debris and destruction that was my dig tree.  I am not disenchanted or downtrodden or sad.  I find that I am feeling strong, happy, hopeful.  I search through the shards and shrapnel of exploded wood with care.  I do not know for certain what it is for which I search, but I am sure I will know it when I see it.  I stand there astounded by how far out the blast area reaches.  Even though the lightning strike had caused a huge contusion, it hadn’t occurred to me that some much could have been thrown so far.  And yet, it obviously had been.  I walk slowly, circling, from left to right, in ever-widening circles, then ever-shrinking circles, over and over again, losing all sense of time and space, going in and going out, as my brain ceases to ponder the whys and wherefores of what happened last time I stood with this tree.   I merely observe and attest to the reality of nothinglessness.

The remainder of the trunk remains attached to the roots seems to be stuck canted half in and half out of the dirt.  I see shriveled blackened roots.  So much of the wood appears to have died long ago, densely choked with noxious black goo, as well as plenty having withered away to tendrils of ash and dust.  However, there is also a lot of healthy growth showing, where there were good times, places where healing continued as best it could under the circumstances.  Even amidst this chaos of death, I can see the tiny fragments of life beading up, demanding their own fighting chance to survive.  I cannot and will not take that from any of them.

I start to think I have spent enough time here, commiserating with the left-overs of the tree.  Apparently, whatever it is I came to find is no longer here.  Or maybe it was the memory alone that I was to gather and hold tight as my own.  I walk away, back towards where I had come from, when I see it, about twelve feet away from the main core of the trunk.  A tiny seedling, gasping with hope and vitality.  My tree does not grow from seed, but from seedling, from an outgrowth from the roots that sends up new shoots at random periodic intervals.  Here I am.  Here is the spark I have been looking for, waiting for, needing to gather up with gracious arms and loving tears, to transplant to another , much safer ground.

With the utmost care and lightest of touches, I clear away the ground, digging around to ensure the safety of the root ball.  The ball of craggly earth that I prise up is nearly three times larger than the sapling itself, but I don’t care.  All I know is I must protect this baby.    I carry it in my arms until I return to my abode, not quite a home, now less than a house since my heart has left it.  I fill a deep wide pot full of the richest soil and plant my tiny tree in the pot, covering it with more fresh dirt and mulch.  I will give it three days to adjust to the changes before I water it, in order to protect the roots that much more, according to the way I was taught by an ancient gardener long ago.

I offer it prayers, send energizing love and sweetest healing powers deep into its roots and its core.  I set crystals around its edges to catch the sun and add that much more healing power and energy to the soil.  I pray over it, weaving ribbons of light around the pot, the trunk and the tiny little leaves that bravely spurn the arena of death we so recently departed.  I know that once I find my Home, I shall dig a wide deep hole and burrow the roots of this tree into the earth there, where I shall nurture and attend to this tree constantly, with all my love and ability.  Where this tree grows shall be my everlasting Home.  Now, in order to protect both this tree and my family, I must look even harder for that home that is meant for us.

Behind The Red Door

Am I listening?

Am I listening

To that loving voice

On the other side

Of that big red door?

I can hear Her

Whispering softly

Gentle encouragement…

Reach out to me,

She tells me.

Let me guide you.

Here, take my hand…

I can show you,

Show you the way,

Let you see

How very easy it is

To just let go,

To just dream big,

Bigger, dear.

Dream bigger.

You must let go of all these fears,

These worries about lack,

You must truly see,

You must understand,

You must believe

Completely,

You are fully supported here.

Things will fall into place.

Simply tell me what you want.

Pull away the cobwebs.

Push away the dust.

Stop wondering what someone else

Might think or do.

Know your own heart.

Everything else will then

Follow through,

Easily and without havoc.

Because, my dearest,

I do love you.

Let’s Make Faery Bread

Let’s make faery bread.

Here’s why we are making faery bread today.  We are in the process of trying to find a new Home.  When I think of Home, the first thing that comes to mind is my mother pounding away on the dough of a loaf of homemade bread.  Making bread was her therapy, not to mention everyone in the family loved it.  From the smell that invaded every corner of the house, to the melt in your mouth sinfulness as fresh from the oven slathered with butter slabs of bread hit your tongue.

I invoke the goddess Hestia with every meal I cook, even if it is to throw a can of soup in a bowl and stick it in the microwave.  I am a Hearth-Crafter.  I prefer to make my meals from scratch, even when it seems there is not enough time for a full-blown ‘to do’.  My children, as yet, have no appreciation for the things I love to cook and to eat.  I love to bake.  I love to make chili.  I love to make thick rich stews and traditional soups.  I even love to pan fry potatoes and serve them up with every meal you can think of, just as my grandmother always used to do.

Today, as we invite the goddess Hestia to sit with us, to help us as we seek a new abode, as we give thanks to all Her blessings that have touched us thus far in our journey through life, we make the one thing that always makes me think of family, that everyone in my family will eat without griping or argument or quarrel, other than to make sure they get their fair share of things.  That alone is worth making my own bread.

Now, usually I use a bread-maker to make my bread.  Technically, I use two bread-makers at the same time, because bread goes that fast around here when I make it.  This recipe can be converted to a non-machine recipe.  I will tell you how at the end of the bread machine version.

First, the ingredients.

When I was a young girl, I asked my mother how she made her bread.  She frustrated and stymied me by saying she’d been making bread for so long she just knew.  There were no measurements for what she did.  There was flour and sugar and water and yeast and salt.  There was nothing for me to follow, except the flow of her hands and arms as she kneaded away.  I learned to cook and to bake and to make bread from books.  Although the desire to be as good as my mother and to never need a cookbook always spurred me on, and still does to this day.

Here we are in a place where I sort of do the same thing now as my mother when it comes to a basic white bread.  Although I will do my best to give you more guidance.

You will need 1-1/2 cups of lukewarm, body temperature water.  The kind of water that when it hits the skin of the inside of your wrist, you barely feel it, or it might be just a little bit warmer than your skin.  About the same temperature as a baby’s bottle before you feed the baby.  Depending on your room, since it is summer here and is almost too hot for me to say this, room temperature is normally good.  We have also made rose tea and used the tea in place of water.  Any flowery tea works well here and only adds to the faery aspect of the bread.  Chrysanthemum tea.  Jasmine tea.  Feel free to experiment.

You will also need a tablespoon or two of sugar.  It can be white sugar or brown sugar.  We’ve used cubed sugar, cane sugar, even confectioners sugar one time-although I don’t remember why now.  Probably at the behest of one child or the other, just to see what would happen.

Roughly two tablespoons of olive oil.

Roughly a teaspoon of salt.

Lavender or other derivative of any and all flowers.  Before I had children, I would use rose petals, frequently from my own garden, which I processed in the food processor before adding to my dough.  If using dried lavender, I normally use about three tablespoons.  These days, with my children, I use lavender supplements.  I take three capsules, empty the powder into the machine, and toss the gelatin capsules away.  Although we have done it, with children helping, where you simply throw in three capsules as is and walk away.  That turned out fine too.

I also have a bottle of ‘lavender spirits’ which is a blend of lavender oil, cinnamon oil, clove oil, and so on.  It is a tincture.  I usually use 30 or so drops of this when I use it to make bread.  I try not to mix tinctures with dried herbs or fresh herbs.  I try to stick with one or the other, rather than combining them.  But please feel free to experiment.

Roughly four cups of plain white flour.  You can mix this up by doing half wheat, half white, or any other number of combinations with different flours.  So long as there is about four cups all together, you should be good.

I have a daughter who will not touch a piece of bread if she can see anything in it…not a seed, not a speck, not anything that looks ‘un’bread-like’, like oats dappling the crust or flax seeds in the bread itself.  So, lately I tend to use white flour—although when I get the chance I prefer oat flour mixed with the white.  I love to use flax, but it has to be ground into a flour too before I can use it with my daughter.  Think outside the box with your flour combinations.  Do keep in mind, different types of flour have different qualities. Some flours are heavier than others and produce a weightier loaf of bread.

Roughly a teaspoon and a half of yeast.

If you are using a machine, dump everything into your machine in the order stated: water, sugar, oil, herbs/flowers, salt, flour, yeast.

If you want your machine to do all the work, set it on your favorite basic setting Light, medium, dark-we usually use medium ourselves, so my daughter is sure where the crust starts and stops.  She is not a crust eater either. At least, not usually.  If you are using wheat flour, or anything that needs a different setting, please do what is best for that flour.  My machine has wheat settings, so that makes it easy for me.

If you want to do some of the work, which I do fairly frequently, you set your machine to the dough cycle and let it go.  Once your machine beeps, you pull it out, knead it, punch it down, all that happy stuff.  Grease your bread baking containers and go to town.  Sometimes I will braid the bread.  Sometimes I will make long thin loaves, like baguettes or thicker Italian loaves.  Sometimes I make round loaves.  It depends on the mood.  You have to cover and let these loaves rise until nearly double in size before baking.  Anywhere from an hour to two hours, depending on your flour and technique and everything else.  Then you put that into an oven at 350 degrees F for roughly an hour.  This is for white flour bread.  You may need to bake it longer—or maybe even for less time—depending on your flours used.  Or not.  Keep an eye on it as it bakes.  Bread is done when you knock on it and it sounds hollow inside.  Although with different flours, you still need to be careful, because that doesn’t always work.

If you want to do everything yourself?

Combine the water and the sugar and stir.  Add the yeast and let it bubble.  Add flour, oil, salt, herbs/flowers into a big bowl.  Add the water/sugar/yeast mixture.  Combine.  By hand here is usually best for me, but it is not the only way to do it either.

Here is a note for everyone though:  keep an eye on your dough.  It should be slightly tacky to the touch and have a satiny smooth appearance by the time you are done combining all the basic ingredients.  I tend to hover over my machine to make sure the consistency is correct.  Add more flour if you need to – or add more water.  Water it takes to make the dough work for you.  The dough should be smooth and elastic.  Once that is achieved, set your dough in a large bowl and cover it.  If the space is slightly warm, that’s good.  Once that has double in bulk, anywhere from an hour to two, depending on various factors, dump it out onto your work area and knead the dough down.  You can separate this into two loaves, or more, or less, or braid it or twist it or whatever you want.  See the above directions for baking.  A 350 degree F oven for roughly an hour, depending on the flours you used.

My daughter loves to have her bread, as hot from the oven or machine as she can get it.  Real butter or margarine dripping all over the place.  We have some lavender honey here, which my daughter finds most fascinating.  I will eat the honey on my bread.  She prefers to eat hers with a spoon from a bowl.  We like to have tea with our bread.  If you used flowery tea to make the bread, sipping a cup of the same stuff while nibbling your bread is lovely.  We always set some of the bread, with butter and honey, outside on a plate for the faeries to come partake.  This does include a small saucer of sweetened tea as well.

Enjoy.

If I have been unclear, or if I have left out any information, please contact me and I will correct things immediately.  Thank you.

While We Are Looking

We have the basics set down and drawn out.  Now, where do we go?

Our current job is to be patient while my boyfriend runs the numbers, while he talks to his real estate person, while he talks to his financial person.

So, while he runs the practical side of things, while he handles the logistics, I am here running the energetic side of things.  Pushing the energy into finding us the right spot.  Attracting the right building, the right neighborhood, easy financing.  Reaching out to find things that appeal to and satisfy all of us, to the best of all our conjoined abilities.

However, I am not one to just sit still and do nothing while someone else handles the ‘big work’.  Or even if they are handling all the little details.  I am already in let’s prepare to move mode.  I am actually having a great deal of fun with this.

One thing that came from the accident last November is that I have been much more willing and able to let go of things.  I am letting go of the sense of needing to hang on to things because ‘we might need them some day’.  Over the past few months, I have managed to get rid of more than half the garbage in our house.  I have plenty more yet to go.  It’s not as if the things I have had to buy for the house don’t off-set the size of the moving truck needed to move out, but still…going from four closets cram packed full of clothing I probably never wore to owning a refrigerator…a big forward step that, yes.

I hate to move.  It should be very clear after last year.  I just hate it.  I cannot and will not drive a truck of any size again.  Not so long as I can pay someone else to do the driving.  I am fine with packing and unpacking, but no more loading or unloading if I can help it.  I might even be ok with unloading at this point, I want out of this place so badly.  But the loading of the truck?  I really want to leave that in someone else’s hands for a change.   Getting out of here as quickly and as problem free as possible is my goal.

One of my other goals, even if we weren’t planning to move, is to go through everything in this house and get rid of the things we have in over-abundance.  Last night, I went through my kitchen drawers.  It’s not as bad as it sounds.  There are only three drawers in the entire kitchen.  I filled a paper grocery sack full of unnecessary cooking utensils and no less than two sets of unwanted silverware, among other little bits and pieces.  I had four pizza cutters in my possession.  I have no clue why, but I did.  Now, I only have two.  I feel the need to keep a back up, just in case.  The same with the vegetable peelers.  I had three last night.  I only kept two, one for each child.  Or one for me and one for the kid who is helping at that time.  I have a plan, really I do.

I have sorted and purged and purged and sorted almost all of my clothes.  I still need to go through my every day sweaters…but right now they are in the storage room, behind things, since it’s summer and they aren’t needed.  That is on the list of things to do.  I have to purge and sort my daughter’s clothing, as well as  my son’s clothing.

I have a great store of magazines and catalogs that I draw from for my collage work.  I think I have saved most of these long enough.  The national geographics I am keeping, of course.  The rest, however, can be glanced through to grab anything that catches my eye and then tossed out.  I have a file full of images with which to work on collages.  If I haven’t used all this stuff in the year we’ve lived here, there is no need to continue to carry it along.  I will buy more magazines and/or receive other catalogs or whatever when I set my mind to collage work from here on out.

I have a box of random paperwork and other miscellaneous stuff that I had no clue what to do with once we moved here, so I just sort of shoved it aside.  I need to figure out what to do with that.  So many things.  So many things I have already gone through and gotten rid of—so many more things to do the same thing to again.  Paring down.  Down sizing.  Letting go of the fears and the sense of impending lack.  This is freedom on a level I didn’t expect.  I knew without genuinely acknowledging it that I kept a lot of this stuff simply because I was afraid that on down the line I wouldn’t be able to afford to replace anything, or wouldn’t be able to afford to get the things we need or want.  All of that fear is gone.  I simply ‘know’ better now.

I recently let go of a job that was crippling me, and my family as I am still seeing evidence of, and holding me back from too many things.  I let go of a world that wasn’t working for me, outside of work.  I let go of so many things, ideas, people, places, expectations.  The change may not be swift, even though from the outside it may seem that way, but it is still in process.  I am pleased with the continued progress we are making.

This move is merely another side of the process of letting go of things that hold us back.   My family and me.  Of letting go of things that do not embrace our current trend of betterment and advancement.  Now, I know, I trust, things are going to be more than all right.  Things are going to improve and to continue to improve.  I do not have to worry anymore.  When the need is there, we will be able to provide.  Every time.  There is no need to have all these fears of inadequacy anymore.  It’s a huge lesson for me.

So, now I go from one task to another.  Not from room to room, because I must take my steps in small manageable bites, to mix up some metaphors there.  First, there was the kitchen drawers, which I had been planning to do for months upon months.  Next comes the sweaters in the storage room.  There are the magazines.  There are boxes of half-started sewing projects.  Mending in need of finishing.  I have to decide what we are taking with us when we do move.  What I am throwing away.  What I am leaving for the people who come after us.  What can be donated and where.  And how to get them there too.

I have plenty to do on this side until my boyfriend says, ok, let’s go pick out a property.  Then I have to set to packing and organizing the truck, the men to load and unload.  All of that.  I am most giddy now.  So much to keep me busy, even though I wish I were working more on the whole let’s pick a place out side right now.  There is a lot to be said for having faith in your lover.  This is me, being patient, and trusting in my lover’s abilities at the moment.  Even though patience is so not my virtue.

Back to work.  Much to do.  Much to clean.  Many lists to make.

Looking For A New Nest

One thing that I do every time we look at moving is involve my children.

My son’s involvement this time, thus far, has amounted to giving us permission to look for a house, permission to move into the house, and acknowledgment that he wants his own room still in the new house.  I do believe he said something along the lines of wanting a playroom too.

My daughter always makes a drawing of our new home.

When we left MO for MO a couple years ago, she drew a lovely big house, with a dad and a mom and two kids,  and a baby cradle for her baby sister visible in the upstairs window, and a dog  playing out in the front yard under the apple tree with the tire swing in it.

We haven’t gotten that house yet, but it is still an option for later on.

I asked her to draw out the house we should be looking for this time around.

Here is what she drew:

She seems to have used a combination of techniques here: water colour, pencil, crayon and marker.

I especially love the four dogs in the picture.  All on tie-outs in the front yard because it’s not fenced in.

Her drawing has inspired me to start an art journal of the process here towards finding us the “perfect’ house to turn into a Home.

I will keep you updated as we go along.

Setting The Base From Which To Spring

In order to begin to move forward, I must figure out where it is I want to go.

We have already decided that we want to be closer to my significant other.  North County.  We like it there.  I have always liked it there; I have always preferred North County to anywhere else in the area.  There are plenty of places to go, wilderness speaking, right in the heart of things there.  This is what I need.  It is also close to where my son lives with his father, so we have that angle covered.  Not to mention, it is a lot closer to the cousin’s house, which means my daughter can go play more often, if circumstances allow.  We have the location parameters set.

Mandatory inclusions: each person needs their own bedroom.  Period.  End of statement.  This means no less than three bedrooms, although four would be preferable.  Lots of space, lots of air.   Tall ceilings everywhere.  Windows are always good.  The more light coming in, the better, even though there may be drafts.  I am willing to work with drafts.  A decent and roomy kitchen, with plenty of countertop and cabinetry.  A living room.  A dining room.  A full basement.  It doesn’t have to be a finished basement, but a full basement is mandatory.  A good-sized yard.  It doesn’t have to be a huge yard, just comfortable.  We would like it fenced in, of course, but we are willing to fence it in ourselves as well, if need be. If we are talking preferences here, I would prefer a privacy fence, but that’s just me.

Here are some new things I require.  Really good neighbors.  They don’t have to be all Mary Tyler Moore.  Even Gladys Kravitz wouldn’t be too bad, although I would prefer Mary over Gladys.  I want neighbors who have decent well-behaved kids, kids that don’t throw rocks on the roof of my house, who don’t throw trash or break bottles in my backyard, who don’t mistreat my dogs, or my kids for that matter.  I want people that you can talk to, but not someone who is going to come over every morning and camp out all day either.  I want to be able to get up at six in the morning to drag my dog out on a walk and not have to worry about am I going to make it home in one piece.  I want to be able to feel safe enough to take a walk around the neighborhood, with kids and dog, at all hours, since I am never on a stable schedule of, say, up at six, walk the dog, write, blah blah blah.  Although I really should be, when I think about it.

My daughter’s requirement is a fireplace.  Although, as I keep saying, it is not a mandatory requirement.  We can buy a false front and put that up.  My mother bought an electric fireplace awhile back, so that too is an option.  My daughter would prefer being able to watch flames, be they real or artificial.  It doesn’t matter which to her.  I like having the hearth over the fireplace to display things, like the family altar.

I would like a two story home, but that is not mandatory.  My daughter likes to point out that if we have a basement, we have an upstairs and a downstairs, and shouldn’t that count as two stories?  I want to feel safe inside my home, and outside.  I want to live far enough from the river, or any water source at this point, that river insects do not feel the need to encroach on my space.  I want space for the herb garden, the flower garden, the rose garden.

Solid construction is now also a must, for the entire house.  If the place starts falling down around my head in a year or less, we are going to have some major issues. I am not about to go through that again.  I want electrical outlets that actually work, without overheating the wall and without having to flip all sorts of switches to make certain outlets that shouldn’t be on that breaker work. I want a roof that doesn’t need to be repaired, that doesn’t leak, that is in good shape.

I would like a brick house.  I want to have a house with a big red front door.  I am willing to paint the door myself.  I am thinking white for the rest, although a yellow house would be good too.  Part brick and part siding.  Not wood siding, no.  That requires too much work.  Scraping paint and whatnot.  The vinyl siding, or whatever it is, would be perfect.  Hose it off now and then and we’re all good.  Sounds perfect.

A carport would be fine.  A garage would be even better.  If we have a garage, we don’t need a shed.  A paved driveway would be nice too.  Although we would still be ok if it were gravel.  I have learned that I prefer a paved driveway.

I also have discovered that I love the whole back porch patio thing.  I hadn’t realized how much I liked patios or having them.  That is something worth having.  I do think if we don’t have one, we would have to build one at some point.  I prefer to buy a house that already has one though.  Room on the front porch for a couple chairs, no, for my daughter’s bench that she wants, would be terrific.  She also wants to have a porch swing, so we will have to keep that in mind as well.

I do not want to be physically close to my neighbors.  I would like some space between lots.  I don’t want to hear their music from their cars or their tv’s blaring from inside their house.

I do want lots of space inside the house, as well as around the outside of the house.  Inside, I want room for the bookcases.  I want room for all the art supplies, and the yarn stash and the fabric stash.  I want room for my kids to spread out and grow.  I want room for my office, for my writing, for my artwork, and for all the artistic endeavors that I currently have sitting on a shelf waiting for me to have room and money to do things that I want to do.

Some things I like, but that we can add later on are wainscoting, molding, decorative light switch plates, chandeliers, ceiling fans, paint.  I take it back.  We should be looking at a place that already has ceiling fans, at least in the main living areas of the house.  I would prefer them in the bedrooms as well, but we can add those later on as we go along.

This is the basic concept we are working with for our new home.

We would change only a few things if we were planning to combine households with my significant other.  We are currently looking into several options.  Do we just rent a house outright?  If we do that, we can bee more lenient about some of the features, because then we would know above all else that things are very temporary.  Do we do the rent to own angle again, so that the house is mine and mine alone?  That way when we do combine households with my significant other, I have my own stream of income from renting out that house.  The next option is going in together with my boyfriend to buy a property we know will be my temporary residence until we all move in together.  That way we will have two properties between us to use as rental properties while we buy a third larger house as our main domicile.  Another option on the table is foregoing the whole house in the middle and looking for that bigger house where we can all move in together right now and not have to worry about moving up or moving on after any certain amount of time.  The last option, which I am not really wanting to consider due to lack of space, is moving in with my boyfriend in his current house and recreating things there to our desires and satisfaction.

All these possibilities.  We have to start somewhere.  This is my start.  Establishing a base and moving on from there.

A Hearth-Maker’s Dream Map

Setting The Threshold

Home.

For years upon years, I have longed to go Home.

There is only one place in my life, thirty-seven years worth of time in this body, that I have ever considered “Home”.  That is my grandparent’s house on Montgomery Avenue in Cumberland, MD.

I have lived many other places.  I have oft been known to say such things as, ‘I’m going home now.’ but it was always home, never Home.  I want to go Home.

While I was married, I had a chance to establish a Home, but the man to whom I was married ensured that I never felt safe or comfortable or secure, thereby denying me the only thing, other than his love, that I truly wanted and needed.

Once my children entered my life, it became more important to me to put down sturdy solid roots, in order to support and nurture them, as well as myself.  Again, when it came time to include a father in our life, I chose poorly.  This led to travels yet again. We went home to stay with family until I could manage a small apartment on my own, which led to buying a small house in an unsuitable place, just for the time being.  We never meant it to be Home, but it was meant to be a decent little start.

Well, we started.  Now, our little house is no longer adequate.  Now, it is time to move on.  It is time to figure out what we need, how long we will be staying where, and what we want to do after that, what our goals have become as a family.

Therefore, I come before the goddess Hestia, Mistress of my Hearth, to ask for assistance and guidance.

First, I clear a space in the dust, sweep it clean with my little broom, hand made, hand bound, clean straw and taunt wire, consecrated to the task of clearing space to prepare for Ritual.  I sweep, brushing away dust and debris, gently wiping away the cobwebs that are both figurative and literal, stroking with hands as gentle as any lovers to remove as many fragments and as much of the dregs and dross as I possibly can.  The space must be clean, must be pure.  I myself want to be clear, like brilliant crystal, as I stand before this Queen.

I lick my finger, pressing it softly, caressingly,  against the ground, tracing out the figure of a circle, creating my own doorway, with as much love and spirit as I can muster with humble abandon.

I settle down inside the circle, seated, legs crossed, mind still buzzing.  I clear myself.  I cleanse.  I realign my spine, open up my inner eye, release the tension, evacuate the pent-up unspent emotions.  I heave a sudden sigh of relief, abandon.  I am loose and available for Hestia to reach into me and lead me by the hand.

It is a journey that I am looking forward to having.  Wish me well.

A Place To Begin

Every journey has to start somewhere, doesn’t it?  Well, over a year ago, I made the decision to buy a house, rather than fighting to rent something that would not be mine.  Blah blah blah.  When I first saw the house I ended up buying, my thought was, adequate.  I figured we would live here maybe three years.  No more than five.  I had a lot of other plans and intuitions about things at that time.  Mostly concerning a man I would meet, and date, and marry.  A man I have since chosen to by-pass all together.

I saw the house and was mildly disappointed, but not overly so.  It fit enough of my criteria.  I saw it for what it was, a fixer upper barely fixed up to put on a good face.  I was happy, enough.  It would be disingenuous to say that this house has not been a godsend this past year, during so many trials and upheavals in our life.  We are very lucky to have this house.  We are grateful.

Now, the house is fine.  We are doing a rent to own deal in regards to the mortgage, because that is the only way I could manage things on my own without a great deal of paperwork I didn’t have, not having worked outside the home in so long.  The deal there is the mortgage holder is responsible for the maintenance and general upkeep of the physicality of the house itself.  I will not go into details, mostly because at this point I find it very tedious, and not worth my time.  Needless to say, I have reached my limit for tolerance.  I am done.

Originally, the plan was to live here a couple years, then sell the house, recoup anything at all maybe, but move out and be happy.  Under the current conditions, there is no way I can sell this house as it is.  I have no intentions of doing so.  I plan to give the house back, legally and without malice, once I move.  Not long after I moved in, I had an intuitive friend tell me I would only be here for a year, if that, maybe a little more.  I didn’t believe her when she said it.  Since that time, I have made other choices that show that she was correct in her assessment.  My assessment was based on outdated data.  I am actually fine with that.

I have spent a lot of time recently trying to figure out what I want and where I want to go and how I should get there.  Basically, I have spent a great deal of time chasing my tail and accomplishing nothing at all.  I have allowed too many other things into my consciousness that have kept me from focusing on what is going on with me, what is best for me, what is best above  all else for my family.  My family is the one most important thing in my life.  My family is my world.   They always come first.

I had a very interesting day today.  I spent too much of the morning being angry and upset and off-balance, which I have been for several weeks anyway, due to a loss in the family.  I started to write this afternoon.  I emailed a couple friends whom I trust very much.  I began to work things through in my head, by putting pen to paper.  I started to catch a glimpse of the dilemmas I have been undergoing lately, the ones I have chosen to ignore and thrust aside.  After I wrote my first piece, I went back and wrote something different.  More of the same, yes, but also different, more involved, deeper delving.

All because I had a dream the night before that I was standing in front of the dig tree and out of nowhere lightning struck the tree.  As the tree exploded into billions of toothpicks and wooden straws, in my dream, I saw myself gathering up different bits and pieces.  In my dream, I would pick up a piece of debris, examine it, ponder it, decide to keep it or lay it aside.  I didn’t understand at the time what the shards meant.  After writing today, I gained a bit more insight.  I am still not completely clear.  All I know at this time is I have chosen a path and the Universe is definitely with me.

The Universe.   I have been getting these little pushes lately.  Yesterday was full of bigger pushes.  Yesterday was the straw that broke the camel’s back as far as this house is concerned.  Today, as I was vacillating between ideas and thoughts and everything else, the Universe kept giving me signals, kept pushing me in certain directions.  The Universe made certain with deadly accuracy that I understood I am fully supported.

This is more than being about dreaming bigger dreams.  This is about reclaiming who I am, who I am becoming, and making her mine.

When I bought this house, I lived under the gloom and guise of network job that kept me bound and gagged and miserably struggling to believe in anything at all, much less achieve anything.  Now, I work for myself.  Now there are no bonds, no gags, no misery.  Now there is trust and faith and joy.  This house has outgrown its usefulness.  I am no longer the person who bought this house, who accepted its inadequacies and imperfections as par for the course.

I am a new woman, still on a journey, only now just awakening.  I am no longer content to make excuses for things I have no desire to cover up or anything else.  I am no longer liking the feeling of being limited, or of the reasons I bought this house, or of anything else.  I proved my point.  I bought my own house.  I have made it on my own for nearly a year in said house.  I have bested the ex in every way I said I would.  Now, I am doing better than he is.  Any way you look at it.  Now it is time to let go of the fears he has held me to—that I have allowed him to hold me to all this time.

As I sat there in my computer chair this afternoon, thinking without thinking, which is a talent of mine, I saw in my mind’s eye this red door.   The picture was so clear that I went online and found a picture almost exactly like that door.  So I could basically reach out and just touch it whenever I felt the need to do so.

After I found that door, I worked on transcribing a story I had written by hand a couple weeks ago, about Hestia and a tray that I painted and dedicated as part of Her altar.  As I typed out this story, doors opened in my mind.  I heard the voices speaking to me.  I saw the light at the end of my tunnel.  Just as everyone had been telling me all along during the day.  The angels spoke to me.  The spirits cajoled me.  Hestia Herself took me by the hand and led me down a path.  I picked up a paper and saw the avenue of my hope and my destiny.  There is a way out of this.  I can do this.  I know not how, but I know I can do it.  I know I can and I know I will.

Hestia told me it is time for me to move on.  She said to me that she and I shall journey together as we find a new home, as we create a real space and a good life for this family.  It may take a bit of work.  It may take a bit of time.  But I stand among the blessed and it shall come to pass.  Patience is a virtue and I shall be rewarded.

I am looking to buy a new house.  I am looking to move.  Even if I end up renting.  I am looking to move.  By or before December, we shall be in our new domicile.

This time, there shall be no compromise, no settling.  This time, we will find and make a real home, where no outsiders can ever interfere with our tranquility.

Hearth Work

It is sometimes strange—the things that can drive a priest like me into a Full Ritual.  Dabblers and those who are of weak mind, throwing stuff around when they ought not to be, when they have no real clue what they are doing, much less what they are up against—it’s enough to make me sigh and shake my head.  Yet, in defense of those I care for, I must step up and accept my mantle, accept the role I have taken on as my own. I may be Bound by Law, but that does not mean I am defenseless.  Not by any means.

Interesting things always come out of Ritual for me.  Some days, I wonder at Spirit.  Really I do.  I so rarely even consider performing High Ritual that I never plan for it until the need to do it is beyond obvious.  Until it is time to set the Ritual in motion.  Therefore, with the aid of the Full Moon and the third eclipse, I came into an unavoidable High Ritual.

Yes, I am leaving out a great deal of detail here.  Such is the nature of the work I do.

The interesting bit comes after this particular Ritual.  Over a week ago, I went up into my attic to do a little purging.  I found a nice, fairly deep, wooden tray that had been left up there and forgotten, all crunched in among the other clutter.  I dragged the tray downstairs.  I took it into my bedroom and propped it up against the wall to deal with later, once I figured out why I had felt the pull to bring it out of the attic in the first place.  There that tray rested and waited, untouched and unneeded.  That is, until after this particular Ritual was completed.

After releasing the Circle, my eyes fell upon this tray, sitting there all meek and quiet, utterly patient.  An offering was due, outside of ritual space.  The tray called out to be used, to be dedicated to some higher purpose.  It took me a few minutes to remember about this tray, to find it in my memories, but remember I did.  This tray had once been the pedestal base for an altar several years previously in a former house where I lived and worked.  At that time, it lay swathed in cloths and other finery to dress it up some.  My work and I have moved on since that time, have grown out and come along greatly since then.  Now for this piece to work for what it desired, for what my heart was calling for it to be, it would take a bit more effort than covering it with pretty cloths and ribbons.

I walked out of my room, into the storage room, where all my nefarious art supplies and otherwise are kept.  I pulled out five bottles of paint.  Given the nature of the Ritual I had just performed, as well as my own normal mindset, I already knew to whom this altar would be dedicated.  I had no doubt at all about who deserved, as well as who had granted, such an honor.

I spread out a towel, gathered brushes, palette, and other off-hand supplies.  My significant other, who is also my working partner, called during the process.  We spoke of many things as I painted and scraped and rubbed.  I don’t think he realized what was going on on my side during the conversation, even though I did tell him, and I kept him apprised as I went along.

The wood I first cleaned thoroughly with a gentle natural solvent, working quickly and easily with a soft rag.  I buffed it twice to be certain it was both clean and dry so that I could start the next part of the process without worrying about paint not sticking or any other sort of mishap.  I started with the upside down bottom of the tray.  That part now became the top of the pedestal.  First, came a layer of the dark blue, followed by consecutive layers of swirled silver, then white, and then cream, one over the other, incorporating each color into the layer beneath it, so that the image of a single flower nearly glows from within the darker blue of the base coat.

The rim between the bottom of the tray and the actual sides of the tray is rough and craggled.  The rim is a mess not really noticeable when the wood is left stained and lacquered in a woody bamboo hue.  However, throw in that layer of blue over it?  That lip bit into the piece and made it look just awful, pocked and abraded.  I worked around all four sides, applying paint in thick sopping coats, over and over and over, until most of the holes and notches were filled.  Not all of the paint stayed where it should have gone, or even went on where it was supposed to go.  I chose not to worry about this, allowing the paint and the brushes their own fluidity in this process, permitting my Muse and the Goddess in question to guide me, to move through my hand as surely as they moved through my consciousness.

For the sides themselves, I brushed paint on with flicks of the brush, barely touching the wooden surface, hardly making contact at all.  Thin layers of paint full of rich brilliant color.  I mixed several shades together, applied them with in a quick slapdash coat all over every side.  This I wiped away with a wad of dry toweling as soon as I could after finishing one side, before moving on and repeating the process on the next side.  Only traces of paint remained on the wood after that.  The last coat of paint applied was a dabble of silver, thinned to a translucent sheen, all over the sides.  After that, I set the piece aside to dry more completely.

Of our many altars here, I chose to disassemble only the three largest in order to put this pedestal into use.  Our family altar, which rests upon and above our hearth. My own personal altar.  The house guardian’s altar.  Each of these fell to pieces beneath my questing hands.  I dusted.  I cleaned.  I rededicated.  I re-consecrated.  I changed things around, adding different things, setting other things aside for other purposes, other altars.  This time is a new time.  This shifting of energies is a new shift.  Such better things are coming this way.  Many have already begun to arrive.  I am merely making space and honoring the way for their arrivals.

I bow before the Great Goddess Hestia, ever grateful for Her care and Her wisdom, Her protection.  I light the candle for Her now, knowing in my heart this is a flame that shall never go out.

And the tray?  Now it is an altar centerpiece.  My gift to the goddess Hestia.  Now the tray is in its rightful place.  All has been set to rights again.

A Walk Through the Woods

I am walking, not quite alone, in the woods.  At my side tramps my wonder guide, the marvelous Medusa, a dark grey wolf with the deepest aqua-green eyes you have ever seen.  This afternoon, she is not speaking.  She merely pads along a few paces in front of me, off to the side, her nose sheering along the edge of the path picking up whatever scents there are to be had on our sojourn.  I stay on the path, or at least as close to it as I can.  I know the wisdom in the warnings against straying from the path.  Having strayed a time too many in my past as it is, I try to heed this stricture now.  Sometimes even I can learn my lesson.

I walk these woods fairly frequently.  Long is this path; long is my journey.  I never seem to take the same way twice, although there are times when I set out fully intending to take the pathway I missed before.  Sometimes I think I almost make it too, before I am sidetracked by something new, or something old, or some flitting vision that seems to speak with me at that precise moment.  Then I am off, in my slow winding way or off like a shot, without a thought.  Either way, I remain caught in the fancies prance out before me to entice me to do whatever it is that takes me from my original path.

Today I find myself watching an older woman moving meticulously along the edge of the path.  I see her far enough ahead of me to get the contours of her body, the mundane simpleness of her task as she bends and stretches, whatever that task may be.  I see no threat about her.  She interests me.  I am a bit protective of people I find alone in my woods.  I also know Medi may frighten the unwary.  Medi only peers deeply, archly, at the other woman. She seems rather unimpressed at the moment.   There is no warning growl or posture of intimidation.  Medi seems as open to this as I am.  That’s always a good thing, when I know I am about to stray from my chosen path.

I look around, as I am wont to do, seeking omens and signs.  In the trees above our heads, seeming to cluster near both the other woman and myself, there are my darlings, four ravens, not one cawing or cackling at the moment.  All at peace and serene.  Four sets of eyes, doing nothing more than watching.  Guardians they, who have my back, calling out warning in times of danger.  Now they looked like bored crows sitting on a scarecrow’s arms, picking out hay in order to line their nests when they get the urge to get around to doing it.  Four of my cronies in the trees.  Medi on soft and remote drive.  My own energies picking up no unwarranted vibes.  All is good.  We continue to forge ahead.

“Hello?’ I call out, several yards from the woman.  I don’t want to come upon her unawares.  Especially not with Medi here at my side.  The women is tiny, bent over, hands busy assembling or maybe collecting something.  I can almost hear her; she seems to be talking under her breath to herself.  I smile.  I do that a lot myself.  I use the excuse of the wolf, or even the rock or the tree when need be, so I don’t have to admit I am only talking out loud to me.  I stop far enough away so that we are out of arm’s reach, mostly to show we mean her no harm.  Medi is not a small wolf by any means.  Her shoulder leans securely into my hip as we wait for the woman to notice us.  I am about to speak, when Medi decides to intervene.  She woofs loudly, just once, with a grace and finesse most people would never notice in a predator her size.

Still, I expect the woman’s gaze to shoot up, but it doesn’t.  She finishes her task at hand and turns to face us as if she has all the time in the world.  Perhaps she does.  She has a large welcoming smile upon her face.  She is beaming.  She doesn’t stumble even a second when she sees the intimidating Medi on point against me.  She has the most beautiful and calming brown eyes.  I feel embraced by her presence, even though we are so far out of her reach.  I smile in return, genuinely happy to make this woman’s acquaintance.  Or at least about to make her acquaintance, anyway.

‘So,’ she says, with her hands on her hips, ‘you’re the one I’ve been waiting t’ come and help me t’day, huh?’  She speaks with mirth, which pleases me.

Although confused, I do my best to play along.  ‘I didn’t know I was supposed to be helping anyone today, ma’am.’  I reply, being polite, as my mother taught me.  ‘I would have been along sooner had I realized my services were needed here.’

She throws back her head and laughs, a deep generous belly laugh at that.  Medi sits down, most of her butt on my foot now, still leaning against me.  ‘Ok, then.’  She shakes her head a moment.  ‘Come on.  We have things need gatherin’.’  She turns her back to us.  ‘We best get finished before the dark side of the moon shows itself t’night.’

I sidle up to the woman.  Medi noses her way under the woman’s hand.  She rubs Medi’s ears and forehead for her, before pushing her softly aside.  ‘I’m Hes.’ this strong little woman informs me.  ‘I know who you are.  Been watchin’ ya a bit now and then.’  Not always what I want to hear, but ok, I think.  Hes hands me a small paring knife made entirely of what appears to be silver.  She has a nice sized woven basket for me as well.  ‘You find the herbs you think best.’ Then she turns back to her side, her task, leaving me to do things on my own.  As if I could trust myself that much.

I stand there for a moment, baffled, staring at the knife in my hand, then at her back.  ‘Uhm, excuse me?  Hes?’  She turns to look, her one eyebrow raised in my direction.  ‘Yes, dear?’ she replies.  ‘Uhm,’ I rub my nose on my wrist for a second, trying to find a way to sound nice and not completely idiotic when I ask this next question.  Part of me really thinks I should know, even though I know realistically there is no way I can know.  ‘What am I supposed to be gathering here, Miss Hes?’

From her comes a long rolling chuckle, from the bottom of her toes all the way up.  It shakes her.  It is a sight to behold.  ‘Little girl,’ she wags a finger in my face, ‘go pick us some herbs.’  She chortles again, a bit more quietly, more to herself now. “We’re havin’ stew, and bread, and tea.’  She grins at me.  ‘Maybe some cakes too,’ she says with a wag of her eyebrows, ‘ if you behave yourself, that is.’

I cannot help but grin back.  ‘All right then.’ I agree.  I turn to what is now my side of the road, close to her, to take hold of my task.  Medi saunters a couple steps away and flops onto the ground in a heap with a relaxed sigh.  She is snoring within moments.  Some great watcher, isn’t she?  I shake my head at her.

Hes hums as she works.  It is a rhythm I recognize, even though I cannot place it.  I don’t guess I notice when I start singing along with her as I do my work.  Apparently part of me somewhere knows the words to this song.  I think it might be a lullaby.  Although  I do not recall anyone ever singing to me as a child.

I am working mostly by instinct a the moment.  My herb lore is fairly rusty.  If I didn’t plant it myself, I am not sure what it is really.  Some things I can identify.  Most things I cannot.  I put my trust in my heart and in my hands.  And I trust above all that Hes will discard anything poisonous or unworthy.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, glowing with warmth and pride.  It is Hes.  The sun set awhile ago.  I must have missed that.  ‘Time t’ go, girl.’  I follow her without a word.  Medi falls into step behind us, bringing up the rear.  My corvid carrier pigeons have fled back to their homes for the night.  Their job for me complete, there is no reason to remain.

It is not a far walk off the path.  I never waiver in my faith for following this small gnome of a woman.  Her house is rounded, both the top and the sides of it, with thick pale grey smoke issuing forth cheerily from the chimney.  All sorts of plants surround her house.  Flowers and shrubs.  Milling about the area is a plethora of chicken and various other fowl.  I hear goats talking in the background.  It is a small neat dwelling.  A place out of my deepest dreams, when I find myself calling for Home.  It is a place much like this to which I swarm and swell at those times.  The door is not locked, merely tipped almost shut, not even shut all the way.  A golden light emanates from within.  I smell, I smell, I don’t know. Too many things all at once.  Loaves of bread baked on the hearth over the years.  Fresh lamb baked with mints and stuffed with herbs.  Clear well water sipped like champagne.  Meadow flowers touching my cheek and lingering on my lips.  Dandy and fine.

I follow her inside.  I do remove my shoes at the door before entering, pushing them off to the side so no one trips on them. My mother didn’t teach me that; it is my own personal thing.  I don’t want to track the dirt of my life into this pristine comfy dwelling.  ‘Come on.’ Hes urges me.  She is used to giving orders.  It shows.  I am equally as used to following orders.  I do nothing but obey meekly.  When she sets her basket down upon the wooden table, I do the same.  My knife remains buried within the finery in my basket.

Hes points down the hall.  ‘There’s a bathroom that way.’  She is already busy, her hands pulling discoveries from my basket, as well as her own.  ‘Go clean yourself up.’  I nod and start to move off.  Her voice catches up with me in an instant.  ‘There are fresh clothes in there.  Don’t be afraid to bathe and dress in the clean clothes.  That’s why I put them out for you.’  I take another step towards the bathroom, still half turned to face her.  Will she render any other advice?  ‘It’s about time you found a place to feel at home.’  She left it at that.  A larger knife now in her hand, paring away the unnecessary bits of whatever greenery she has rooted out of the baskets.  I hope I picked up the right things for her.  I hurry on down the hall.

There are three rooms.  Two bedrooms, which I can determine with quick glances through slightly open doors.  The third is the bathroom.  It is a mermaid’s paradise.  There are large round mirrors along one wall.  A set of three.  One larger one in the middle, with a smaller one on each side.  The sink is shaped like a sea shell, set up on a pedestal.  Long tall faucets sparkle greatly over the top of it.  The tub is a huge bowl set into the floor, big enough for several people alla t once.  Everything is done is soft beach colors, sands and light browns, off whites, creams, light greys.  It is a magical space.  There is a trunk against one wall.  On it sits a thick nubby burnt cream colored robe.  Thirsty looking daffodil yellow towels rest beside it.  There are washcloths that look hand knitted.  I turn round and round, like a small child in the midst of a dream in a candy store.  There are candles on the counters, all lit up.  Made of beeswax.  Exuding an intoxicating smell all over.  Their light bounces off the mirrors, reflecting and refracting out all over the place.  There are soaps, blues and greens and purples.  All made by hand, I am thinking, as I run a finger over one of the pale ocean blue ones.  It smells of spring, and wondrous newly bloomed flowers.  There are jars of salt scrubs and sugar scrubs.  Containers full of lotions and unguents and oils, all labeled in a neat tidy script.  I pick up the robe, just to feel the heft of it, and notice that underneath it lay the clothing Hes told me about.  A simple shift.  A loose long skirt.  Leggings to go underneath.  Under things too.  In my size.  That surprises me.  There is even a pair of knitted Mary Janes in the same soft blue ombre colour as the rest of the clothes.  I almost feel like a penitent, except these are the clothes I prefer to wear when I am alone and working, in my favourite hues of azure and sky.

I start the shower.  I don’t want to take too long, so I eschew the bath for now.  The water has an interesting metallic scent to it.  Something more than well water maybe.  Perhaps it comes from a stream nearby, funneled by some means into the house.  Maybe I just smell the pipes from the house.  The water is so hot and fulfilling.  I strip bare, neatly placing my folded dirty clothes inside the laundry basket I found.  I hadn’t noticed I’d gotten so dusty, or so hot and sweaty.  There is dirt wedged firmly underneath my fingernails.  I cannot allow that.  Talk about a pet peeve.

I start at the top.  There are shampoos galore to choose from.  I pick a blue one.  It is labeled in that same tiny pin-perfect script.  I don’t bother to read more than ‘shampoo’.  I drizzle some into my hand and start to scrub my scalp.  I am transported by the aroma and the overall sensuousness of it.

I shall not bore you with all the details of my cleansing there.  Needless to say, my weariness went down the drain along with the dirt and the sweat and the sweet smelling soaps I used.  I rung out the washcloth and draped it carefully over the tub’s faucet before I abandoned the shower.  I wrap my wet hair in a towel and get busy drying off.  It doesn’t take me too long to dress either, after I am dry and powdered to perfection. I find a carved wooden comb and go to work on my hair.  Whatever is in the shampoo and conditioner I used is miracle stuff, as I yanked that comb all the way right through my hair with nary a snarl or tangle to impede me.  I have very fine and thickly curly hair.  A comb does not go through my hair without a battle.  But not this time.  It is amazing.  I find some moisturizer and applie it to my face, careful with my eyes and my neck to be sure they receive extra attention.

Now, feeling every inch the princess, I twirl around in front of the still foggy mirrors.  I look beautiful.  I must admit it.  And I am comfortable.  At my ease.  I slide my feet into the slippers and bounce out the door, ready to help out some more.

Hes has pulled two stools up to the fire.  The fire burns huge and bright.  I can feel the taste of the wood pressing against my lips.  I think it is ash she burns this night.  Mountain ash is my favorite wood.  It holds a special place in my heart.  An ash trees grows within the broken spaces in my heart in one particular place, a place I rarely go to look.  In front of the fire is a large stone tablet, for lack of a better term.  The thing glows reds and oranges.  Obviously, it is used for cooking on, but I can’t tell you how.  Hes sets a copper tea kettle on that slab, close to the heat source.

‘Will ya get that pot there and place it over here on this stone, please, love?’  She stretches a finger out off to my left.  ‘Of course.’ I reply as I hop to it.  The pot is a large cast iron tub, with three sturdy feet.  A big round belly.  Black as midnight oil.  And heavy.  Very heavy.  It seems to expel a heat of its own.  It smells of good things though.  Of seasoning and seasons past.  Of many a happy repast.  With great care, I set the thing as close to the middle of the plate as I can, angling it farther back, towards the flames, as much as I am able, as Hes had done with the kettle.

She hands me a bowl.  ‘Pick three of those herbs and two of those flowers and put them in here.’  I hold the bowl, still as confused as ever, but happy to be helping, happy to be included.  ‘Does it matter…’  She cuts me off.  ‘Trust your instincts.’   She turns away from me.  I swear I hear chanting coming from her, low and steady.

I don’t really notice that I am humming myself.  While I was showering, Hes had been busy arranging things on the table in front of me.  There are berries and roots and nuts and flowers and stalks and vegetables and herbs, galore.  I don’t recognize everything there, but I could name a few of the vegetables.  Maybe even one or two of the flowers.  Everything is fresh, so fresh.  The air is bursting with the aromas of everything all mishmashed together.  It makes my heart swell in my chest.  I grab what I think might be mint.  I set the bowl down, pull the herb over to a cutting board.  The cutting board is made of stone, rubbed so smooth and soft, as if the river had taken her own hand to it.  I take the knife that lie beside it and deftly chop the herb into smaller hunks so that it would fit in the bowl.  I choose a red flower next.  I am not sure what kind.  I remove all the blossom bits.  The petals drop into my bowl.  The stem pops into the compost bin I see standing at the leg of the table.  Looking down makes me think of Medi.  I look around for a moment.  She lay all curled up in peace against the front door, on a wonderful hand knotted rug made out of old rags.  My grandmother used to make those kinds of rugs.  She used to have rugs all over the place.  Always drove me nuts when I was younger.  Didn’t stop me from becoming a rug collector as I got older though.  I finish with my ministrations to the contents of the bowl.  I wipe the blade clean on a towel nearby, then return to Hes.

I stand there, a quiet little mouse, at her side, as she continues to chant and throw things into the fire.  The fire springs forth, often with violent colour changes, flashes of green and purple mixed in with the normal reds and oranges and yellows.   I smell different things.  My tongue is coated with a variety of sensations.  I inhale and enjoy it all.  I am tingling all over, in a good way.  The kettle begins to sing.  Hes never pauses.  She grabs the bowl and pulls it gently from my hands.  Sits it on the stone on the edge farthest from the fire.  She pours the kettle’s full insistent heat over the herbs I had accumulated.  Sets the kettle off to the side on another low table, the kettle on top of a potholder to protect the wood.  She leaves the bowl of herbs to steep, a freshly made tea for our enjoyment.  The scented steam wafts up, joining the mist created by the hearth’s flames.

Hes eyes me standing there.  ‘Fetch us some water from over there,’ again she points, this time behind me, ‘ and fill our pot here about halfway full.’  She smiles at me with such a loving face.  ‘You’ll know instinctively when there’s enough in there, dear.’   She is learning how to get me to get around me.

I am happy, being useful.  I feel like a young child, allowed to help Mother in the kitchen.  When I was a child, I was banned from the kitchen.  I got in the way.  My mother was very busy.  I did what I could, but I never felt as if it were enough.  Here, I am worthy of taking the time to explain things to, even if I still do not understand everything.  At least right now I am useful.

There is a hand-pump in the sink here.  With a big earthenware pitcher sitting beside it.  I fill the pitcher up.  Take it over to the hearth.  Dump it into the pot.  Turn to do it again.  Hes is singing, a little louder now.  I don’t understand the words, but they penetrate my soul anyway.  This feels all too right, so very familiar.  The longing in my heart has been sated for the moment.  Perhaps I really have found my Home.

I can smell bread baking.  There are stone ovens on the other side of the fireplace.  I guess that is the other thing Hes did while I showered.  Set the loaves in to bake.  They smell just heavenly there.  I have no clue how long I was in the shower either.  Either I was very slow, or she was very fast.  Or knowing me, it is a case for both.

I return to my place at Hes’s side after I have completed my task.  She is grinding small amounts of herbs, or something, in a large mortar with a darkly burnished wooden pestle.  I am surprised such a delicate looking thing can crush some of the grains and seeds she puts beneath it, but the pestle never falters, always accomplishes its task.  ‘Sit down.’ she instructs with love me when she pauses to pick out a new substance to dump into the mortar.  Everything is finely ground, a sickly green looking paste now.  I watch intently.

I do not notice when the water in our caldron begins to boil.  Hes sees it once the boil roils up and along the edge, demanding attention.  She gets up with a little wobble in her gait, as if she had started to stiffen up some as she sat in place for too long a time.  She pops in potatoes and carrots and celery, peppers and turnips and handfuls of greens.  There are onions and garlic and leeks.  A palmful of salt on the top.  She turns to me.  ‘You choose the herbs’ she directs me.  ‘There are no limits here.’

I am nearly in tears at the trust offered to me now, by this woman I have never met before, who treats me like her very own daughter, with such joy and devotion.  ‘Thank you.’  I turn away from her before she can see the tears brimming in my eyes.  My tears drip onto some of the herbs I pick up.  I decide to take everything to the cutting board, chop it into more manageable bits.  I slice my finger on accident, so now not only do I add my tears to season the broth, but my blood as well.  It’s only a tiny cut.  Nothing to worry about.  As long as I keep out of the spices, I should be fine.

Trust my instincts.  ok.  I find myself singing.  Savory and basil and sage, oh yes.  Lavender and turmeric and anise, oh yes.  Cinnamon and clove and thyme, of yes.  Rosemary and thistle and rose, oh yes.  A handful of mint.  A few springs of parsley.  Catnip never hurt anyone.  A touch of nettle.  A thimble full of mace.  All goes so well.  The water thickens now into broth.  Do we add the meat…or has Hes done that already?  A fresh hank of spring lamb…with a strip or two of back bacon to add to the flavor.  My mouth waters as the potion brews and stirs itself with tumbling bubbles.

Hes has several bowls of special herbal teas brewing.  She tips each bowl into the stew, just a small offering from each bowl, never the full contents of any.  Then she gathers the bowls and dumps their contents into a larger silver tea pot for serving.  She pours the combined decoction into hand thrown mugs, little spirals winding their way over the inside and out of each cup.  A touch of lemon.  A taste of honey.  For me, just a touch of milk to offset that very first cup.  I sit uninvited on the stool at her side.  She offers me tea.  Alongside the tea she hands out thick chunks broken off from a loaf of bread newly pulled out of the ovens while I gathered the herbs for the stew.  A dish full of creamy butter sits in front of each of us.  The butter is partially melted, making it simple to dip each bit of bread in before bringing it up to my mouth.  I am truly in Heaven now.  The tea is aromatic and dances upon my tongue and down my throat, filling my heart and my belly at the same time.  The bread is so light and fragrant, full of whole grains and bits of seeds and nuts, yet it dissolves with ease upon my tongue.

Hes starts to talk.  She talks to me.  Tells me things.  Takes me up on a journey into her own time, through my own mind.  I am an infant nestled against my mother’s bosom, snuggling in and safe for the night, as she tells me a bedtime story during dinner time.  Her voice carries on and on, lulling me, revivifying me, entreating me, teaching me.  Her voices carries me aloft, held in sway and succor.  I laze along this river called the happiness found only in dreams.  Yet, here it is, in the flesh, right before me.  I accept it all so graciously, humbled at the majesty of it all.

In my hand is a wooden bowl full of our solid stew, hunks of meat and veg and a collection of herbs and graces.  I bow my head and inhale deeply, ever so thankful.  My soul long has desired such fulfillment as I am about to receive.  I tuck in, never noticing that as she eats, Hes’s voice swings along in conversation, spinning me wonderful webs to get caught up in, in my imagination.  I have never tasted anything as cosmically satisfying as that brew we stirred up together that night.

I clear the dishes once we are done, washing them quickly by hand in the sink.  There are faucets as well as the pump, so hot water is not a problem at all.  I leave them to dry on the dish drainer.  Returning to my seat, I find more tea poured, tiny little cakes topped with nothing more than flower petals on a saucer waiting for me.  Each bite is like sucking nectar from a flower, as if I were butterfly.  Every sense organ engaged.  Instead of my feet, I am tasting with my fingertips.  It seems a fair trade to me.

Hes kisses my cheek, begging off as she must retire.  An old woman must get her sleep, you know.  I stare at her now, as she appears so youthful and energetic, bustling around, snuffing out the candles, damping back the fire, leaving enough light for me to sit and ponder on my own awhile.  She already told me which room is to be mine, not to worry about what time I might want to go to sleep.

I finish my tea, slowly, methodically, with great concentration.  I take another cup and let the music within its steam overtake me.  Once I am done sipping that cup, I get up.  I tidy the kitchen with much stealth, arranging the herbs in little piles and tucking them into their little nooks.  Replacing the vegetables into their proper baskets.  Wiping down the table.  I wash the remaining few dishes.  I wipe everything down yet again.  I don’t know what to do about the compost bin as there does not seem to be a lid for it, so I set a plate overtop of it overnight to deter vermin and insects alike.  Medi has already been out to do her business for the night and is laying like the biggest noisiest rug in history across the doorway into the other part of the house.

I pause before I cross that threshold, from the center of the household, into the back, the sleeping quarters of the house, where we change from family to solitary creatures all on our own.  Just for a moment, I stop.  I know something is happening to me.  I just don’t know what it might be, but I am willing to let it happen.  In this house, in this time, it feels right.  It is a good thing to do, here, now.  Yes.

I sigh in contentment.  I look around, fully at peace.  Everything in its place and a place for everything.  I am happy here.  Deep in my bones, deep in my soul.  Truly happy.

This is my place of renewal.  I hope I get to stay here awhile.

I step over my snoring sleeping wolf companion, and trailing my fingers along the wall in the dark, head towards the room which is my chamber for the night.