A Hearth-Maker’s Dream Map

Soul Print

From The Past

found object:

crammed in with a great many other papers, none in any particular order, none relating to the other in any way…..

written possibly late 2007, possibly early 2008….

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.