Category: Nature + Moon + Tea

To Know a Place

We went on a road trip down to Eshowe (Zulu for ‘place of waterfalls’), the rural countryside town where I was born, to celebrate my grandmother’s 80th birthday with my family this past week. It was a special occasion. I am grateful we got to honour this incredible woman and celebrate the milestone she reached in her life.

It was also refreshing to reconnect with wild and familiar spaces whose terrains are carved into my veins. There’s something soul nourishing about feeling connected to a place, to the land. It’s a comfort to know a place, to know its ways, its history, its patterns and its needs, the same way we know a relative or friend.

My grandmother’s garden inspires me each time I visit. Right now at the end of winter, her flowers were in full bloom – azaleas, camellias, moonflowers, lavender, wisteria and roses. They’re all so breath-taking. Her sage, rosemary, myrtle and parsley is growing abundantly despite the severe drought the area is facing. The papayas were sporting tiny yellow flowers too. Coming from my dry winter region, I found it difficult to believe there was a drought. But dryness is normal in the Highveld where I live, not in Eshowe. I guess the effects of the drought are noticeable to someone who knows the place. This thriving subtropical region was not as green as usual. It was way colder than usual too. Even though my gran’s garden is in bloom, not all the flowers were as big and lush as usual either. And when we went on an outing to the local dam, it was almost half the size it was when I visited two years ago. I found myself standing in dry earth that once lay beneath the waters.

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The day we went to the dam, a cold front blew in from the coast. The icy wind pelted our bodies and dark clouds blanketed across the sky, but no rain came down all day. It felt so strange to see all that moisture overhead knowing how much the earth needs. It seemed almost cruel to tease the earth that way. It eventually rained in the small hours of the morning. I was happy to wake up to the sound of a fleeting rain shower, enough to soak the Earth, although not enough to make a significant impact.

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My grandmother saw the rain coming days before it arrived. She said that the rain was unusual. It was too early for rain, she said. She would know. When you live in the place for 80 years, one must learn to read the stories of the land and know the weather as intimately as the lines on your own palm.

Living embedded within the landscape continues to enrich my understanding of the seasonal rhythms and cycles of the old Celtic festivals. I can directly feel when it’s time to be digging and delving, gathering herbs and tatties or sitting quiet before the hearth, dreaming the while. The Earth Mother transforms herself amongst our hills, rises young and fresh with the drifts of snowdrops, offers up a bountiful harvest and then rages as Cailleach, rattling the windows and washing away the road. ~ Kate McGillivray

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When we left on Tuesday morning, my gran gave me her shears and said I should take as many cuttings as I want. She is an expert at growing things from cuttings. I harvest a bunch of lavender flowers to dry for tea and rosemary for cooking. Hers are so much more healthy and bountiful than my small little bushes in my garden. Then I took some camellia, moonflower and soft pink azalea cuttings. I forgot about the wisteria, perhaps I’ll do that next time. I know that I could get them at one of the many nurseries in my city, but there’s just something special about bringing cuttings from home. Cuttings taken from plants that may be more than 30 or 50 or 60 years old, plants that were planted in my mom’s youth and that were around long before I was born. It gives me a connection to the place that I come from and to the people whose hands and hearts tendered to those plants over the years.

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Already, I have rose-scented geraniums from my mom and amaryllis from my gran growing in my garden. So I’m pretty excited this new cuttings. I’m excited about this Spring in general. I feel it drawing closer and closer. I feel the garden calling to me more and more too. I look forward to working with the earth energies in this space and seeing what this Spring brings into being.

A Thousand Ways to Draw the Sun

My husband woke up early so we could watch the sunrise together. It was a sweet and rare treat, because usually I rise early on my own to meditate and journal while he sleeps in. So we made some tea, braced the cold and together we watched the colours of night turn to a fresh young winter morning. It’s almost as if the sun burns the night way to make room for new life.

We didn’t get to see the sun rise up from the horizon like we did in the forest last year. The boundary wall and trees block the view. Instead, we watched the sky shift from indigo to crimson to gold and then to pale blue – gracefully, seamlessly transitioning into another beginning. I imagined the sun as a performer dancing passionately through each scene and the set around her changing with each act.

I draw the pictures of mornings and sunrises a lot. Not with pencils, but with my words. I often wonder if I’ll run out of ways to describe the sun. It is after all the same sun doing the same thing that it’s done every day since the beginning of time. But then that quiet voice inside me whispered: “There are a thousand ways to draw the sun. And then still a thousand more.”

I feel it must be true because each morning is different. The colours, the hues and the way I feel – all are in a constant state of flux. The pictures the sun creates and the way in which I experience the world willing itself to life is never exactly the same. That is part of the beauty of this wild life.

This makes me think of those early school days when we were asked to draw pictures of skies with suns and grass with flowers, those days when teachers were quick to remind us ‘that is not how the sun looks.’ Not the right colour or shape or size or angle. Just like that, a child’s connection to the world of imagination is shut down, their creativity discouraged. It’s sad.

I wonder how Oom (uncle) Johannes, a Griqua shaman, would draw a sun rising in the Karoo, knowing that it is part of the miracle he speaks of – drawing his soul out of night’s little death and into life’s gift of a new day? I wonder what shades of inner peace would shape the Dalai Lama’s image of the sun? How would you if you knew that there were more than a thousand ways to draw the sun?

The rules we create are imaginary. Inside we carry wells of inspired creativity and the potential to create unique and beautiful things. We can create and experience the world the way our wild essence guides us to. We have the right to. Sometimes I forget this. Fortunately, life patiently keeps awakening both new and old truths in my heart. I’m sure there must be a thousand ways to relearn the same lesson too.

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Could You be a Sign?

I grew up believing in signs.

My grandmother always prayed for them. My mom did too. And they believed that their prayers were answered – pictures falling off walls, birds in the kitchen and dreams revealing a way forward. So, when I read The Alchemist in my late teens, it reinforced a beautiful reality that I’d seen in action in little ways. It opened my mind to a Universe that I’d caught small glimpses of here and there, an abundant Universe alive with magic, weaving blessings and love into our lives, a Universe that is guiding us to a greater good when we are open to receiving what it has to offer.

I’ve been asking for signs in recent weeks. I’ve needed guidance for clarity and direction. As I try to remain as open and receptive as I can, they’ve slowly been coming to me. Coincidences, messages from the Earth, passages I read in books and guidance from my oracle cards.  And this week, the signs I’ve ask for have come from kind people in the most unexpected ways, people who I am sure are completely unaware as to how much their presence or random messages have touched my life.

Sometimes a feather is a sign…and sometimes we are signs to people. Yes, sometimes you are the message of hope they’ve been waiting for, or perhaps they are that sign to you.

I feel this is especially true when you are connected to your wild essence, because being in touch with your inner spirit allows you become a vessel of grace. Being centred in truth, light, inner peace and wild grace is a gateway into the energetic network of the Universe. And so we carry that vibration of love, of hope and of inspiration through our words, our actions and even just our presence. We become their signs. We become their angels on Earth. We become the breadcrumbs that lead them back to clarity and hopefulness. Back to wholeness. Back to God(dess).

Thank you, dear guiding lights whose love and wisdom have healed my heart. I am so grateful. I hope that in some small way, I can be a guiding light and humble sign to you too.

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