|Our beloved secret path|
|A lovely daddy long legs at home among the lichen on a grave stone|
|The grave I visit most often,a family- mother father, and children-who passed together|
|The ivy on this tomb turns red with autumn|
|Porcelain Vine; it's berries begin chartreuse, then teal, then finally purple.|
|Golden oak leaves|
Cedar berries, porcelain vine, oak leaves and moss are collected for an incense that will be offered to my ancestors upon my return home. A fire will be made and perhaps a trance, induced from the sacred smoke, will follow...if The Fates smile upon me.
The air was cool and a strong breeze stirred the spirits in the grave yard today. Autumn does that. As I harvested and foraged, dug and prayed, I found it was my own spirit that received the bounty. For as I leave offerings and prayers, forage for what I need, dig where my hands lead me to, my spirit feel as if it was the one prayed to. I am an offering myself in this cycle; a tool, a vessel.
These spirits are my muse-malleable and giving.
Old Man Winter will come soon and my trips will slow to a stand. It will become near impossible to maneuver the hills and stones. Then, the trips to the grave yard will be be only for prayer, for there will be nothing to forage for, no space to dig, except for my in my own spirit. The sewing and reaping of the spirit never ends.