The liminal presence that pulled me through the wild side of October has continued its journey with me. There is comfort in this companionship as I move deeper into these long nights.
I am frequently awake while the rest of my household is sleeping, and this year it seems that there is a different quality, a different nature even to all that breathes in the darkness between midnight and daybreak. The silence holds an oddly ethereal weight behind it. The pull of memories is more tender. Grief flows more gently, but from an older, deeper well that is lighted all around by lanterns instead of bonfires. Ghosts walk more softly and are more inclined to linger. Even the way the southwest corner of the house creaks above my desk with the stirring of the wind has a feeling of otherness.
The previously playful and rousing tone of my companion is now calm, gentle, and more serious. Not long ago, it encouraged me to put on my outdoor clothes and fastest sneakers and immerse myself fully in the raw abundance of autumn on both sides of the threshold. Now, it encourages me to get cozy and comfortable, to dig in and stay put while I steadily engage with being inwardly focused. Now the voice tells me to listen, meditate, read, study, and write. To rest like the earth beneath me is resting. Like the plants and trees are resting.
A wooden bridge under construction at Bear Path Cottage [S. Barker]
In October, I began the work of turning roughly 700 square feet of grass and experimental garden space into a native plant pollinator garden. A section of the front part of Bear Path Cottage proper has since been covered in cardboard and rocks and is vaguely catastrophic in appearance. There is a low wooden bridge under construction with a green tarped workstation set up nearby, and a partial pallet of curbstones waiting to be placed. I had planned to do a small amount of work every day through the remainder of autumn and winter so everything would be ready for planting time in the spring, but as the great poet Robert Burns once almost wrote, “the best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ Witches often go awry.”
The last time I went out to work in the garden, I sat on the red bench to check in with the land spirits and decide what work to do that day. Place the pavers? Put more cardboard down? Move the logs cut from the remains of the felled linden tree? Start to measure out the pathways and growing areas?
Because the land spirits seemed rather quiet and contemplative, I, too, became quiet and contemplative in an effort to tune in to them. In a beat between breaths, I closed my eyes to meditate, and a raven fluttered down from the sky into the garden in my mind. It appeared to be the same raven who had visited me in the fog at Craggy Gardens. Perched on the wooden arch that marks the formal entrance into what will one day become sacred ground, he sat silently and did not reply when I greeted him. As he appeared to be waiting for something or someone, I decided to wait with him.
I wished the little red fox was curled up in my chest so she could alert me to whatever might be coming, but she went her own way after Samhain. I have missed her every day. Even so, I asked for fox ears to help as I listened on all sides of the threshold while I kept my eyes focused on the raven. There was no fear or trepidation, simply curiosity, although I confess I was again hoping the raven would do something magical or astounding.
And so, we sat, he on the arch, I on the bench. I had no awareness of passing time. There were no external sounds that disturbed this meditation. Everything felt and seemed peaceful and quiet until my monkey-minded self interrupted my focus to wonder what on earth that raven was doing sitting so quietly for so long. Perhaps he wanted to see if I was still as funny as I believed. Who knows the mind of a raven? As soon as I completed that thought, he turned his dark gaze upon me and then disappeared. He gave no hollow knocking call this time. No warning steps. No graceful flight. He was just gone.
In another beat between breaths, I opened my eyes to the present world garden. I was alone except for a mourning dove perched on the wire above the edge of the Cottage land. No feather-bound flesh and bone raven, no otherworldly visitor, no incarnation of land spirits seated on the earth around me. What is it with this bird and leaving me with mysteries, I wondered. An hour had passed, and although it was a pleasant hour sitting in the fresh air and sunlight while my spirit did its thing in another place, I had lost an hour of work time.
My husband came around from his workshop just then and asked if I wanted to go get some lunch. I said that I did, but that I really needed to get some of the yard work done.
Then he asked, “Are you sure it can’t wait?”
I am certain the first sound I heard in response to that query was the raven laughing from somewhere on the other side.
Then I heard the voice of the liminal being saying, “I tried telling you. That’s why I sent the raven. Leave it be. Let it all rest.”
And I did, and still am. I went to lunch with my husband that day, which is a rare treat. Then we made a side trip to a favorite state park and enjoyed some time in the forest, temporarily free from our cell phones and every expectation that ever existed. When we got home, I sat in front of my altar and lit a candle, then quietly puttered with sorting buttons to keep my hands busy and my mind open while I waited for the presence to make itself known. When it did, I asked when I should return to making preparations for spring.
Nearly a month has passed since I posed that query. Contrary to popular belief, liminal beings do not always provide direct answers when questioned.
Aside from picking up my wayward garden tools and plant pots, I have done no work in the gardens since that day in mid-November. I walk the grounds every day as I have always done, making note of light, water and air flow, and the hundred other observations that help a garden thrive. And the gardens are thriving, even as the season turns to winter. The habitat fence, the brown, dried-out stalks, stems, and leaf debris in the gardens continue to provide a healthy environment for birds, insects, and other wildlife.
The land spirits and I continue to lay low as the wheel turns toward the light for the cycle to begin anew. I am quieter than I have ever been in my life, I think, and more aware than ever of what is happening beneath the surface while the land gives over to winter. Is it not so for many people who have grown weary from the storms of these past few years?
A blooming wild nettle [S. Barker]
On most of my daily walks, I find some type of fresh green plant that I can feed to my chickens to supplement their diet. Just the other day, I found oregano, thyme, wild geranium, and a humongous spiny sow thistle growing in the remains of the vegetable garden where they are safe from the plant-destructive feet of one very active puppy. It pleases me that this land continues to provide for my birds and my family, but of all the fresh growth I have found lately the one that made my heart sing was a little patch of purple dead nettle growing in the front yard in a spot that I would have covered with cardboard.
This member of the mint family grows all around the Cottage, but I do not usually see it growing and blooming until March. At a time of year that is often difficult for me and for many others, I found fresh growth and blooms on a plant that signifies resilience, courage, and healing.
When I found it, I spoke out loud and asked, “Did you know this was here?”
The answering voice said only, “Hush now.”
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