The Wheel of the Year has nearly turned past winter, yet this little piece of land nestled in the bowl between the Swannanoa Rim to the south and the Black Mountains to the north has seen no snow other than flurries and a light dusting. It may still come, of course. Despite the current warm temperatures and sunny days, spring has not truly arrived. The seasons do not acknowledge time as defined by humans and will bring whatever weather they wish to bring whenever they choose to do so.
However, a lack of snow did not mean a lack of winter weather. There were cold temperatures, including a few days when the wind and cold were so brutal that the chickens had to remain inside their coop. Frosty mornings, icy nights, rainy gray days, and heavy fog provided a perfect backdrop for the slumbering landscape. There were even a few spectacular thunderstorms that rolled through this valley like they wanted everyone to know they were here but were merely passing through.
Daffodils [S. Barker]
All that natural splendor was an ideal accompaniment to the shifting weather and storms I dealt with in the demesnes of my spirit, heart, and mind while I lived much of these last few months working deep within the shadows of my being. I did not intentionally set out to engage in shadow work, but I moved into the dark time of the year with an inward focus and a willingness to go wherever that led me. Still, even my wild imagination was not anticipating that I would find continued growth and healing while traveling pathways illuminated by my deepening relationship with the land.
I frequently talk and write about the land spirits and the spirit of the land herself, and now I wonder if I have portrayed them in ways that make them seem whimsical and light. If I have unintentionally ever made their presence seem casual or shallow as I have, at times, unintentionally limited my own access to their immeasurable depths. Relationships have not been my thing for quite some time, and I am working on that. How fortunate I am that the land spirits do not care, and the land itself holds patience as limitless as its being.
She has been giving me that message for quite some time, of course, encouraging me to practice patience with loved ones and friends, with the gardens, with the never-ending project list for the cottage. But it was not until this winter, when I finally shed the last bits of influence the patriarchy and my family of origin held over my ears and my heart, that I understood that she meant for me to practice patience with myself and that she holds patience for me.
Shortly after mid-winter, I accepted that realization during a meditation in which I returned to the little den inside an apple tree held for me on the astral. The space was warm and snug, with a fire burning behind the grate and a blanket over the arm of the comfy chair. There was even a cozy-covered teapot on the table, steam rising from the spout. Usually, I find books on the table, an invitation to stay a while and rest. This time, instead of books, there was a skeleton key strung on a blue velvet ribbon. Even in my safe place, I know better than to pick up unfamiliar shiny objects, so I sat in the chair and, after a bit of contemplation, decided if I was in for a penny, I was in for a pound.
Hanging skeleton keys [B. Rhodes]
I do not know who or what keeps that space for me, who tidies up, who sets the fire, who chooses the books, who makes the tea. I have never directly spoken to any being there, but on that visit, I decided to try. Saying hello is always a good starting point, so I said it aloud. Funny that I would be surprised by a spirit of the land answering me while I was in a den inside an old tree that I am sure originated in a long-ago orchard on this very land, but I was. Silly mortal, yes?
We talked about the gardens, hope, water, healing, and patience in the ways we always do, which is to say that sometimes we do not say anything at all, yet understanding is still conveyed. I commented on that, and she replied that perhaps I only sometimes understand understanding. I must have looked, thought, or felt puzzled, and in whatever way her awareness connects with me, she knew I was. She laughed. (She does that, you know. If you have never heard the land laugh, listen more deeply.)
“The key is yours, Sheri Ann. A gift of understanding, perhaps.”
Somehow my child-self showed up at that moment and answered, “Only my ancestors call me that.”
“I know,” she answered. Then she was gone, and I was once again alone in the cozy little den.
I stayed a while longer, looking at the key on the table, fingers longing to touch the velvet ribbon. Touching it would be accepting the gift, and I was unsure whether I wanted or deserved to. At that moment, in that thought, I heard a soft bell chime in the distance. I know that very distinct sound, and when I heard it, all my doubts fell away, and I picked up the key.
I have made use of that key many times. The soft feel of the velvet reminds me to slow down and be patient, especially with myself. When I have encountered resistance in my shadow work, the skeleton key sometimes opens doors with warded locks and sometimes helps me lock doors that I no longer need to open. No small amount of magic and kindness was involved in creating a key that fits my particular wards, and I am deeply grateful for the gift.
As I continued my winter work, I became aware of the growing connections between the foundations and building blocks of my relationships with other humans and my relationships with the land. This is primarily evident in my willingness to lead with love and patience, allowing room for a person, plant, or plan to grow and develop at its own pace. It is there in the desire to spend time observing and then asking permission before suggesting changes or just accepting someone or something as it is; to offer help or ask for help when necessary; to recognize when it is time for growth or time for healing, time to work or time to rest.
I always knew that good relationships with people could change someone, and I knew that loving my cats, the pup, and even my chickens would change me. As much as I dreamed of this home, as much as I wanted it, I never anticipated that building a loving relationship with the earth would do the same.
Forsythia [B. Rhodes]
The daffodils and forsythia blooming in my gardens are welcomed as some of the first signs of the earth’s awakening. New growth is happening throughout the cottage gardens; leaves are opening on the elderberry, juneberry, and hawthorn trees. The lilac and hazelnut are budding out, and the wild onion, garlic, chickweed, and purple dead nettle are thriving. I hear the new songs those plants are singing as they wake; their winter work is done, and they are joyful as they grow into this new season.
I am singing with you, plant spirits. I am singing with you.
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