Seasons of Moon and Flame. Danielle Dulsky

on,” she mutters. “If you dither in uncertainty too long, this bounty will fade. Already this arrogant sun threatens to brown the berries and wilt my roses. All of this is yours now; what stops you? Some distant memory of a mocking bully? Something said to a long-lost loved one, words you didn’t even know were stuck to one of your bones like these thorns in your flesh? What stops you from claiming these gifts as yours? Eat now. Don’t wait. The sweetest fruit is only fresh for so long.”

       Full Moon Practice: Cosmic Eggs of Creation and Will

      Having described your dream visions, having written them real, gather three jars now, one for each of the life areas with which you are working; if you chose to have more or fewer life areas, then you’ll need as many jars as dream visions. Each jar is a cosmic egg, a place to nest and gestate. Choose objects to place in the cosmic eggs that represent each vision, and be sure to include something you value in each jar. In manifestation spell-work beware of using objects that you care nothing about; this expresses your lack of commitment. This is not to say, however, that you must use objectively pricey items; these are small things that mean something to you. Inside each jar, place the objects along with a small piece of paper describing your dream vision that corresponds to that particular cosmic egg.

      When ready, beneath the first full moon of spring, cast a circle or create sacred space in another way suited to your practice; then hold one jar at a time in your hands. See yourself in that vision you are calling in. Feel the feeling. Begin to move in small ways, and however you are moving, begin to see yourself moving that same way in the vision, breathing as you are now in the vision. Step into the flesh of the body that is you in that vision. This is your becoming, your holiest hour. You have already written it real; now embody it real.

      Feel yourself surrounded by your beloved ancestors, and imagine them moving as you are moving, breathing as you are breathing. When each vision feels full, as if you cannot more powerfully be in that yet-tocome, already-here moment, place the jar on the ground and move on to the next vision. Move and breathe with each of your cosmic eggs, trusting that you are being held in this moment, that the moment itself is holding you, willing it real with you and for you.

      After you have held each jar, stand in your circle now, feeling the energy you have raised through your vision, body, and breath. Stand in infinite trust, full of faith that you have rippled the cosmic fabric in that moment, and offer gratitude for what comes, for what is already here.

      And so it is.

       Season of Tender Roots: Waning Moon

      Grandmother Speaks: The Strongest Medicine

      You might have called yourself a glutton in your younger years, but you know better now. You know to eat when you’re hungry and deprive yourself of nothing. You know not to apologize for having a feeling, creaturely body, and you know to sleep when the world has made you weary.

      “I see you’ve eaten your fill, sweet child.” The Garden Hag smiles. She sits across from you at the immense table, still covered in flowers and fruit despite your having had your ravenous way with nearly every food offered. The waning moon looms above, promising some great vibrant change. “I’ve prepared a room for you, but before you head for such comforts, I’d like to invite you to take the strongest medicine of all. Your stomach can handle it now.”

      You lean back in your chair and look her in her kind eyes, seeing no malice there.

      “It’s not a potent root or mushroom, this medicine.” She pulls her silk scarf around her shoulders and leans closer, dipping a finger into some jam and licking it clean. “It’s simply an understanding, a deep knowing of sorts.”

      You swallow, waiting.

      The hag lets out a long breath and stands, holding her palms toward you, lifting her chin, and presenting her medicine like a grand entertainer.

      “The strongest medicine is realizing you are but a single thread in the great galactic fabric. One little tug from you changes the design — reaches the ancients, even — and touches the yet-to-come. The strongest medicine is knowing that you are becoming the wild one you needed when you were younger; that you are healing inherited wounds just by breathing; and that you are a member of a near-infinite and ever-evolving community of sages, Priestesses, and holy ones, of imperfect seekers and flawed lovers.”

      She nods at the rosebushes that marked you well. “Those roses live now, but their petals will fall so others might bloom. This is the way of it. We are no different, and each spring we’re reminded of our fleeting beauty, our interconnection with all that is.”

      She turns and walks toward the house. “Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

       Waning Moon Practice: The Great Galactic Fabric

      As a waning moon practice, consider making an offering to your ancestors. This might be a small gift, a flower laid beneath a tree or a poem written to those who came before you. There is no need to name these people unless you feel called to. You might make this offering just once as the moon wanes, or it might be a daily act of framing yourself as part of an unseen collective. As you make this offering, imagine some small child of the future making this same offering to you. See a world less wounded and a land left better by your hand, by the hands of those who act now to save what must be saved.

      She Knows My Secrets Now

       A Gift of Milk and Tongue to Mother Blackthorn

      On an evening much like this one, I knelt and spilled milk on the roots of a stone-barked blackthorn tree in the name of the warrioresses who came before me, who called that tree their mother god, who humbled themselves before those lightning children of Danu better than I ever could. She pricked my neck as I stood, and I wanted to spit at this tree called strife by the green-dwellers, but I gifted her my storyteller’s tongue instead, leaving it as an ornament for her more beastly branches. She knows my secrets now, as I know hers, and I’ll forever call this ferocious wolf-mother tree my kin, long after I lay my aching elder body down before her so my blood might feed her berries, long after her roots wrap around the curves of my bones, and long after the innocent babes come to her, spilling their own milk for the Fae and speaking prayers in a heathen tongue.

       Season of Tender Roots: Dark Moon

      Grandmother Speaks: Tomorrow, We Get Dirty

      “All right, child. Tuck yourself in tight.” The Garden Hag leaves a low-burning lantern at the bedside and opens the curtains. “Always sleep in moonlight when you can; it’s good for your skin.”

      The bed is small, decorated with mismatched floral patterns, and the room smells of hyacinths and lavender.

      “Dream deep, sweet one.” She has an earnest look on her face now, taking the lily that was tucked in her hair and handing it to you. “Tonight, we sleep. Tomorrow, we get dirty.”

       Dark Moon Practice: Memories of Joy and Grace

      Though we cast no spells beneath the dark moon, we can still do the work of preparing for what comes. As the first moon of spring wanes to dark, consider your cosmic eggs, those dream visions you are nesting now. Consider the feelings you have bound to each vision, and then call up a seed memory for each vision that resonates with the same feeling for you. If one of your dream visions is you in a new home, feeling both joyous and rooted, call to mind a memory when you felt that same, though perhaps less pronounced, feeling. Under the dark moon, find a memory of potent feeling that you can associate with each of your cosmic egg visions, then sleep well in this bright and blooming world you live in.

      To the Season of Tender Roots, Farewell for Now

      Birth