The first thing you notice when you drive into Savannah is the trees. The branches reach far over the roads creating a thick canopy of green that shades the road from the blazing Georgia sun.  Spanish moss trickles down in a delicate lace that adds a sense of sophisticated decay to the atmosphere.  As the wheels bump along the cobblestones below you begin to slow down and get the sense that rushing for anything down here is strongly discouraged.  Indeed, this is a city that runs on it’s own sense of time.  It is a clock built around mimosas at noon, leisurely walks among the verdant squares, and evening carriage rides.  I could not envision a place more diametrically opposed to our rat-race style of living than Savannah.

I had been wanting to visit Savannah for a while and I was pleased to see that the city looked just like I thought it would be.  This "city in a garden" truly looks like a place that time forgot.  The homes that line the grids of public squares are heavy with history.  To be in Savannah is to be surrounded by visions of the antebellum south.

I began my trip with a visit to the Davenport house, a beautiful home from the early 1800s.  As I toured the home I was struck by the french patterned wallpaper that draped the rooms in a vision of luxury.  Of course, I knew that this wealth came with a dark reality we must acknowledge - that all this financial success in the antebellum south came from the work of enslaved people.  This dark history permeates every aspect of the historic south and must be understood and recognized.  

The Davenport house was well known to have it’s fair share of ghosts and as I toured the home I could almost hear uncanny piano chords floating in the air.  The sound seemed to linger in my ears for several stanzas then delicately seeped beneath the wood and disappeared. 

Moving into the study a large black and white art print hung dramatically on the wall.  It depicted a scene we all know well--the signing of the Declaration of Independence.  The tour guide told me that in the antebellum south almost everyone had a copy of this image displayed prominently in their home.  He said back then people understood the fragility of their new country so they felt the need to declare allegiance to this great experiment in state- building we call America.  For some reason that idea stuck with me.  America seems so powerful and impenetrable now.  But yes, at one time, we were small and delicate.  A nation built upon radical ideas of democracy and religious freedom.  At that time the future of America must have seemed like a blank chalkboard: full of possibilities, but also with the risk that everything could quickly be erased.  

The other event that market my stay in Savannah was a nighttime ghost tour.  The coming of night cast a blanket of silence around the city.  Savannah is mostly free of the type of rambunctious tourist noise you would find in New Orleans.  When you walk the streets at night you feel the quiet in your bones and in the hairs standing upright on your neck.  You feel alone among the brick facades as you walk the cobblestone streets.  Any rustle of noise causes your head to snap towards the source of sound as you stretch your eyes to find the culprit.  

I passed through the Colonial Park Cemetery on my way to the tour.  The tall grasses seemed to quiver between the gravestones and shadows hung heavy beneath the spanish moss.  “I’m sure I'll be fine”, I said to myself as I walked along a pathway lit only by the yellow moon glowing above.  ‘Were ghostly phantoms passing behind me?’ I wondered.  Did they float swamp-like among the trees? I resisted turning my head around, fearing that I might see something from beyond the veil.  

As I finally made it to Reynolds Square, I breathed a sigh of relief that I would soon be among other travelers for the tour.  Shortly after the tour began we came across a particular house that was lit from the flickering flame of a single gas-lit lantern.  It was a very unassuming home set back from the sidewalk and behind a garden of tall grass.  With first glance at this home I felt something different.

Do you believe that magic can be in the air?  That it can follow along the air currents till it finds a receptive host.  What I will say is that the air near this small home had a particular taste.  It filled my nose with an unusual electric and heavy scent.

The tour guide told us this small home was called ‘Laura’s House’ named after a slave who once lived here when she took care of the mansion next door.  According to the story, her master once promised her freedom and that he would give her the deed for the small carriage house he let her stay in.  However, he reneged on his vow and she remained a slave till her death.  It seems she has claimed the carriage house in death and passers by often claim to see her sitting on the rocking chair of her small porch.

If there was a shade of paint that could be considered notorious, it would be the color known as ‘haint’ blue.  It is thought that this color prevents ghosts and evil spirits from entering the premises so people today still cover sections of their home in this color.  The homes next to The Laura House covered their doors, window frames, and porches this color to prevent her from coming in. Even the Laura House has this blue shade around the porch, but not the door.  The door was left empty of color so that the ghost of Laura might someday find a way out.  

The Laura House is now an airbnb so you can even spend the night there if you wish.  Though I wouldn't recommend it if you’re male.  It is said that men who stay there are often awoken with a sensation of hands clasped tightly around their throat, constricting their ability to breathe.  It seems that Laura doesn’t like men too much, and given her life story I don’t blame her.

You must be wondering if I actually saw a ghost during my trip to Savannah?  I must be honest and say no.  I did, however, feel their presence. I felt it rattle my bones as I walked along the cemetery.  I felt the electricity in the air as I stared into the Laura House.  A question I often ask myself is if these feelings are truly real.  Or, does just being in a place filled with old homes and ghost stories cause us to have these sensations.  I guess I’ll never really know for sure.  But if ghosts are real and they are out there, I’m confident that many of them call Savannah their home.

Have you ever been to Savannah?  Did you get the sense that the city was haunted?  Share below in the comments.

A gathering approaches.  I’m in the heart of my home tending to a bubbling brew atop the stove.  Cozy knitted socks warm my feet against the October chill and the steam from the pot of wine tickles my nose with the scents of late fall.  Warm clove and cardamom meld with the bright citrus of orange peels.  Five-pointed anise stars and thick cinnamon sticks bubble to the top of my burgundy brew.  I swirl the collection of herbs around with a wooden spoon and my cat jumps up onto the kitchen counter, trying to get a better view.   

The doorbell chimes.  My fellow witches have arrived!  I let them in and we share our tales of magic and mischief as I carefully pour the mulled wine.  The steam spirals above the mugs and twirls towards the window.  I catch a glimpse of the trees outside.  The crackled brown leaves of late October are frosted with ice crystals, yet they still dance as the wild wind whispers through the branches.   

We move to the living room and get cozy by the crackling fireplace. Cheers! We chime our haphazard collection of glasses and mugs together and begin to warm our bellies and hearts with our autumnal witches brew.

MULLED WINE

Recipe adapted from Ina Garten
Makes 8 Servings

Ingredients

4 cups apple cider
1 bottle of red wine
¼ cup honey
2 cinnamon sticks
1 orange, juiced & zested
4 whole cloves
3 star anise
4 oranges, peeled for garnishes (optional)

Instructions

Take a large pot and add the wine, cider, cinnamon sticks, cloves, star anise, honey, and orange zest & juice.  Bring to boil then simmer over low for around 10 minutes.  Pour into mugs and add an orange peel as a garnish.  Enjoy!

The grain swells against the morning wind as waves of amber and gold ripple through the fields.  I envision what these wheat fields of Illinois might have looked like a long time ago.  Farm boys swinging scythes, their calloused hands aching with a summer of hard labor.  I envision horses neighing in the distance, their glossy chestnut mains shining in the summer sun.  I imagine a large farm table filled with sun-ripened tomatoes and loaves of freshly baked bread.  The delicate sounds of a summer afternoon, the wild hum of grasshoppers leading to the warm and hazy glow of lightning bugs as the sun falls below the horizon.

Today when I look upon the fields outside my city, I find endless rows of wheat and corn.  The fields go on for miles, a never ending surface reflecting the color of our summer sun.  In the midwest it seems we have our own ocean, but instead of water, our ocean is a sea of harvest.  Our modern fields take on an otherworldly quality in their grandness.  The visions of amber punctuated only by roaring machines that have taken the place of of scythes.  

Living in the Midwest I feel a great connection to the harvest festival of Lammas.  While other regions may provide more glamorous resources, the midwest has taken on the role of Ceres, the goddess of grain.  Our wheat and corn travels across the country and beyond to nourish millions.  It’s so easy to become complacent and unaware of the skill and hard work necessary to create this endless sea of golden fields.  So upon this harvest festival, us Pagans take a moment to give thanks for the summer bounty nature has provided.  

Looking upon my modern feast, I see not only the foods from my region.  I see the success of our beautiful country united.  I see grains from the midwest baked into an herbed loaf.  I see goat cheese from New York, and olives grown in California.  I see beer made from the hops of Washington and charcuterie from Kansas.  To hear people speak, you would think we are more divided as a nation than ever.  Yet looking at my harvest table I see value in each region of our country and feel united in this celebration of the summer bounty.  So upon this harvest day, let us come together ‘round our tables.  And let us take a moment to appreciate and give thanks to all that makes our feasts possible.

How will you be celebrating this harvest festival?  Let me know in the comments below. 

This image from Local Milk Blog

The waitress poured my coffee into a delicate porcelain cup as I stared out the window looking towards the old cobblestones that my feet would soon tread.  It was hot that morning and the trees in the nearby park hung thick and languid waiting for a breeze to sway their leaves.  I was staying at the Hawthorne Hotel right in the heart of Salem, Massachusetts.  I had read that the place was haunted so of course I booked a room hoping to investigate later in the evening.  At the moment though, ghostly apparitions were far from my mind.  Instead, I was thinking about what these streets and buildings might have looked like in the spring of 1692.  

My trip to New England had taken me across Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, and Massachusetts.  There was one main constant across these states and that was the forest.  Tall pine trees and heavy maples grouped together.  Looking into the forest the sunlight soon became obscured under a canopy of leaves.  Even today, in our modern world, I felt that the forests of New England seemed to conceal mysteries and magic.  

It is no wonder that the settlers of New England feared the woods.  The early villagers of Salem must have worked relentlessly to carve their town from these forests.  The ‘civilization’ they created for themselves still did not allow them to escape fear.  Their fear came, not from the forest, but from each other.  Their fear built and built until the fear created a life of itself.  Accusations and hangings ran rampant through the town, spreading like a virus.  And then, in about a year it somehow died off and the great witch trials were over.

It seemed odd thinking about such historic tragedy on a hot summer day.  Walking through the town you discover a much different community.  I’m not quite sure why modern witches have gravitated towards Salem.  Perhaps they enjoy good irony or maybe it’s an attempt to reclaim and proclaim the real meaning of the word 'witch'.  You are reminded of what occurred in 1692 around each turn as you pass by shops, museums, and historic markers.  Regardless, it was enjoyable to walk through the quaint town and visit its many shops.  While some stores were filled mostly with tchotchkes and souvenirs, I did encounter a few stores providing supplies for the discerning modern witch.  

Returning to my hotel in the evening I wandered the halls for a bit passing by the two rooms where various hauntings had supposedly occurred.  I wish I could say different, but honestly I didn't get much of a ghostly feel from the hotel.  As the skies turned dark I looked off in the distance to the line of trees.  For some reason, I couldn’t keep my mind off the sensation of walking through the forests of New England.  Here I was in a haunted hotel in a town covered with dark history.  Yet I felt it was the woods in the distance that held the real mystery and only there would I gain an true understanding of this place.

My recommendations in salem

 

where to visit

The Witch House

Peabody Essex Museum

Witch Trials Memorial

The House of Seven Gables

places to eat & Drink

Notch Brewery & Tap Room

Far From The Tree Cider

Caramel Patisserie

Rockafellas

favorite shops

Circle of Stitches

Haus Witch

The Coven's Cottage

Wicked Good Books

Have you been to Salem before?  What were your thoughts?  Share your favorite places in the comments below. 

There it was, a lonely glass filled with "two-buck chuck" wine and next to it a small plate with four town-house crackers.  The ritual was over and as I turned to partake in the "cakes & ale" portion of my full moon ritual it somehow felt all wrong.  Here I was all exhilarated and energized from participating in this sacred rite.  I had just danced to the beat of drums with the summer air swirling around me.  I had called the energies of the elements and felt their presence within my circle.  I had pondered the beauty of the full moon and felt my own connection to its mysteries.  

And now it was over.  It was time to ground my energy and recover, which meant partaking in the "cakes & ale" I had laid out for myself.  Compared to the beauty and energy of the summer full moon, the wine and crackers before me seemed lackluster and uninspired.  While I have nothing against cheap wine, in fact I rather enjoy it, it somehow didn’t feel right for this ritual.  It was summertime and the flowers were in full bloom all across the city.  The scent of honeysuckle lingered in the air as the fresh breeze from the lake tempered the evening heat.  Summer was a time of sticky-sweet strawberries and cool lemonade.  Wine, on the other hand, reminded me of an autumn landscape filled with burgundy and chestnut-colored leaves.  

In general I’ve been trying to eat more seasonally as I know that doing so will make me feel more connected to the changing seasons.  I’m not sure why this intent hasn’t filtered down to my own solitary full moon rituals.  It seemed that I was just going with routine; casually picking whatever I happen to currently have in my apartment for the "cakes & ale" portion of my rituals.  A simple ‘cakes & ale’ definitely makes sense for group rituals, but as I practice mostly solitary I know that I can do more.  Besides, I really do enjoy cooking and know that with a bit more effort I can really end my full moon rituals with something unique and truly representative of the season.

Here’s some links to a couple recipes I've found that I’m planning to make for future summer full and new moon rituals.  These recipes and photos are adapted from Local Milk Blog and The Minimalist Baker.

I’d love to know if you ever change-up the "cakes & ale" portion of your full and new moon rituals.  If so, do you have a favorite recipe?  Share in the comments below.

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Summer "Cakes"

Lavender Blueberry & Ricotta Turnovers

White Peach, Rose, & Basil Hand Pies

Herbs de Provence & Rose Olive Oil Cake

Summer "Ales"

Blackberry Basil Mojito

Cardamom & Rose Iced Latte (non-alcoholic)

Rhubarb & Strawberry Margaritas

The roots of gnarled oak trees snaked underneath the sidewalks. They cracked and broke the pavement - a reminder that here, in New Orleans, nature is in control.  I later learned that these ancient sentinels were in fact mostly hollow as termites slowly gnawed at them from the inside out.  A fitting macabre symbol for a city all too familiar with death and slow decay.  As I passed these great dames I was grateful that they were still able to cloak the city beneath their verdant leaves.  The dappled light from the trees shimmered through the branches, providing momentary shade from the heat that steamed up from the ground and fogged my glasses.  

The misty air was enveloping and heavy.  It laid thickly upon my skin and soaked my patterned dress till it clung heavy to my shape.  I greeted the smallest breeze like a savior and I smiled and swayed as the lightest of air swirled past.  It seemed so remarkable to be in a city, yet be immersed in such a vibrant and lush dreamscape.

As I meandered, the jungle of boughs and branches twisted above my head.  Turning onto Gov. Nicholls street I came across rows of shotgun and creole homes.  Each were painted differently in vivid hues of turquoise, burgundy, sunshine yellow, and chartreuse.  The homes themselves were not immune to the cover of nature.  Cascades of honeysuckle burst over crooked fences and green ferns peeked through the gaps.  Like the sidewalks, many of the homes were off-kilter and tilted precariously to the side.  I peaked through the many rod iron gates and glimpsed endless courtyards and fountains - little secret gardens for the citizens of the city.  

As I passed one home a large black cat greeted me with a long stretch before lazily returning to his nap.  As the afternoon light darkened I came across many more felines; stray cats that gravitated to the Jackson Square courtyard.  No one knows why these cats come to sleep there.  Perhaps, they too, are drawn to the city center in search of misty apparitions and midnight revelry.  Nighttime in this city is not passive, it swallows you whole.  Everything, no matter your hearts desire, seems like a good idea in New Orleans.

I chose to forego the bustle of Bourbon street and ventured off to the quieter pathways that seemed to call my name.  As I wandered the darkened streets of the French Quarter it seemed like I traveled back in time.  The only light came from the moon above and the gas lit lanterns that flickered from porches and beneath balconies.  The clip of horse hooves bounced through the streets and the ever-present music seemed to rise from the very earth itself.  A city more dream than reality.  

Stumbling across the LaLaurie mansion I was reminded that this too was a city of ghosts and mystery.  Anyone in tune with such things can feel the cloak of otherworldliness that permeates the air.  The souls of yesteryear inhabit the streets and drip from the trees.  You can almost feel their slow breath as they float swamp-like from one darkened corner to another.  Instead of being frightened I welcomed such feelings.  In fact, I smiled -  glad to be close to such mystery, glad to be part of it all, glad to be in the one place that truly felt like home.

A Review and Reflection of Norse Mythology by Neil Gaiman

We are all brought up with the classical myths of Ancient Greece and Rome.  We can recall their stories, visualize the characters, and visit their ancient temples and sites.  By comparison, the Norse myths seem shrouded in mystery and misunderstandings.  They somehow feel more foreign, more ancient, and more inaccessible.  With Norse Mythology, Neil Gaiman takes us in hand and guides us through these powerful tales.  He does so with a narrative prose that makes these myths feel familiar and relatable.  Relying upon the Poetic Edda and it’s various translations, Gaiman weaves a collection of tales that introduce us to these larger than life figures and the many worlds they inhabit.  

Many of us are already acquainted with the mighty Thor.  A generation of children, including Gaiman himself, eagerly followed the adventures of Thor as a superhero through his comic book series.  Despite the comic's mythological and historical inaccuracies, it helped bring the world of Asgard and its divine inhabitants to life.  The recent Thor movies additionally help contribute to widening the audience for this mythology.  

The comics and movies, however, provide only a sliver of light onto the vast world of Norse mythology.  Gaiman is on a quest to deepen our understanding and as he guides us through Yggdrasil and it’s nine distinctive worlds, one begins to understand the complexity and richness of this web of gods, goddess, frost giants, elves, and dwarves.

Gaiman gives the Gods and Goddesses personality and thus brings them to life.  As I read through these tales I found myself joyfully laughing at Thor’s wild antics and smiling at Loki’s cleverness.  I felt concern when lovely Freja was about to be wed to an ugly giant and I felt triumph when Thor recovers his stolen Mjölnir.  These stories sometimes balance on the absurd.  You will read of Loki giving birth to a giant horse, Thor dressing as a bride to disguise a thieving giant, and Odin transforming into a Snake in order to sip the mead of poetry.  Instead of being jarring, these moments become believable through Gaiman’s brilliant storytelling.  

The tales go beyond the humorous and absurd.  They are touching, imaginative, and contain themes that translate into our present day.  Loki gains complexity with each tale as his intelligence is both admired and vilified by the other Gods.  As a half giant, Loki represents the ultimate outsider.  He’s not even supposed to be in Asgard with the others and no one knows how he ascended to their realm.  He vacillates between being an agent of chaos and risking his life and dignity to assist those who may never truly accept him.  Loki is a villain we can all see within ourselves and thus we too can both admire and scorn his actions.

Watching over these realms is the All-Father, Odin.  Odin gave his eye for wisdom and hung himself from the world-tree, Yggdrasil, for knowledge of the runes.  Odin understands that knowledge is power and has sacrificed himself many times over to achieve it.  His thirst for knowledge is insatiable, and he even enters our world dressed in disguise to see things from our point of view.  Odin sends his two ravens, Huginn and Muninn (‘thought' and ‘memory’) to travel the realms far and wide so that they might bring him new knowledge and perspective.  It is honorable that the leader of the Norse Gods should have such respect for knowledge and understanding.  With each story Odin becomes more mysterious, more complex, and more worthy of our admiration.    

Many question why mythology is important and if it still holds value in our modern tech-focused society.  I exclaim a resounding ‘YES’ to such questions.  We humans are storytellers.  The stories we tell define our culture and bring us together in common knowledge.  The great myths of the old Gods reference a world we could only dream of, yet their wisdom gives us guidance and comfort.  These ‘tall-tales’ illuminate our imagination and kindle our compassion.  Such stories are worth preserving and sharing among generations yet to come.  With Norse Mythology, Neil Gaiman helps these deities maintain their immortality and refreshes their stories for a new collective of storytellers, big-thinkers, and adventurers.  

The melody of spring softly soars above as I begin my walking meditation.  The steady drum beat of the woodpecker mingles with the chipper notes from the morning doves and wrens.  A glorious prelude to the birth of spring in the city.  Along the lakeshore cardinals dance through the trees, their red feathers beating like hearts as they flit in and out of view.  Squirrels erratically run from tree to tree trying to remember when they've hidden acorns and a solitary chipmunk peaks it’s head up from underground.  

I walk steadily along the pavement as I focus on my breathing.  I inhale the scent of petrichor and pine and exhale my internal tension and anxieties.  Approaching the edge of the lake I reach a deep state of relaxation and feel more at peace with myself and my place within the world.  As I walk along the edge of the lake I let the sound of the waves soothe my senses.  The lake glimmers in the morning light and radiates a golden glow.  I spend several moments gazing out at the horizon feeling gratitude for this beautiful moment.  After a whisper of thanks to the spirits I begin my journey home with a renewed positive outlook and an extra spring in my step.  

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Tips for Walking Meditation

Location: Decide where you plan to walk before you begin.  You should be focusing on your breathing while walking, not which direction to turn.  Finding a relatively secluded spot is best so you will be less distracted by others.

Timing: Plan for at least 15 minutes for your walking meditation.  I personally find walking meditation easier to do for extend periods of time as opposed to seated meditation.

Walking: Spend the first few minutes finding a steady rhythm for your walk.  Be sure to stand up straight with your shoulders and neck relaxed.  You should walk slower than your normal pace and focus on staying present within the moment.  Notice the sensations of your body as you move.  Feel the confidence and strength in your bones and muscles as they propel you forward.

Breathing: Inhale deeply through the nose and exhale through the mouth.  Try to line up your breathing with the the rhythm of your walk.  Focus on breathing in the clean air from the atmosphere and breathing out any tension.  Should your mind begin to wonder, simply return your attention back to your breath.

If you have any additional tips for walking meditation, please comment below.  Blessed be!

I feel that void too.  A vacuous emptiness caused by the lack of connection within our current society.  Dating has been reduced from a serendipitous adventure to a swipe of a finger on a tablet.  True connection has been superseded by a selfish need to prove one’s worth through vacation photos on Facebook and carefully manipulated profiles on LinkedIn.  The pressures of our culture have warped our relationships and clouded our desires.

I believe such unfulfilled longing to be symptomatic of a disconnect with our own ‘humanity’ and our place within nature.  In our world of big data it seems that every aspect of our life has been reduced to a statistic used to further our own unhappiness.  What could be more sterile and inhuman than a number?  In the undercurrent of my daily activities lies a treasure trove of data to be used by others.  What I purchase, what sites I visit, all recorded to help companies decipher my ‘desires’ in order to sell me more.  How Orwellian does our society need to become before we realize this does not make us happy?

Paganism is my antidote.  Paganism is raw, unstructured, and unorganized.  Even among other Pagans we rarely find consensus and agreement deciphering our path.  There is no book of rules other than the ones we write ourselves.  The pagan practice is unabashedly human.  It is oftentimes illogical, holding conflicting ideas in equal reverence.  It is the opposite of data, it is the opposite of sterile, and it is gloriously sublime.  

Dig your hands into the dirt in glorious rebellion.  Dance naked under the stars in riotous defiance.  Be illogical.  Be impractical.  Wash off the prescriptive conventions of happiness and venture back in the woods to reconnect with our own divinity.  Scream at the sky if you need to.  Once you let it all out you're ready to connect with what you’ve been missing all along.  Lay upon the ground and let the leaves tangle in your hair as you ground yourself and relax your mind.  Whatever your individual practice might be, we are united in the sense of sublime we feel when we connect with this energy.   

I feel this sublime energy throughout my rituals.  I feel it when I call upon the elements and discover the rush of wind, the swell of water, the burst of flames, and the strength of earth.  I feel the tingling of frisson catapult through my body when I cast a circle.  I feel an almost inhuman exhilaration as I dance around the bonfire beneath the stars.  At these moments I experience the height of human emotion and connectedness to the divine.  It makes me glad to be alive and reminds me that our essential humanity is something that cannot simply be measured and contained.

Such transcendent acts are in wondrous opposition to our daily lives and yet I feel they are needed more now than ever.  A reminder that we are not numbers, we are not statistics.  We are part of this Earth and that means something, regardless of what wider society might preach.