Yet within an hour the clouds first hint at the light pushing down above them, then slowly disseminate to reveal a powdery blue sky still rimmed with clouds over the mountains. But it’s enough clearing to color the bay an interesting greenish blue and the Strait a deeper blue blue. From my vantage point, few trees have turned yet, just a yellow tinge here and there. But I have seen the vine maples already red in the mountains and know that fall has painted higher altitudes.

Here rose hips have darkened to a bold orange, ferns have faded to ochre and are turning back into ground.

In this magnificent region, there really is water, water everywhere—and most of it is safe to row in during the warmer/calmer months of the year. Most people up here paddle around in kayaks, but I wanted to be able to take my dog with me, and I needed a boat I could manage all by myself. So I got an inflatable boat, which tucks into the trunk of my car and allows me to explore some wonderful places. All I have to do is hook up the pump to my car’s lighter and voilà—in 15 minutes I have a boat.

For our first foray of the summer–and to celebrate the Summer Solstice–we paddled up Chimacum Creek, a restored Coho salmon run surrounded by land trust protected woods near Port Hadlock, Washington. (Don’t know why I wrote “we paddled”—the dog just lazed around in her fetching Float Coat and Doggles, left). It’s an easy trip—as long as you’re not working against the tide, which flows up the creek from Port Townsend Bay.

I’m always the only one on the creek when I go there, which makes for a perfect experience. There are no houses or other buildings visible from the creek, so it’s a relatively pristine location. The water amplifies the bird songs and calls, and it’s easy to imagine that it’s hundreds or even thousands of years ago. Eagles monitor our progress from fir trees along the bank and a heron calls up ahead in her deep throaty voice. Kingfishers perch low above the creek waiting for lunch to appear.

Where the creek enters Port Townsend Bay extensive eel grass beds surround the mouth, providing habitat for young salmon as they adapt to living in saltwater before they begin their long migration. This exceptionally pristine estuary is one of the only Puget Sound estuaries without extensive development. It has a gorge-like section with 100-foot high, wooded banks, 200-300 feet apart, which enhances the sensation of being quite apart from the rest of the world.

I sing a song of thanks and it echoes back to me on a faint breeze.

I also love my boat because it puts me very low in the water, and since I sit directly on the bottom of the boat and lean back against its side, I can feel the creek’s movement and energy communicating directly with my body. It’s almost like floating in my back. I close my eyes and absorb the filtered sunshine and allow the holiness of this place to permeate my skin.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• How do you find sacred space in nature?
• Can you give yourself the gift of time in a pristine environment, if only for a brief visit?
• Have you taken time lately to slow way down, to match your heartbeat to a duck drifting downstream?
• Have you made a positive difference in the life of some land or water near you?
• How do you celebrate the beginning of summer?

Take another rowing trip here.

Early pagans sowed their seeds at this time and did rituals blessing their fields. While we might find some of those ceremonies bawdy, what could be a more magical way to attune yourself to the fecundity of the earth than to be fertile and multiply right along with the crops?

It is the lush season, the flagrant blooming of flowering trees and incessant buzzing of bees doing their part to perpetuate life. Part of me wants to loll about beneath a fragrant plum tree, while another part wants to join in the mood of the season and up my own productivity. Why not do both? Balance—what a concept!

I’m seeing one shape more and more lately, wanting to be noticed, wanting to be meditated upon. So soft as they emerge, fuzzy ferns regreen the woods, unfurling in sacred spirals. It’s time for me to also unwind from my seasonal withdrawal from the world. These ancient beings feather the landscape with lacy fronds—always knowing it is nearly May, it is warm enough to reach out and up.

spiral shell and two fossilized spirals

I love found spirals—a nautilus shell, a nebula unwinding, a honeysuckle tendril coiling—deep-rooted archetypal images of infinity. Sometimes they are not benign, as hurricanes whirl along in spirals, re-ordering the universe. It’s no secret that there is sacred geometry afoot here, just another reminder that we’re all connected in ways we still can’t fathom.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• Do you feel an inner pressure, something wound up within you, ready to emerge?
• What seeds will you sow today?
• Can you spot other spirals in nature? What do they symbolize for you?
• How are reaching outside yourself this season?

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Enter another spiral here.

We had sunshine all day long here in the far northwest, and it was wonderful to be out in the mildness for much of the day, contemplating and meditating on goals and dreams.

Now it is nearly dark, a graying evening, growing chilly—but as I step outside my spirit rises to meet the massive choir of frogs singing up Spring. Their extreme exuberance at reaching their ultimate frogginess is contagious, and I, too, feel like adding my voice to the throng. I can sense their joy at finding their voices, at knowing their mission is to coax buds to swell along willow branches, to urge grape hyacinths to pop purple out of the ground. They are the life coaches of this season, cheering (if selfishly) gnats to hatch. They alert newly returned swallows to start inspecting beams and joists, to hunt for empty lots on which to construct their homes.

This mesmerizing frogsong lures all green life from winter mud, keeping it ever moving even in darkness, aiming toward the light of morning. Their chorus renews me, as well, and reassures me that Spring is a state a of mind, a celebration of the growing light, even as night is falling.

The call of a frog is one of the most energy consuming mating activities of any animal, and the males sing all night, making up to 40 calls a minute! They can be very loud—over 85 decibels (think blender or freight train). Only males sing by the way; females do the judging and evaluate their potential mate’s prowess using criteria known only to them. Stamina might have something to do with it.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What seeds are you planting in your life this season?
• What new ideas are sprouting in your soul?
• Do you feel the lure of frogsong urging you toward something?
• Or are you a frog, singing at the top of your lungs, wanting to attract something vibrant into your life?
• Tap into gratitude—what do you have to sing about today?

See other signs of spring here.

It can catch us off guard with snow or tempt us with warm previews of spring. It’s the month here in the mild rainshadow of the Olympic Mountains, when buds and sprouts emerge as welcome harbingers. The last few mornings I’ve heard more birdsong all around me, and that always adds more cheer to my days—even if the temperature hovers in the 30s.

As a gardener primarily of flowers and herbs, I especially adore the hardy plants who are willing to bloom at this time of year. One of my favorites is the hellebore, though I wish it had a name that would conjure up sun breaks and pastel colors. It’s range is perfect for this time of year: from white to pinks, greens and purples—and even to near-black. Hellebores are herbaceous perennial flowering plants, grown historically for their purported medicinal uses.

My uses are simple: to delight in such luxurious blooms in mid-winter and to meditate on the wonder of an ecosystem still able to produce such miracles out of frozen earth.

If you don’t have hellebores in your garden, go visit someone who does. Or look around your local parks…Chetzemoka Park in Port Townsend, Washington has a lovely clump of purple ones nestled up against a tall cottonwood, not far from the gazebo. Give the hellebores a round of applause—sadly, many are overlooked simply because we are outside less often in winter.

Any lily can bloom in July—it takes courage to poke your head up in January and open tender petals in February.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• Are you willing to test new ideas right now?
• What brave act are you considering?
• What winter blossoms lie hidden in your soul?

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Living on the 48th parallel where light is a precious commodity in winter, this day is particularly meaningful. Today I celebrate the Return of the Light, since from today onward each day lengthens a bit. So even though winter is technically just beginning–tell that to the snowdrifts all around me–from now on the dark days diminish. That is truly something to celebrate this far north.

madrona tree is a meditation in red and white; click to enlarge

Yet perchance the first who came to this well have left some trace of their footsteps. I have been surprised to detect encircling the pond, even where a thick wood has just been cut down on the shore, a narrow shelf-like path in the steep hillside, alternately rising and falling, approaching and receding from the water’s edge, as old probably as the race of man here, worn by the feet of aboriginal hunters, and still from time to time unwittingly trodden by the present occupants of the land.

This is particularly distinct to one standing on the middle of the pond in winter, just after a light snow has fallen, appearing as a clear undulating white line, unobscured by weeds and twigs, and very obvious a quarter of a mile off in many places where in summer it is hardly distinguishable close at hand. The snow reprints it, as it were, in clear white type alto-relievo. The ornamented grounds of villas which will one day be built here may still preserve some trace of this.

Today was stunningly beautiful here on the Olympic Peninsula in the far northwest—blue skies, vivid colors of turning leaves and late dahlias, distant puffy clouds, crisp temps and a steady breeze. I celebrated by making an altar on a flat rock in the middle of a stream in the woods near here. I love to watch leaves float down a little stream—probably because it’s a classic meditation brought to life. In fact, it is the very meditation I did this morning—before I knew I’d do my equinox ritual at a stream.

autumn equinox altar......click to enlarge

Since I took the photo in the deep shade, it’s difficult to see everything on the altar, so here’s a list. I love to create altars from the natural materials I find in a place, but since this was a special occasion, I also brought a few things from home.
• Fertility Goddess statue
• Candle—element of fire
• Shell with incense—element of air
• Shell with water—element of water
• Cattails—element of earth
• Bone, crab claw and crow feather—animal allies
• Jasper and other stones—mineral allies
• Blackberries, wild cherries, dill blossoms, dahlias, liquid amber leaves—plant allies
• Rowan branch and berries

rowan tree

A BLESSING FOR THIS DAY

Today we move from the high energy of summer toward the peace of winter as we pass through the balance of autumn, the balance of equal day and night. Blessed be the day, for in the day we see clearly what we must change. Blessed be the night, for in the night we confront ourselves in all our beauty and imperfections.

Harvest time is here. May the bounty of the season keep us strong in spirit, mind and body. I invoke the Great Mother in her aspect as Demeter, Goddess of the Grain. I thank Her for ripening the grapes and nuts and fruits of our earth. I also thank Her who makes us ripen as well, with experience and wisdom. This is the season in which the wise hazelnut teaches us contained knowledge: in the seed is hidden new life—once it is returned to sacred earth and nurtured. We, too, prepare to turn inward, to nurture ourselves through the coming darkness. May we always live in hope.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What is more vivid in your life right now?
• What is you personal harvest this year?
• What leaves are ready to fall from your life?
• What is your healing vision for autumn?

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Try some blue new moon magic here.

celebrated by many indigenous cultures around the world, as well as by modern-day pagans and lovers of the earth. It is a cross-quarter day, about halfway between summer solstice and autumn equinox. (In the southern hemisphere, it is celebrated at the beginning of February.) Whatever the name or national/ethnic flavor, this time of year is marked as a First Fruits Festival. Historically, it often coincided with the first wheat harvest. Altars were decked out with sheaves of grain and fresh loaves of bread. In some cultures it’s a time to honor the corn goddess. It’s a time of thanksgiving for the early harvest and a pause in the work in the fields and gardens.

It can also be a time to acknowledge and honor signs of growth and change in your life. Projects begun earlier in the year may be showing signs of progress or maturation.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What new growth are you experiencing?
• What early harvest do you give thanks for?
• Are you working too hard, do you need a break?

someone has been nibbling on these young cones

I can sense the Wheel of the Year turning. Mornings are cooler; different plants respond to dawn and dew—honeysuckle and elderberry. Cones in the firs and pines are swelling and blossoming out—brown, woody flowers fragrant with pitch.

fragrant pitch sweetens the air

One salal leaf becomes bright red, more brittle.

The Saskatoon tree is yellowing from the top down, and foxgloves have gone to seed. Rose hips are plumping and glowing dusky red and purple. In the midday warmth the scent of blackberries ripening wafts up the hill from the woods. The fawns are gaining confidence and independence; does fold into the meadow to rest. The bay is flat—no wind to help the moon push and pull the tides.

August has just begun and I want to remain in the lush season—but the bright signs of change divert my attention from the deep greens of summer.

The Wheel is turning, and so must I.