Friday 13th, Spring ’18 edition   Leave a comment

Late in Elaphebolion, and the first day it’s actually felt like spring.

Freya’s been wearing her spring pinafore for several days now, but it sure stands out beautifully against the sky, doesn’t it?


I got up early so Fiona and I could meet my friend Patricia and her son on the canal to take some Pretty Pony Pics for a project they’re working on promoting the C&O and towpath. I was shocked to see the flies clustered all over the mares, after a full day spent snowing just earlier this week. And of course my white horse was grass and mud-stained to the point where only a bath will do, which wasn’t an option, so funky patches and all we set off for the towpath.

After Stephen was finished taking pics of her we went for a nice by-the-river ride. The bluebells are up, the grass is screaming green and the trees are starting to fill in. Hawks and crows soared along with us. Fiona was being so good that I decided not to take the towpath back, but to dare the little windy road down by Taylor’s Landing that eventually leads back home.

It was a good call. Not much traffic on a weekday, and the ones we met were courteous and gave us a wide berth. It was just so sweet. Daffodils and tulips in front of the houses, blessed golden sunshine with just enough of a cool breeze to frustrate the flies, tender little violets in the green, courting birds, lots of new calves and lambies, and a good horse underneath me.

It was the longest ride I’ve taken on her yet, and she was tired, but still bright and willing and curious at the end. I sure lucked out with this little mare.

Enjoying her doesn’t stop the ache where Nik lives in my heart. That long red neck stretching out in front of me and huge power stride and and firedust gleam of her coat are imprinted in my soul story now. But oh, oh, it’s awfully good to ride again, and with love and longing for my old girl, it’s nice at my age to have an easier ride. Fiona has some pepper to her and we’ve had words, and a few bratty teenage meltdowns, but overall she simply doesn’t have a lot of issues.

When we got home Jasmine called to her from the barn, and she called back. It’s the first friendly exchange I’ve seen them have.

Put on Fiona’s (adorable) new fly mask and turned her out, let Jazzie out, turned on the hose and peeked out at them- she already had the mask off. Sigh.

It being simply too magnificent to do Inside Things, I grabbed a wheelbarrow and a shovel and my dog and spent a wonderful couple of hours digging the first trench which will define the pathways of the fairy gardens I’m putting in. Couldn’t have had a better start. Worship is rituals and libations and offerings and prayers, but for a Demetrian it’s always and forever digging in the dirt as well. The good chunk of the shovel going in, the rich smell of earth, the bright stripe of red Maryland clay against the fresh green grass. Some big rocks surrendered to my shovel and got added to the herms on either side of the driveway. A vengeful multiflora fairy snagged my arm but good, blood spattered all over my shorts (got to wear SHORTS!) and dripping down my arm, which made the fat flies love me. Spent a little time with my old Trampie dawg at his guardian spot. Spent a little time in the Dark Faery Realm. Spent a little time at the Persephone shrine. Spent a lot of time blissing on the sun and clouds and trees and horses and dog.

Once the trench was dug I took a handful of small coins and scattered them along the bottom, offerings for the fae and the Mother. And then I danced and danced. In my old sweat shorts and construction boots, with headphones and flies and happy dog and interested mares.

I can’t be held responsible. Spotify was dialing up the disco.

I rarely do stuff like dance and worship and twirl and bliss out in the open these days, except at night. But sometimes a priestess just has to dance. That open and for-now empty trench is brimming with happy springtime energy, and I think whatever I plant there will show it.

It’s a fine thing to be a Pagan, and attuned to the seasonal changes and moon phases, and to have Friday 13ths be a thing of joy instead of superstitious fear.

Between the fag end of winter and the cold and the grey and the wet and the sucking mud and being tired and foggy and depressed about the state of the world I was starting to wonder if I was losing my mojo. All it took was a day of sun on my skin and wind on my face and horses and dirt.



Posted April 13, 2018 by suzmuse in Uncategorized

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