The thing about life moving cyclically is that while it does seem to turn the same way, following the same journey, it’s never quite the same. Your 21st birthday doesn’t feel the same as your 31st. Popcorn will never taste as good as it did that one time you were in a movie theater with people you loved watching a movie that made you laugh and cry all within 30 minutes. Life ebbs and flows with just enough familiarity to offer us routine, but in those miniscule moments there is beauty woven in in a way that just might make you believe in magic. I think about this a lot when I think of the concept of time; the sun rises ever single day- the same action, from the same direction, and exists in the sky for enough time to create a ‘day’. The sun sets every single day- the same action, the same direction, disappearing from the sky and creating ‘night’. But every morning is different. Every night is different. Different temperatures and cloud climate create a different sunrise and sunset every single day. The amount of time the sun spends risen and set changes but can be predicted through seasons. Sometimes there’s birds painting the horizon as they migrate, sometimes there isn’t. Sometimes you’re awake to witness it, sometimes you’re not. The beauty is in the details, and the details are in the minutes. And no minute is ever the same.
This is the concept that inspires a Story Seed Series. The garden that I tend and the land around me follow cycles that create routine, but no almanac could ever decide just what stories will unfold as the plants bloom. This Series follows a Moon Led Profection Year and the stories the plants around me created.
For some reason, plant tales always start with chamomile. This is the first plant I’ve ever considered a friend, bringing me back to childhood. This flower is soft, sweet, curious, playful, supportive, abundant. And as I grew up they became an ally. For when I was sick, for when I was anxious. A shapeshifter of a spirit, guiding me through all the ups and downs. They planted the seed that there was more to the story, a whole other world we couldn’t possibly receive at face value. And they taught me a pivotal lesson; when life is too much, bring it to the flowers. Watch how the earth connects and how they’re all an essential part of the ecosystem. Be curious about how everything unfolds, and open to not always having the answers. Curiosity is the value that this bloom embodies, right down to the core. I planted chamomile once in my garden and let them go feral; and now every year I am graced with uncoordinated spurts of blooms. They are one of the guardians of my garden, one of the first to arrive, procuring in the most random places and deciding where other plants will go. In the garden space my role as the keeper is to be curious, to see on a deeper level what’s meant to be known. And that’s what chamomile wants you to know- curiosity paves the path to a wider, broader, deeper understanding of the world around you.
And then along came dahlia, bursting into bloom while the sun beamed on. Petals twisting, spiraling, reaching in every which direction. I was enamored, and then entranced when I first made their acquaintance. They stand so tall, so exquisite and vibrant, so regal. What would it look like to exist so certainly, to be the manifest form of the greatest beauty my mind could possibly imagine? So I sat, and I watched, and I drew, gazing into the petals and imagining portals opening. And I heard; this is what it’s like to dance with your wildest dreams. For your most creative forms of expression to come to light. for them to be nourished enough for the root to form, and a cosmic encouragement that you know what to do from there. Dahlias don’t like to be overanalyzed when it comes to bringing them to life. Give them a place to root, give them water to grow, a vessel to grow into, and then leave them alone. Only when the blooms have arrived do they demand attention- do something with this, we didn’t do all this work for nothing. Your creative expression doesn’t require this grand gesture and genius plan, it needs basic nourishment and then space to thrive without critique.
The next part of the story isn’t ready to be named. A devastating catalyst, the breathtaking beauty of profound struggles. A note for another time.
And the story moves onward with cyclamen, with crisp fall evenings and warm glows of light peeking through the trees. A curious burst of color erupting from the decay of leaves and the roots of a wise, wide tree. It seems to me most flowers emerging from decay are messages of alchemy, of letting go to create the compost for a verdant future. This was a signal that an end was near, and a whispering hello from Hekate. I don’t work with deities so this was not a call that was answered, but there was a hint of deep rage that cyclamen brought forward that couldn’t be ignored. Trying the same things over and over again doesn’t work, sitting with your rage and hoping it will make sense one day doesn’t work. This plant asks for embodied reflection, removing yourself from the physical experience of rage and looking inward to see what is actually happening. And from there, trusting what your gut is telling you. And as a compost plant demands, I had to let go.
And oh my god it hurt. The absence of contact, the void where there was friction. Would you have let go if you knew it would drop you into this tunnel, this void, this abyss? What’s worse- being numb, feeling this invisible barometer of pressure squeezing in, closing down on you, or the bewildering, dazzling pain that is so bright you dance on the edge of apathy, see-sawing between numbness and overwhelm as your nervous system learns the true embodied meaning of capacity? Most of winter was truly dark, clawing my way up a cave only to be completely exhausted by the effort and falling back down right before I reached the top. This was a particularly difficult mark of the year and I have no embodied essence to offer from this experience, but it’s a vital part of the story. Because then there was violet.
Think cold, dark days with infrequent bursts of sun. Almost through the winter but not quite done. Think most days dissociated but on an off day of presence, there was the smallest, sweetest flower. You are not alone in your grief and you never have been, you never will be, even when the pain feels so incredibly isolating. Violet is a plant I have courted for years, giving them offerings and asking if they’d like to collaborate. For years this answer had been no- sometimes a rude no thank you, and sometimes a cheeky “you’re not ready for this”. It’s not lost on me that this flower came through when I was in the deepest stages of pain and grief I’ve experienced in this life so far. They whisper tunes of comradery, reminding you that there is an entire universe that exists beside you. Return to the earth and let them hold you, for however long you need. This cocoon of support, this offered hand of care, will slowly nurture you back into form- from a ghost of existence to the shell of a person, and eventually to something of substance. I think of my time of working with violet as a thawing. Right on the cusps of spring but still cold and dark. Brighter days are on their way but this time is more about finding stillness in the shadows. Coming back to your body and finding that your mind’s capacity is adapting to hold more. This brings space for joy, sorrow of a different caliber, and also a bit of confusion. Existence as a violet human creates a bit of uncertainty, but it also brings forward a sense of connectedness that we need to make it through.
And then there was blackberry. Spring officially unfurling, birds chirping, thorn decorated vines stretching and reaching for the sun. With these earthly pleasures comes the gift of discernment. Have you ever tried casually walking through a bramble bush? This is not a life endeavor you’ll accomplish unharmed. But by taking in all your surroundings and deciding what your actual vision is, using discernment to see what is and isn’t for you, you’ll make it through with minimal scratches. There are infinite truths to the experience of being alive, but it’s your truth that matters when it comes to your story. And if you don’t know what your truth is, manifesting is likely not going to unfold in the ways you’d hope or expect. I think of blackberry as the embodiment of Saturn and Mars; the only way out is through, but you must move slowly and deliberately or else you’re going to get hurt. These deliberate actions create a methodical pace that actualize the existence and experience you want to be living.
And out came a wild rose. Summer spurts, warm days, feeling embodied and for the most part at home in your body. This flower finds you in that moment where you’ve almost forgotten how far you’ve come. We are creatures of habit, after all, and even if we are in a pattern that doesn’t feel good there is comfort in turning to what we know. “This doesn’t have to be the path you follow anymore” is what these petals whispered to me on a morning walk in the meadow. This happened while I went to old thoughts and the flowers were moving from bud to bloom. Pattern shifting, timeline jumping- whatever name it takes, whatever form it fills, wild rose brings the microscopic adjustments needed to change a cycle, expanding your journey and disrupting the loop you find yourself frequenting.
This past year was a 7th house profection ruled by the moon, and was supposed to be all about love, all about relationships, and all about how I show up for other people. Or so I thought. What I didn’t realize was how important my role was in this story. I wanted to show up for other people and then realized that I couldn’t, simply because I didn’t know how to show up for myself. And as that skillset rebuilt I was able to learn more about what I want from relationships, how I want to show up for other people, how I want them to show up for me. I got to rebuild my definitions of love from a sturdier ground, and now I get to watch those seeds grow in an 8th house sun year. My hope is that wherever you’re at in your story, you can find plants to work with alongside you to make the most of the seeds you’re planting.