House Blessing
The wreath on our door is old. It was made five years ago now by me and my sister, Rose, to adorn the entry of my new house. Five years is not so long. Five years is an eternity. Long enough for the wreath to take on a sacred, ageless quality. Here are the straw-colored rafia bows and balls her clever hands formed. Here are the small pine cones she found so enchanting, as perky as the day she rescued them from impending winter and brought them to my craft table. Here are the sprigs of thick red pine needles, long since dried brown, and the bunches of crabapples, slowly being eaten to dust by five summers’-worth of bugs; all of which I cannot bring myself to remove because she touched them, placed them where they are now, and they are still here to remind of the day we shimmied to Ed Sheeran while arguing playfully over our differing ideas about the decorating of an autumn wreath. Each year I add something of my own to replace the bare spots left by that which could no longer hold on: fresh crabapple bunches, tiny ears of First Nations corn I grew myself, miniature green plastic pumpkins. Alone, I am continuing our project. It is one way I keep her alive.
This year when I brought out my old autumn wreath after Mabon1 I found it still perfect. Nothing had fallen off since last year. Nothing needed replaced. Instead, I decided to add something impermanent, just for this year. A house blessing, customarily symbols of the harvest and/or of the great Earth Mother, is a powerful way to express gratitude for the abundant harvest while also warding against the fears that come with the colder, darker, more dangerous months; and the seasonal wreath is a carryover from the time when such a blessing was made with all due gravity. It is an activity best performed as a family, and yet…I have my own reasons for doing it alone this time. I do not ask for help easily or lightly, and I need help. I walk alone into the fading meadow of our backyard.
Great Mother…
Corn leaves, the last two still green enough to be pliant, form her body. Feathery white asters make her dress, and a single bunch of larger purple asters adorn the front of it. A waterfall of flowering grass makes her abundant hair, and the smooth stalks of it line her face; shorter pieces of the thicker grass stems make arms outstretched and welcoming. Two vibrant marigolds crown her head. Strong and supple English Plantain stems bind her together, and another ties her to the center of my dear, old wreath. An older admonition flashes, unbidden, into my head: “You shall not make for yourself a graven image.” Of course not, I answer it. To make an image of the Divine with your own hands is to allow anyone unfettered access to the Divine. And then where would the priesthood/pastors be? Nevertheless, I am a little shaky with what I have done, and with what I am about to do. When I place my hands on the door, one on each side of the wreath, I feel the give of the door beneath my weight. It seems appropriate somehow. I do not do this lightly.
Goddess of the harvest, I pray internally, afraid to speak aloud; although the words are rising from my soul with such intensity that my lips move with them of their own accord. I am all in; terrifyingly so.
Mother, protect all who live here. In this season of darkness and death, may we be safe, may we be healthy, may we be happy, may we live with ease2.
This is difficult for me. In my experience, interacting with a Divine Father is simple: follow the rules and you’re fine; do what you’re expected to do without question and as uncomplainingly as possible; if you need to risk drawing his attention for some reason, do it with some grand gesture and ample respect and humility. (I didn’t say it was healthy, I said it was simple.) Interacting with a Divine Mother is so much more complicated. I don’t know the rules here. I am good at reading people, but I cannot read what I cannot see. I only know that I have a need to figure this out.
Mother, as you turn inward, please guide us—and all who enter our home—as we turn inward, too. May we find delight in nurturing our inner selves. May we tend to that which we wish to grow in our lives, and prune away that which no longer serves us.
The words die, my hands fall away. This is the crux of it. This is what drew me out into the fields, empty handed, in search of the Goddess’s blessing. And I cannot say it, cannot ask. There is a step inherent to pruning, and that is the grieving of a loss. Perhaps a habit, or a way of communicating, or a relationship. Always, what must be cut away in order to grow stronger and healthier carries with it a less-healthy version of the self, and the hurts done by and to that self. The need I have is to make amends to my younger self for a great hurt that I caused by gaslighting—gaslighting myself, in a specific situation and over a period of ten years. Apologizing is another thing I do not do easily or lightly; and it is as difficult to approach myself, knowing the hurt that I have caused—not once but countless times, relentlessly and without care—as it would be to approach another person. I do not know how I will react. I do not know how long forgiveness will be withheld before it is extended. I do not know how much anger and expression of the hurt I must sit with. And so, here I am. Seeking the Goddess within myself; she who is vast and gracious enough to enfold the pain, hurt, and anger, and radiate back love—only love, always love.
It is an act of pure faith to believe that such a One exists within me.
Perhaps it is because of the wreath that I can at all. Rose, the youngest of us, to whom I was a second mother, saw me differently than anyone else. She loved my “squishy hugs” and the good food I made. She was the only person who perceived me primarily as motherly, a role I have served since my teens but never felt comfortable in. I only wanted to be her friend, her sister, but we never got there and that has been a regret of mine. But, perhaps, right now, it can be a blessing. I must be a mother, my own loving inner parent, to help my younger self grieve and heal in this season. I do not know if the spirits of our beloved dead are able to help or guide us, but as autumn advances towards Samhain, I know that I am more aware of them, of Rose especially, who loved everything about fall. And, as I was coming back from the meadow today, I saw a brown butterfly. I don’t know what kind it was, I don’t remember seeing it around here before, but it felt significant. Brown butterflies, I found out later, are often seen as messengers from the spirit world and from our departed loved ones. They are symbols of transformation (like all butterflies), and specifically a reminder to embrace change and remain connected to our spiritual selves and the Divine. The butterfly’s coloring reminded me of an outfit my sister would have worn, somehow both bold and understated at the same time. Am I reaching for shadows? Does it matter?
I see you, Rose.
Thank you, Mother.
Mabon is the ancient Celtic name for the autumn equinox. For more information and ideas about celebrating this harvest festival, see:
These words are a version of a Sufi loving-kindness meditation: May I be free from danger. May I be free from physical suffering. May I be free from mental suffering. May I know the ease of well-being. Both versions of this meditation appear in: Cain, Susan. Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole. United Kingdom, Penguin Books, Limited, 2022. The Sufi practice is to begin the meditation with yourself, and then expand outward. It is a powerfully soothing and connection practice; I highly recommend looking into Sufi loving-kindness meditation as an aid during any times of inner turmoil, loneliness, disconnection, or even to increase the joy and gratitude felt during happy times.