Healing: A Small Start, by Marcia Sherman

Editor’s note: This nonfiction article was an easy choice for me. I’m a gardener and I adore information on plants, be it folklore or growing tips. Here, Marcia supplies practical tips, folklore, and a peek into lovely, easy to grow plants. You’ll learn while having fun!

Starting centuries ago, as soon as people began to gather in communities, there have always been Healers. Revered or feared, those who many consider the earliest physicians used the whole of nature in casting medicinal spells. The following is a sampling of my limited experience with healing flora which nature has provided from my own property.

 

Marigolds come in a variety of colors and sizes. A natural insect repellant, they thrive in a southern exposure bed which receives full sun. Water and the removal of spent blossoms are all that is required. In spell work marigolds symbolize the restorative power of the sun, as well as abundance. Before the flowers die off completely, collect as many petals as may be needed. Place on a cookie sheet lined with foil and bake in a medium oven until completely dry. This keeps the golden color from fading. Stir them once or twice. Prepared in this way, and kept in airtight containers, they will last for several years. Besides use in spells, they make a colorful addition to potpourri. 

Roses are another flower essential to many spells, especially those for romance, and healing broken hearts. As with marigolds, full sun helps in growing a healthy plant. After the flowers have passed their peak, remove the petals from the hip and allow to air dry completely in an open weave basket, occasionally stirring, then store in glass jars. They will last for months. Petals from roses received as gifts or purchased specifically for drying are perfectly fine. To use in spellwork, just remember to cleanse the petals of any outside influence. Sea salt, sage, even a well-intentioned breath will negate foreign energy. Color is important to the type of spell cast. There are many books and references available to determine what color is best for what healing influence.

 

Aside from the petals, other parts of flowers can also be employed. Daylilies grow in abundance in my yard. This flower blooms in sun or shade, and may bloom twice in a growing season. After the flowers have dropped off, allow the stalks to dry completely. Stalks should pull out of the base plant easily. My besom began life as a bunch of dry day lily stems culled from the prosperity corner of my property. The bundle is light and manageable, and tied with a purple ribbon. The besom whisks away stale energy, and graces my altar during healing spells for added personal power.

Depending on where you live, trees may play a part in your home’s landscaping. Several large trees including oak, a maple, and a hickory graced our back yard. Sadly, it was necessary to clear some of these due to disease, inconvenient placement, and weather damage. Many magical tools came from the branches and limbs—including wands and walking sticks and dowsers. Lacking in self-discipline? Hickory provides healing and a way back to the right track. Every year acorns rain down from the remaining oaks. What the squirrels do not hoard are collected and used for spells which call for longevity and masculine curative power. Maple heals with stability when off balance in any aspect of life. Crumbled into a powder, dried leaves can be safely stored indefinitely. Be sure to store separately as combining the leaves may negate their power. A fascinating side note: every time we contracted for professional tree removal; each worker took a branch of whatever was cut down. Superstition? Tradition? Magic.

 

In the way we may embrace a spirit animal, a flower, bush, or tree may hold special meaning. Holly is such a plant for me. Every place I have ever lived has been blessed with holly, either in the form of a living, growing bush or tree, or as decoration during Yule. My affinity for this beautiful and varied plant makes it the perfect addition to any spell in which I need an extra boost of personal power. In the happy circumstance you feel attracted to certain herbs, flowers, bushes, or trees—non-toxic plants of any sort—make sure to attempt the growing of it.

Not all spells call for flora alone. Where there are gardens and trees there are almost always birds and insects. Birds shed feathers, build and abandon nests, and sadly on occasion lose eggs. These are all useful items to have in your store of supplies. Found carcasses of bees, butterflies, and moths; and empty cocoons can be saved for restorative spell work. A cicada is supremely lucky for recovery and rebirth spells. Remember—nothing must ever be destroyed or disturbed for a spell. The consequences would hardly be worth it.

 

A word about the inanimate—a few years back,  I attempted to lure the fey folk with a fairy ring of granite rocks.  My purpose was to add extra healing magic to my backyard space, to encourage visits and good luck. All I managed to do was trip over the rocks whenever I mowed the grass in that area. I swear I heard wee fairy laughter every time. Soon after the ring was dismantled a toadstool fairy ring appeared.  Lesson learned: it is usually best to let the fey create their own magical healing spaces.

 

Of utmost importance when gathering supplies for spells, especially healing spells, is intention. In creating a healing ritual, reflect carefully on the outcome you seek. I hope sharing this personal composition inspires you to take a closer look at your own yards, gardens, patios, or window boxes and what they have to offer as you embrace the grand tradition of Healer.

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Marcia Sherman specializes in flash fiction, poems, and essays on fairy tales, folklore, and mythology. Since 2011 Marcia has contributed to various annuals published by Lewellyn Worldwide. She adheres to an earth-based belief system, is a proud mother and grandmother, and is Shadow-cat's human.

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This story is brought to you by Brittany Warman and Lissa Sloan, two of EC’s very generous patrons. If you’d like to help EC survive and thrive, learn more here.

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Image of roses from Pixabay.

SATURDAY TALE - Off-Spring by Marcia Sherman

She sat on a rock near the cavern
where the river disappeared and kept watch...

Dusk was nudging the sun away. The breeze quickened to wind, and leaves scattered. Caritas sat on a rock by the pool, near the cavern, where the river disappeared. Twice a year she kept watch. She knew her mother was waiting for her; it was soon time to leave. But her grandmother was not yet in sight. Cari could not, would not leave until her hand was firmly grasped by the elder’s. She touched the birthmark on her right cheek. Maybe she would see her father again this time. Maybe Cari would get another kiss. His beard tickled, she remembered. That had been nice, even though it had burned a little and left a mark. Cari’s mother told her it was the shape of pom seeds. Cari thought it looked like tears.

Dusk edged through the trees and wind tossed leaves in every direction. Persephone wiped her hands and removed the apron. It was almost time; and all of the preparations for her absence were now completed. She eased into a chair by the door, waiting for her mother and daughter to arrive. She was ready to meet her husband. Every year Sephi went through the same rituals: clean the cottage, pack some personal belongings, smell the last of the flowers – even though chrysanthemums had little smell – and set out alone to the pool, by the cavern, where the river disappeared. It had taken her longer to prepare this year. Her growing belly kept getting in the way. Why was her daughter not returned?

Sephi knew Cari waited in hopes of seeing her father. However, Hades had been warned not to seek contact again. That would void the contract, and he would not chance losing Sephi forever. Cari, with her black eyes and fiery red hair, was the image of her father and his surroundings. This second child would be quite different. Cari’s brother would be born in dark, but would carry light with him always. He too would be the image of his father – and nothing at all like her husband. Sephi knew exactly how Hades thought, what wife doesn’t? At first he would be happy, over the moon as it were, to have a son. A son who – being born underground – would stay with him forever and take a seat beside him in the management of the underworld. All babes look alike at birth, and eventually change to favor one parent or the other. This babe would keep the coloring with which he was born. Hades would begin to wonder, and doubt, and suspect. Then he would count the moons, and he would know. This child, this son, with those cool, blue eyes and soft-as-spring-lambs pale hair, was not the son of Hades. Waiting for her daughter, watching out the window, Sephi let her thoughts wander. How was it she had been so weak? Was it really just all those months, year after year, in dark and heat? The soft, new grass and the rainbow of flowers had seduced her, along with his smile. She was lost, and loved, and never spared a thought to the complications which might arise from the joining. He had been gone when she awoke. Nothing for it now, just bear it and move on. Where was that girl?

Cari watched the shadows grow and tamped down her excitement and fear. What was taking her grandmother so long? There – finally, footsteps on the path, surely that was Demeter making her way to collect her granddaughter. Cari glanced past the cavern to get a better look through the trees, and her eyes widened in amazement. It was him! Had her yearning called him? She jumped up and ran to the cottage, calling to her mother the entire way.

Fontanus or Ueris? Either name would be perfect. It may be considered a slap in the face of her husband, but Sephi wanted a name to remind her of that breathtaking afternoon spent in the May bower. Shaken from the reverie by her daughter – at last! – calling to her, she gathering up her travel bag, she stepped out of the door. There was Cari dancing along the path. There was her mother, laughing. There was, wait, was it…him? She had not seen him in almost six months. Thought it impossible, considering the circumstances. Her knees gave out and he rushed to catch her. Joy shone like a May dawn on his face, amazed at the gift she held for him. Gently, he lifted her and carried her into the wood.

Cari watched her mother and companion and laughed delightedly. She looked up at the trees – did they suddenly seem a little greener? With one long loving look at the couple, Demeter smiled too. She took Cari’s hand, and they entered the cottage.

Hades waited for hours at the mouth of the river, in the cavern, near the pool. At length a messenger was sent. There was to be no argument. Just this one winter Persephone would not be returning to Hades. Other than the god of the river Styx and his bride, only the dead live underground.

It was remarked upon as the warmest and mildest winter in hundreds of years.

Only one snow fall - and that on February 14th.

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Marcia A. Sherman writes flash fiction, specializing in re-imagined fairy and folk tales, and mythology, with a feminist bent. One of the stable of writers for Llewellyn Worldwide, she has been a columnist for her local paper, has self-published a children's book, and enjoys entering literary contests. Marcia resides in New Jersey and, with the arrival of a granddaughter, has recently been happily graduated to the position of crone.

Art: Evelyn de Morgan
Layout: Amanda Bergloff

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Message in a Bottle by Marcia Sherman

There is no such thing as free, and there is always a payment of some sort...

It was advertised as free, but there is no such thing as free. There is always a payment of some sort. The price was not told until after she had arrived and been settled in. That gave her pause. She kept thinking of why she wanted to put herself through this - to better herself, to become what she wished for. To become what he needed.

Her family had tried to talk her out of it. Every argument ended with one truth: they would all be better off because all her sorrow, and the sadness they felt for her, would stop. Even if her family did not support her, the look in his eyes when she told him of this possibility was all the encouragement she needed.

The first night she lay under the window, and she looked at the stars. Waves lapped the shore outside while she contemplated her options. Even as she decided there was a tap at the door and they entered. Two of them – check here, check there, mark this. Here are your copies, witnessed and notarized. A few explanations of the rules and they left her alone again, with one big surprise. She was to be paid, and handsomely so. She thought her reward was the treatment. But no, they actually paid for leaving behind old ways. That took a little of the sting out of it.

It was not painful; well, not too painful.  Dizziness, bone tired, thirst – water never tasted so good. By the end of the tenth day she was able to walk steadily to the toilet. A few days later she could make it to the kitchen without hugging the walls like a barnacle. Clothing was provided, clean and soft. Cotton lined shoes, as light as sea foam. Nice of them to realize her skin would be sensitive. Daily exercise was required in the contract. She walked barefoot up and down the beach in front of the weathered little house. She rested on the porch and watched the storms over the ocean– they looked different somehow. Three weeks in her appetite returned. The food in the larder was fresh and plentiful. She grew especially fond of salad greens and fruit. The fish she discovered to be too oily.

To pass the time she read the books left for her. One morning she discovered a journal and pens. At first she found it almost as hard to write as it had been to get out of bed. Soon, however, she began to record her day’s events. Every day, almost every waking moment, she thought of him. Every night in her dreams they talked and kissed and touched. She wrote to him, letters full of promises and longing; and counted down the days until they would be together. Finally, after many, many weeks that day came.

In preparation for leaving, she cleaned and put the house to rights. A satchel appeared and she packed clothing and shoes, journal and letters, a few books, her shell collection. Before he was scheduled to arrive she sat in her favorite spot on the porch, and composed a letter to her family. They needed to know the treatment was successful, she was healthy and whole. When he appeared on the rise behind the house, how her heart sang. He ran down the dune, laughing, and engulfed her in his arms. Her kiss told him all he needed to know.

“Speechless with happiness, my pearl?”

She pressed the contract into his hands, when he finished reading he looked in her eyes with concern and compassion.

“So, this was the payment. I can walk with you now. I can admire your strong lovely body. But never again can I hear you say my name or whisper your love. Oh sweet, little fish – I will just have to do the talking for both of us. What’s this bottle? Ah, I see…” and he threw it far into the ocean “…only way to get a message to your family now. Time and tide should act as any land bound mail service, for sure.”

Ariel watched the bobbing glass submerge and a tail fin flick above the surface. A single tear fell, salty as the ocean. Then she and Eric turned and walked up the dune to their happily ever after.

Marcia A. Sherman is Mama to one perfect Rose.She writes for Llewellyn Publishing under the name of Emyme, has self-published the children's book The Splendid, Blended Family, and is writing the Great American Wiccan Novel.

Story ART by: Amanda Bergloff

Roses and Moonlight, By Marcia Sherman

Editor's note: Once again, Marcia has managed to bring something new to the fairy-tale scene, even though this is a take on "Beauty and the Beast"--"a tale as old as time." It's always intriguing to imagine out what happens after the well-known story!

 

As long as we did not stay in one place too long, we were safe. We moved every six months or so. We stayed at one house for almost a full year. I would have liked to celebrate two Christmases there. His lands are far reaching, even more than I had suspected. I have lost count of all the villages, hamlets, and towns we called our temporary home. But this time, this place, felt different…felt better. Bellevue was peaceful; oh, so peaceful. I deluded myself with hopes we could stay there forever. And of course we had the babe now.

The villa was perfect. Spacious rooms, grandly furnished, and the private wing for him. That all important separate, protected, space for him. The quiet, the tranquility of those first few weeks seduced me, seduced all of us. I know, I am gushing. But really, how lovely was the lake today, and by dusk I could see the night would be equally fine. The moon seemed to slowly lift right out of the water, a perfect and whole circle, as white as snow. Framed by the mountains on one side, it was an enchanting sight. Several artists had set up their easels hoping to capture just such a moment. A light breeze touched the roses climbing along the balustrade. Not unreasonable for me to stay on the balcony longer than usual. 

Less tourists are out after the evening meal. At the entrance to one store the owner handed out balloons to all the children. And so I sat and admired the normality of it all, lost in thought, lost in the rhythm of rocking with a sleeping babe on my shoulder. I must have dozed off, too. All those sleepless nights. I was accustomed to some disrupted sleep during our newly married life. But as anyone with children will tell you it is rather different after a baby is born. The shouts startled me awake, and the babe too. He set to crying, and in my sleepy frame of mind the cry seemed to sound almost like a howl. I looked down to the square, confused to see some people running toward the villa, pointing, calling to me. Others were running away, ducking into the open shops. It was very muddled. 

 

"Weary Moon," by Edward R. Hughes, artmagick.com

Suddenly it all came to one focal point – a sound actually – that baying at the moon. That damned full moon. I came fully awake and realized two things at once – the babe was struggling ferociously to get out of my arms, and his father was on the balcony above mine calling to the moon. I could do nothing for the father – he would bound away soon enough. Come slinking back in the morning. But I could calm my son. My son, who it would appear has come into his legacy. Wild and dilated eyes, scratchy nails, and two lovely fangs. Pearly, pointy little teeth with which he was trying to bite me. I pulled the blanket up and went inside. 

Our most faithful servants – those who know the truth and travel with us always – were at the door calming the townspeople. It was just a great wild dog who had ventured into the courtyard of the villa for a scrap of food and now fled into the woods. Nothing to be frightened of, they had scared it off but good. Everyone is safe here, They assured the crowd. Now is the time, again, for me to pack our personal belongings. We will move on to the next place. Leave them with a great story which will grow into a legend, a myth. There is a castle up in those mountains by the lake. He said it is too secluded. He needs to be closer to people. Twenty-five out of every twenty-eight days he actually enjoys the company of his subjects; and they him. Well, we have a babe now, who will be walking – running - soon. And if I am not mistaken, another on the way. It is time to settle in one place.

You think you know the story. You think – with all the variations – you think you know every possible fairy tale ending. "Belle et la Bête." Her love transformed him. And they lived happily ever after. Until the next full moon. 

Marcia A. Sherman is Mama to one perfect Rose. She writes for Llewellyn Publishing under the name of Emyme, has self-published a children's book "The Splendid, Blended Family," and is writing the Great American Wiccan Novel.  

 

A Queen's Discontent, By Marcia Sherman

Editor's note: This is a thorough mashup that had me identifying villainesses and other characters the whole time I read it. It also digs into that stepmother business rather effectively. As for the picture, well, there's no Lancelot in Marcia's poem, but I think the picture captures the mood of it rather nicely.

I will let you in on a secret.

Of course none of us have actually died.

That is all just written for dramatic effect.

It seems so much more -

Interesting,

Heartwarming,

Difficult,

To have a father raise a daughter.

Alone.

But we are all here.

All the mothers.

In the background,

Or on another estate.

Or in another, smaller, castle.

We all keep in touch.

And we meet at least once a year.

Queen and commoner alike.

Even that doe,

The one everybody thinks was shot.

And that clownfish.

In a bowl of course.

Those of us who live close enough,

Visit with one another quite often.

And we have more to do with the stories than anyone realizes.

Take for example that silly girl and Rumplestiltskin.

I can say that silly girl.

Because she married my son.

Do you really think, for one minute,

She was able to get out of that situation alone?

Do you really think, for even one second,

Her mother and I were going to let her take a chance

On giving up our first-born grandchild?

Pish, we were there to help her all along.

We did the "heavy lifting."

I would love to be able to tell the truth about that.

Who would believe me anyway,

After these hundreds of years of fairy tales.

Every so often someone new comes along.

Some little-known tale

Suddenly becomes popular.

Or gets modernized.

Thanks to Walt.

That brings something fresh

To the annual meeting.

But for the most part we just live in the shadows.

We keep the households

And the kingdoms running smoothly.

It does get a little lonely,

Husbands and families

Unable to acknowledge us publicly.

Makes you feel hemmed in.

Unappreciated.

Makes you want to blow off some steam.

So every five years or so we come here.

Across the pond.

Visit with Powhatan's wife.

Let our hair down.

So to speak.

Another silly girl, that Rapunzel.

Why, I would love another, thank you.

That is very charming of you.

And believe me I know something about charming.

Yes, we do age very well.

My room?

I would be enchanted to show you my room.

I am sharing, but the roommates are out shopping.

Something about shoes and mirrors and roses.

Just mind the spindle in the corner,

It is sharp.

"The Four Queens Find Lancelot Sleeping," by Frank Cadogan Cowper

Marcia A. Sherman is Mama to one perfect Rose.She writes for Llewellyn Publishing under the name of Emyme, has self-published the children's book The Splendid, Blended Family, and is writing the Great American Wiccan Novel.