If I were diligent, I would complete my writing assignment just now instead of posting here. Actually, scratch that. I may not always be constant but gosh darn I most certainly am persistent! So, using my witchy tools of “mean what you say, say what you mean” cuz Lads, “words have power”, let me rephrase that.
I choose to stare at the fire and think, instead of write my craft annotation on theme. 
The snowdrops have been out for a number of weeks and though the daffodils stand proud in their greenery, only two have flowered. The crocus emerged but remained wrapped tightly until today, when a brief passing of sun coaxed their unfurling. Several of the bushes have new growth but the tall trees in the front garden show no signs. I continue to be cheered by the sounds of small birds. They speak truth (spring is near), and I listen.
I learned an interesting thing this week. Stephen’s. That was the affectionate name of our house before a British couple bought and refurbished it in the mid-90’s. It had stood derelict for many years. The roof still intact but the lack of occupation taking its toll. Children in the early 70’s would peer into the abandoned garden during spring, mesmerized by the flower parade. “Magical!” Brave lads would scamper into the house and up the wooden stairs. Exploring the remains of Stephen Twomey’s house.
Stephen had been one of five children born to Thomas and Norah; he was 30 in 1911. I don’t know what happened to his siblings but he inherited the farm, and when he died the house was left empty. I suspect it’s him I’ve seen outside, busy of a day. Perhaps it is also he that is heard stumping, dragging up the stairs. Though I will say…. I’ve felt Norah, or her daughter Elizabeth (the last girl to live at home as recorded on the 1901 census), in our bedroom on one occasion.
The family now has a place on my altar with our personal dead. This is their land, after all. In a country where families have occupied the same spot as their own tribe did thousands of years ago, and where nobody asks what county you’re from, as they only need hear your surname to pinpoint your place exactly, it seems most fitting. The Twomey’s had a smart little farm, complete with: stable, coach house, cow house, calf house, dairy, piggery, fowl house, boiling house, and potato house! Not to mention 3 windows on the front of the house and more than two rooms! (does anyone know what a boiling house was?? – in Ireland)
As I puttered around outside today, the Raven perched in the pine and looked down at me, calling. I spoke out-loud and said “good morning”. Later, as I walked down the lane, I collected trash (as I always do) and said “good morning” to Millie’s cows. In the gardens I enthused to the plants at how beautiful they are and asked for their guidance on how to better care for them. I spoke to the native herbs that I will soon collect to make charms and essence – ’tis almost the witching season…. as Bealtaine approaches! I made offering at my chosen crossroads, cultivating relationship toward future working, which sits further down our ridge and in N-S alignment with our house. I breathed mana over my salad, I did my push-ups, and my Elidah had a moment of tremendous anger over the organic farmers v monsanto law suit (that case WILL go forward to trial!).
How is your Thursday?
Confessions of a Hedge Witch 
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