"Me-Maw"

My husband says that I am a "Me-Maw." - That's his pet name for a sweet old grandmother.

I think I might be an old witch who got stuck in a young body. Or is it true of every woman that the older you become, the more at home you feel within yourself?

To my own mind's eye, I resemble BabaYaga, older than time, full of wisdom and mischief. It's not what other people see when they look at me, outwardly serene and on the cusp of middle age, so I often take them by surprise with my wildness and experience. One day, if I am fortunate, my skin and bones will catch up with my knowing.

I can picture my future self, gnarled and wrinkled, at peace with a life of solitude in which I spend my days in a small cabin in the woods with my animals and my herb garden, crafting tinctures and remedies. Observing the uncultivated energy that prickles the air. Tending fires, celebrating rituals of the natural world, becoming a container for life and death. Ferocious when the need arises. Otherwise, quiet. Observing what is and divining what will become. Reflecting natures cycles with intentionality. Too old to ride my horses, I will enjoy their companionship. My children will be self sufficient, and maybe even old themselves.

For now, I live in the suburbs. I have surrounded myself with all of the things I love; my animals, my garden, my tinctures and remedies. Only here, when my candles start to burn low, I can go to amazon.com and two days later more will arrive. That is magical!

Can you imagine if the UPS delivery driver had to trudge up my long unkempt, one lane dirt driveway rocky and uneven, in his brown uniform? Through the dark woods he would plod to arrive at my cottage in the clearing with horses, cats and howling dogs running free, while I sat hunched on a stump and talked to feral ravens who came by my garden to procreate and forage. My hair would be long and wild, full of tangles and knots. Dirt under my finger nails, caked into the cracks in my knuckles with piles of herbs and colorful vegetables sitting brightly in baskets before the little stone door stoop. He would smile politely, even though befuddled by what he had stumbled upon. I would thank him for making the trek and send him on his way with a jar of comfrey salve for his burning calves.

No, in this lifetime my short, paved driveway lined by well-manicured roses is much more agreeable.

For now, I conceal myself well as a suburban housewife. Content as I can be confined to half an acre of land, though my heart hears the constant call of the forest and the ocean. It would delight me to raise my children as woodland wildlings swinging freely from the branches of walnut trees, but that is not my current reality. I do my best with what I have been given, to keep that spirit alive inside the boundaries of our four perfectly perpendicular rows of cedar plank fencing. The children are cunning and clever. Both of them are natural little earthlings. They dig in the mud, build homes for fairies, plant wild flowers and invite all manner of birds, bugs and spirits into our garden sanctuary. They are captivated by the stars and worship the moon just like I do. Little Lunatics.

We all spend a tremendous amount of time walking barefoot in the grass or sitting under the shade of our huge, ancient crabapple tree as it drops it's petals in the spring to create a blush blossom monsoon. We all decide together which plants we will cultivate each year and spend many hours with our fingers in the dirt, planting seeds, pulling weeds, watering. This year we took great pleasure in harvesting and devouring two glorious jewel toned watermelons.

There is something rather soul fulfilling about stalking through the tall grass, knife in hand to harvest the big blooms of cauliflower and broccoli that we have been watching grow. About sticking my fingers into the prickly stalks of squash and cucumbers as I gather them into my basket. The smell of tomatoes and basil ripening. The snap of green beans as we pop them off the vine, the children eat them raw, still warm from the sun. Kitchen witchcraft is my favorite kind.

The most vexing part of my present life is the 30-minute drive north to visit with our horses. It breaks my heart that I can't simply glance out my window every ten minutes in between herb crafting to watch them minding their own business and munching on green, wet grass. I confess to spying on them from a small bridge close to their paddock as often as possible. One week over the summer, I spent six hours watching them splash and roll in the muddy creek. Just yesterday, I held my breath as one of them came barrelling straight down a steep, dusty mountain side to say hello because he saw me coming from his hilltop perch. I can only imagine what mischief they get themselves up to when no one is around to keep an eye on them.

One day with the correct theurgy from the universe, we will be able to stretch our little half acre into maybe ten, or better yet twenty. Then we can live out all of our fantasies of dreaming the day away staring at horses. For now, we patiently build the structure to realize that dream, a long-term creation spell.

I ride as often as I can. My horse is strong and fast, twelve hundred pounds of pure muscle and motor. Astride that magnificent beast I think to myself "brooms are for beginners!"

Back within the confines of our suburban garden, I tend to the last of the vegetables while I wait for fall. The air has started to change just enough for me to begin dreaming about bonfires, rain and cold nights full of starry skies. Furs, candles, meteor showers, stews and crystals keep us enchanted over winter.

For today, I revel in the shifting of the summer sun, honoring the earths cycles. Present in this fleeting moment with my naked toes in the grass and the warmth of the late summer rays beaming down on my speckled skin. Knowing my place on this planet is a prayer of its own. Trusting deeply in the perfection and wonderment of this tiny sanctuary we have created in our own corner of the world is our best magic to date. But, as the summer turns to fall, I feel the veil bewteen worlds thinning and I am feeling a little witchy again.