The creek is dark orange and mud brown, the tannins from the bald cypress so rich with mineral it almost floats like an additional layer of color on top. The water looks solid. Or, viscous. Standing thick creek muck in the standing July heat.

Then it’s the full moon, and the new month starts, bringing harvest season, and Jott jokes on fb that she’s glad the weather finally made it to June. Because as soon as August gets here so too comes the beneficent moon, and the weather cools right down and feels like spring. Light, breathable. Or, if I’m honest to my salt-loving heart–she who stops froze and frigid in the center of me imagining it turning cold already, it is August now, and outside some parts of the day feel like fall. Already. Cool breezes on the low calves, almost-chill coming off the heavy round green forest breath, rising from the ground, dependent on the direction of the wind.

One of the fs members said it, stepped into the tent and called the stillness out that she’d felt that morning at her own spot in the country. It was on the new moon tide, early feel of the harvest tide, earthy feel of mama nature in the tune of her subtle turns.

I yelled at my member for doing it! Calling Fall down upon our south summer lodge! Then we laughed wickedly because in truth the sea and the forest, the love of a good bend of rural green and sniff of briny briny sea around any turn will remain no matter what, stretching way out into October or November. A joy, sitting with women connected to the earth so much we are touched by her moments of movement together~we get to be, and to savor the moments and pleasure of it.

And this is work. The work is to keep doing the work. I enjoy my work immensely and am grateful for it every quick day that goes, and am minding and tending my own personal processes in therapy, in recovery, my own unfolding, ever continuing spiritual path. Finding a balance that isn’t quite grounded yet, but in the words of a late and precious mentor, is getting better every day.

My wild flowers in several parts of the garden are covered in spittle bugs which does not fair well for next years growth. Noted here and in one of my vision books, to remember to really give the back garden a good clean this autumn. At the edge of the back path a healthy patch of lemon balm captures my attention with a little breeze. Nettle, even though I have kept her cut back, is strong and mighty buzzing there, mettle interior-conditioning, strengthening, she wants more of her to be heard. I have a mind to see about adding some tulsi, and work with yerba buena as well, as they both have reached out to me this year. Make it all a series of weekend wild women seminars, in the woods and tent, small groups of 6 or so focused on ecopsych and emotional embodiment, and deep animism for recovery.

That feels good and in the flow of what is happening.

Elsewhere, the chamomile and new yarrow I seeded never took, but the new batch of zinnias are doing well. Even the parts half eaten by beetles. The mallow by the edge of the forest are strong and propagated after only one season and growing even taller than I knew them to do. All the elder we put in on pollinator day this year seem to be taking well enough, and even one bush already has berries falling heavy in one clump. In the swamp the lilies and the grasses do well, the others make it clear under the canopy of shade and stuck in the swamp mud where they are planted that they need more sun. The milkweed didn’t make it, and the flowers in the ditch all are surviving even though I made them rely mostly on the rain this year, looking way less spindly now that I hit them with a good natural fertilizer last week. I want the whole ditch to set with wild flowers and we are looking good for future seasons.

Mollie and another rep with the IPC were out this week. We signed papers making the partnership official last week and work with value-aligned partnership beckons, literally in my heart it glows. Tom has the guys come help with the duck pen and basement and forest, and that is first harvest, in all.

The color of green out back in the late afternoon glow is such ripe gold sharpness it feels like you could write whole songs or transport worlds just by stepping into it. There are fierce storms. Culture keeps it all shaking. I am grateful, and pause to sing about it, to get it all down.