There was a bit of, not mist, exactly, but haze this morning as I drove alongside the beautiful Potomac River on the way to work. The grasses and wildflowers along the way were definitely "Autumn" and the leaves on the trees were the dry, yellow, green that's so different from the pink, hazy, green of early Spring.
So, now it begins. The slide into Darkness, the coming of the cold, the time of moving inward.
And the "mundane" world is in chaos, not balance, and may well be for quite some time.
I did prosperity magic last night and called upon Hestia, the Erinyes, and Lakshmi.
Stockpile non-perishables. Keep your gas tank full. Figure out how many layers of clothing and blankets it will take to stay warm w/o heat this winter. Get an extra month or so of prescription meds set aside. Vitamins will keep almost forever and will make up for shortages of fruit (v likely) and vegs (possible) this winter. Do everything that you can to get and stay healthy.
There are riches in the dark.
And, here's a poem for you:
Carl Sandburg - Potomac River Mist
ALL the policemen, saloonkeepers and efficiency experts in Toledo knew Bern Dailey; secretary ten years when Whitlock was mayor. Pickpockets, yeggs, three card men, he knew them all and how they flit from zone to zone, birds of wind and weather, singers, fighters, scavengers.
The Washington monument pointed to a new moon for us and a gang from over the river sang ragtime to a ukelele. The river mist marched up and down the Potomac, we hunted the fog-swept Lincoln Memorial, white as a blond woman’s arm. We circled the city of Washington and came back home four o’clock in the morning, passing a sign: House Where Abraham Lincoln Died, Admission 25 Cents.
I got a letter from him in Sweden and I sent him a postcard from Norway .. every newspaper from America ran news of “the flu.”
The path of a night fog swept up the river to the Lincoln Memorial when I saw it again and alone at a winter’s end, the marble in the mist white as a blond woman’s arm.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."