The Furious Spinner

A friend of mine just encouraged me to give so-and-so a piece of my mind. I said, "No, I can't. I have too few pieces left!"

Sorry. I'm feeling all giggly. I've spent the day languishing in myths, fairy tales, and sensuous language while doing research for a novel and writing up a proposal. I am quite content to stay in that world. I left it long enough to take a walk with Mario during his break. He told me about the cover of The Nation. If you want your own giggle, check it out.

I'm rereading Sacred and Herbal Healing Beers: The Secrets of Ancient Fermentation by Stephen Harrod Buhner. I really should buy the book since I keep checking it out from the library. But I don't drink (nothing religious; it just doesn't agree with me) or make beer, so I keep thinking this book has nothing to offer me. But it's a great read. Buhner begins with a quote from Alan Eames (from his book The Secret Life of Beer), "In all ancient societies, in the religious mythologies of all ancient cultures, beer was a gift to women from a goddess, never a male god, and women remained bonded in complex religious relationships with feminine deities who blessed the brew vessels."

Vicki Noble reminded me, again, about the importance of this book at her workshop this weekend when she talked about the Melissae, the bee priestesses of Demeter, and about the healing qualities of mead and beer when brewing was under the purview of women: the women added herbs and flowers and other medicine to the beverages. When the men took this sacred work away from them, the herbs, flowers, and medicine went into the drink, so to speak. (No, wait: they went OUT of the drink.) In cultures all over the planet, women created these healing sacred liquids as they chanted and prayed and sang to the plants, the elements, and the spirits.

I had a dream once where I was in this amazing kitchen cooking with a Rumanian woman. As we threw bits of this and that into huge steaming pots of bubbling stews, she shared her wisdom with me. The most important piece of wisdom was: "You must always talk to the spirits when you do everything, especially the spirits of the food."

I think that is good advice. Today I went and sat in my garden and listened to my plants. Waiting for wisdom. Especially my rosemary plant. I have had her for over a decade, since she was about two inches tall. Now she's about four feet high and six feet wide. She is beautiful. I didn't hear much beside the crow on the light across the road. But I liked sitting with my butt on the gray dirt, watching my fava beans, Swiss chard, beets, and carrots grow—while my crook-neck squash and zucchini plants die back. The rosemary and lavender plants seem like two big, beautiful, round women dancing in my garden.

Speaking of which, I had better go water the sprouts so they can grow up big and strong and get eaten by me. I'll remember to talk to them. Maybe they'll give me a piece of my mind. Or maybe just peace.

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