The Annunciation

As spring is all around and I am replenishing my stocks of cleavers and nettle, I wanted to share my thoughts about the feast of the annunciation, when Our Lady is visited by an angel and asked if she will give birth to christ.

We are living in a love story. The wagtail that trills at you from the fence. The bee that moves from flower to flower, rejoicing in life’s return. The stream, full with spring rain, nourishing the soil. You, sat beneath one of your favourite trees and singing a new song you learned since you saw each other last. Each a serenade, a courtship, a devotion.

What if we were all the angels, telling the earth we love her, each in our own way?

A little poem came to me as I was walking home today

The Annunciation

The lord loves the lady so he sent her

A babbling brook

A buzzing bee

The singing birds

And then he sent me.

Nettle

Grandmother nettle, abundant and invisible, like the old wise crones that pass unseen in a society that prioritises youthful beauty. Wise, witchy grandmothers that they tried to eradicate in years gone by, for their superior wisdom and biting tongue. You never notice nettle til it bites you - then you curse it and your carelessness.

The magical herb for pregnant and nursing mothers, full of nutrients and goodness to keep your eyes bright and your energy up. What we crave most when pregnant and with a new baby is a strong dose of mother wisdom from a woman who has seen and done it all… instead we are handed ferrous sulphate that makes us vomit and Gina Ford books. The body rejects what is not good for it, and with any luck the mother will also expel the modern baby advice that asks her to kill her inner wise crone.

Nettle is like Baba Yaga who fixes you with her beady eye and raps you on the knuckles for not paying attention. She’s the crone initiation that knows you need to be cruel to be kind, that some things can only be learned the hard way. She can judge somebody’s character instantly, is fiercely protective and isn’t afraid to speak her mind.“Open your eyes!” she barks to our inner maiden “There is a price for ignorance!”

She will help us pick up the pieces when we invariably do pay that price.

She is also the grandmother that peers into the pale face of a new mother who is doing too much and mutters under her breath “in my day we stayed in bed, the midwife wouldn’t have us up and about for weeks”. She’s the grandmother who insists you look unwell and that you’re not eating enough for the milk to flow. The breastfeeding experts will say this isn’t true, but we let grandmother nourish us anyway.

Nettle oil, massaged into arthritic fingers and dry infant skin to bring relief. Nature knows that grandmothers and babies belong together. A lullaby so old it has no words, it’s simply hummed and passed from mother to daughter through gentle pats on the back.

Once we knew the power of nettle. She asks us to remember.

Ostara

Ostara

When he checks my car's spark plugs in the dark and the pouring rain

And gets up early to go to the car parts shop.

The day where I took the children to school and came back the long way over the fields

Saw the nettle and the cleavers are here

More than enough to make nourishing brews for the rest of the year

As I tramped up the muddy hills and fine mist

Asking the spirits to carry me over the slippery bits.

Sam joked with me about the other night,

Said "you wouldn't even let me cut one strawberry to help"

And it seems to me Ostara is saying

"Daughter, remember

You are part of the whole.

Let yourself receive it all,

Like the earth receives the sun and rain

And see what beautiful things may grow."