Green Witch of the Spring

By: Ocsana Greenwitch

Tis* that time again. Ostara looms, Persephone comes home to Mama and the two of them are ready for some serious gardening. All of a sudden the weeping willows start turning a pale green, the hawthorn blooms, wild plums punctuate the gray country side with white, clumps of buttercups dot various yards and fields, wild violets and chick weed begin to spread. Bees hum, the air begins to warm around noon, we all get a raging case of spring fever and mow down the wild onions in the front yard. Spring, in all its unpredictable glory, is coming.

Various Pagan festivals start popping up around this time of year. Everyone gets out the old tent and sleeping bags and flops them over the porch rail to air out. Plans are made to car pool and teach or attend various classes on anything and everything magical. Past festival stories are trotted out to retell hilarity to deep spiritual awakenings. I sit and listen to all the planning and stories, read it on my email list with a twinge of jealousy because I*m missing so much fun. I trot out the old excuse of no money, no time, etc. without actually giving away the probably half suspected truth. I*m really a plant junky, a green witch of the deepest hue.

I can*t tell you what genus or species a plant is. I*ll probably mistake one green growing beauty for another more than once. I*ll traipse through the woods feeling up trees, picking blossoms and leaves and get some undefinable rash that*ll make my doctor look at me as if I*m some kind of nut.

All my spare pennies are funneled into seeds, setting plants, trellises, fertilizer, and gas for excursions to the country to dig up various wild and as sundry plants that I don*t recognize but would love to grow just to see what it is. My tax refund money this past year went for a 6.0 horse powered rear tine roto tiller and a riding lawn mower. A new car wouldn*t have filled my heart with more joy.

My huge picture window is filled with trays of starter plants. Peppers, cabbage, calendula, marigolds, lavender, marjoram, mint, thyme, lemon balm, prim roses, morning glory and artichoke plus various pots of dirt planted with old seeds I*ve found in the back of sheds, I have to see if they*ll grow. My husband roto tilled a part of our garden when it dried out enough, he*ll roto till the other half when the puddles go away. I have pages of planned layouts for the garden, flower beds, where the artichokes will grow. I have books painstakingly copied from various web pages on the internet telling of the magical uses, medicinal uses, and practical uses of all kinds of wild and domestic plants. The Farmer*s Almanac is dog-eared and worn already. I daily dig dirt out from under my fingernails and stare out the window looking for signs of the last frost.

Then, one day, quiet unexpectedly, I*ll look out my kitchen window and there she*ll be, standing under the new leaves of the old hackberry at the back of our property. Her arms laden with fruit and sheaths of grain, her green flower bedecked gown flowing in the wind, flowers sprouting under her feet. She*ll smile at me and the sun will suddenly be very warm and I*ll be outside with my hardened off plants and packs of seeds and hoe. Something akin to chloroplast coursing through my veins and photosynthesis occurring under my skin as I plant each new life lovingly. The power and majesty of nature sprouting from tiny seeds in my garden. Old grass clippings and dead plant matter turning to compost in my bin to feed my new plants. Life and death, the Wheel turns, I am a part of it all. I am the Goddess, I am the Elements, I am a Green Witch.

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