My Regular Pagan Holiday Post: Samhain, November 1
When does winter begin?
Is it October, when we pick the last tomatoes to let them ripen indoors? November 1, Samhain, when daylight thins and the world folds in on itself? December 1, when the record-keepers say it does? Or December 21, when the Earth leans furthest from the sun?
There are many ways to mark the turning.
In Northern California winter starts when the moss wakes up and fungus emerges
The Astronomers’ Winter
Astronomical winter begins with the solstice, that celestial pause when the sun halts its slow descent and begins its long climb back toward spring.
It happens around December 21, though never on exactly the same day— Earth wobbles a little in its orbit, as if uncertain.
The oak’s witchy branches show themselves
The Meteorologists’ Winter
The meteorologists keep tidier books. For them, winter starts on December 1 and ends with February— three even months of cold data, meant for graphs and records.
The forest breathes a sigh of relief as rainy season begins
The Ecologists’ Winter
Ecologists, meanwhile, listen to the ground. They call this time hibernal—the season of rest.
Their calendar has six seasons, each following the pulse of life itself:
Prevernal – the first stirring, buds swelling, birds returning Vernal – full spring, leafing and nesting Estival – the height of summer Serotinal – late summer’s slow ripening Autumnal – the fall of leaves and the long migration Hibernal – the stillness of sleep
The Gardener’s Winter
Gardeners go by the Persephone Period. It starts when there are less than ten hours of daylight in a day, causing plant growth to slow down or stop. Employed to plan crops, insuring plants have time to get a head start before winter harvesting or overwintering.
Mushrooms fruit after the first rains. (My first this season. Satan’s bolete I think)
Other Ways of Knowing
Elsewhere, the world names winter differently.
In the Hindu and Bengali calendars, there is Hemanta, the cooling air, and Shishira, the deep chill that follows.
The Noongar people of Western Australia read their six seasons in wind, rain, and blooming trees— a rhythm that moves with the land, not the clock.
The Cree of the far north know six seasons as well: the breaking and freezing of ice, the coming and going of warmth.
And pagans, watchers of the sun’s dance, divide the year into eight— by solstices, equinoxes, and the cross quarter days between.
Rain revives forest streams
The Truest Beginning
So when does winter begin? Perhaps it starts in a feeling— the first evening you reach for a blanket and feel the world grow still.
Winter begins when the Earth draws inward— and so do we.
It felt like fate. On our very first date, a hike in the hills above Muir Beach, Holly and I bonded over plants. She pointed out a lichen growing on an oak tree—Usnea. To identify it, she said, you snap a branch and pull it apart until you see the central cord inside.
Usnea on oak. Photo by author
Usnea is known by many names: old man’s beard, beard lichen, or beard moss. A sensitive bioindicator of air quality, it only thrives where the air is clean and unpolluted. For centuries, it has been used in traditional medicine to treat wounds and infections. Today it’s still valued—for easing sore throats, helping wounds heal, reducing fevers and pain, even as a possible cancer-fighting agent.
Holly, now my wife, is a witch and an herbalist. She first learned about Usnea from a teacher of medicinal plants, and today her garden overflows with remedies.
The fall equinox—Mabon—is our time to harvest herbs and brew up remedies. Holly stirs up her bite balm, a salve for every kind of skin irritation, while I turn to cannabis. Since I don’t smoke, I’ve studied the alchemy of decarboxylation: gently heating the herb to unlock its powers before infusing it into oils for cooking.
NettleComfreySelf Heal
Some of the herbs in Holly’s garden. Photos by author
Together we blend teas from garden herbs. Our MoHo Blend we make from nettle, comfrey, and lemon balm. Comfrey mends bones; nettle brims with minerals; lemon balm lifts the spirit. Holly grows native yarrow, too, and last week she showed me how to stop a cut from bleeding: chew a fresh leaf and press it to the wound.
Some of the ingredients for bite balm. Photos by author from 2022
This season, I’m also harvesting and drying figs. Sonoma County is fig country, rich with varieties—Black Mission, Brown Turkey, green Kadota, Adriatic. The fig in our own garden is called Celestial: small, pink-fleshed, and honey-sweet. I can’t resist foraging (with permission) from neighbors’ trees, and the green figs from the tree across the street are my favorite treat.
Earlier in the summer we dried peaches from our little orchard. We peeled and cored the apples that hang over from next door, simmered them into apple sauce and pie fillings for the freezer, and pressed the rest into juice with friends. These harvest gatherings always feel like old-time rituals, neighbors bound by fruit, labor, and laughter.
Holly pouring the final productOne of many reference books
Our garden is more than soil and stems. It is a living grimoire—a book of green magic—where medicine, ritual, and daily life are entwined. Harvesting and making are rituals of resistance too: an antidote to the anxiety of a world slipping toward fascism. To touch leaf, fruit, and root is to salve our spirits, to root ourselves again in Mother Earth.
August 1 marks the traditional Celtic holiday of Lammas, the first harvest festival on the pagan Wheel of the Year. According to the National Day Calendar, August 1 is also National Girlfriends Day. Judging by the ads, it might seem like a holiday invented to sell wine glasses and diet aids, but I plan to celebrate it anyway.
What does “girlfriend” mean in lesbianland?
In lesbianland, the word girlfriend carries a lot of weight, and a lot of meanings. It can refer to a platonic friend, a lover, or something in between. Back in the day, it usually meant lover. There simply weren’t enough words to describe us dykes or the nuanced ways we related to each other. For a while, we adopted partner, but that often got confused with business partner.
Girlfriends for 40 years, my friends Char and Eileen finally got to be wives.
Very few of us used the word wife, and I never liked it.
As a budding feminist, I wanted no part of marriage. Wives, in my mind, were helpmeets, baby factories, second-class citizens. Property. In some states, it was still legal to kill your wife for adultery. Spousal rape wasn’t outlawed. Until 1974, women in the U.S. couldn’t even get credit in our own names. Before that, we had to depend on husbands.
The feminist movement changed all that. But I still never wanted to be a wife.
Girlfriend. Partner. Wife. Spouse.
Some lesbian couples still use the term girlfriend. They let their friends know they don’t like the term wife and don’t use it to refer to each other. Others in my Boomer generation have come up with alternatives. One couple calls each other spouse and spice.
But I’ve become a wife convert.
I’ve been married twice. Maybe three times.
My ex, Barb, and I went to Vermont after it became the first state to legalize same-sex civil unions in 2000. But in 2004, San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom opened the doors to same-sex marriage. Thousands of couples–ourselves included–flocked to City Hall. Even though it wasn’t yet legal at the state or federal level, it felt revolutionary. Queer couples, dressed in their finest, stood in line all day in the rain, in the sun, waiting for a marriage license. Bouquets, cakes and good wishes arrived from around the country. The whole city felt like a wedding party. As City workers, Barb and I even got trained to be wedding officials ourselves. A lovely gender-free ceremony was provided.
Barb and I first got married at a park in Vermont. With witnesses Jen and Michelle
Barb, then the San Francisco fire marshal, arranged for the SFFD chief, Joanne Hayes-White, to officiate our wedding in City Hall. In every room, in every hallway, people were saying vows. It was beautiful chaos.
As we walked through the metal detectors and the guard called me “sir,” I turned to Barb and said, “Well, I guess I get to be the husband.”
That was not fair. With her crew cut, she got misgendered as often as I did. Neither of us really wanted to be a wife. But in this country, being legally married means access to health insurance, tax benefits, hospital visits, and death benefits. There were–and still are–good reasons to marry.
The road to legal gay marriage was long and convoluted, culminating with the 2015 landmark civil rights case Obergefell v. Hodges. But in 2013, United States v. Windsor overturned key parts of the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA), reinstating same-sex marriage in California. (Thank you, Edie Windsor!) By then, Barb and I had broken up. But because of legal limbo, we hadn’t been able to divorce. When the Supreme Court’s decision came down, we all ran to the Castro to celebrate. People held signs that said “Freedom to Marry.” For us, it was also the freedom to divorce.
And then came Holly
Holly and I celebrating on Marriage Equality Day at Harvey’s (named after Harvey Milk)
Holly and I were married on April 19, 2014, at Muir Beach–the site of our first date. The wedding was officiated by our gay cousin Richard, dressed in the robes of his Episcopal priest friend who had been defrocked for gayness. Witnesses were my brother Don and his husband John.
I love introducing Holly as my wife. It’s a simple, meaningful word. A word I once rejected. And, frankly, it helps when talking to straight people, and still sometimes provides a bit of shock value. Everyone knows what wife means.
Brother Don, Richard, Holly, me and John jump for joy at our Muir Beach wedding
Oh, and for the record, we introduced our exes to each other. They got married too.
How to describe our relationships with each other? We call ourselves Exes and Besties. But you could call us a gaggle of girlfriends.
Summer (and Winter) Solstice will be June 20, 2025
For years, these pagan holiday letters have followed the rhythm of the Northern Hemisphere. So it’s about time we turned our gaze south. What is the summer solstice for us in the north is, of course, the winter solstice down under.
In Aotearoa (the Māori name for New Zealand, often translated as “Land of the Long White Cloud”), the winter solstice is marked by Matariki, a celebration that signals the Māori New Year. In 2022, Matariki was officially recognized as New Zealand’s first indigenous national holiday — a milestone in honoring the traditions of the land’s first people.
Rooted in ancient Māori astronomy and storytelling, Matariki revolves around the reappearance of a small but powerful star cluster in the early morning sky — known in Māori as Matariki, and in Western astronomy as the Pleiades or the Seven Sisters. Its rising marks a time of renewal, remembrance, and reconnection — with ancestors, the earth, and each other.
The date of Matariki shifts slightly each year, determined by both the lunar calendar and careful observation of the stars. Māori astronomers and iwi (tribal) experts consult mātauranga Māori — traditional Māori knowledge systems — to ensure the timing reflects ancestral wisdom. In precolonial times, the clarity and brightness of each star helped forecast the year’s weather, harvest, and overall wellbeing.
Unlike the linear passage of time in the Gregorian calendar, Māori time is circular — woven from moon phases, tides, seasons, and stars. Matariki is not just a new year, but a return point. A moment to pause, reflect on what has been, and plan how to move forward in harmony with the natural world.
At the heart of Matariki is kaitiakitanga — the ethic of guardianship. It’s the understanding that humans are not owners of the earth, but caretakers. We are part of the land, sea, and sky, and we carry the responsibility to protect and sustain them.
When Matariki rises just before dawn, it opens a space for both grief and celebration: to mourn those who’ve passed, give thanks for what we have, and set intentions for the year ahead. It reminds us of the interconnectedness of whānau(family), whakapapa (genealogy), and whenua (land).
The name Matariki is often translated as “the eyes of the chief,” from mata (eyes) and ariki (chief). According to one well-known Māori legend, the stars are the eyes of Tāwhirimātea, the god of winds and weather. In grief over the separation of his parents — Ranginui (Sky Father) and Papatūānuku (Earth Mother) — Tāwhirimātea tore out his own eyes and cast them into the heavens.
In a world that often values speed over stillness, Matariki offers a different rhythm. It’s a celestial breath — a reminder that time moves in cycles. That rest and reflection are just as important as action. That the sky still holds stories if we remember to look up.
The 9 Stars of Matariki
Each star in the Matariki cluster has its own role and significance:
Matariki – Health and wellbeing
Tupuānuku – Food from the earth
Tupuārangi – Food from the sky (birds, fruits)
Waitī – Freshwater and the life within it
Waitā – The ocean and saltwater life
Waipuna-ā-Rangi – Rain and weather patterns
Ururangi – Winds and the atmosphere
Pōhutukawa – Remembrance of those who have passed
Hiwa-i-te-Rangi – Aspirations, goals, and wishes for the future
For Māori, these stars are not just celestial objects — they are guardians. They watch over the land, sea, and sky, and in doing so, remind us of our responsibility to them.
As global conversations about climate change and sustainability grow more urgent, the values of Matariki — care, reverence, reflection, and renewal — feel especially resonant. It’s a time to return to what matters, to honor the past, and to move forward in a way that honors both our roots and our shared future on this earth.
North Bay Rising
In Santa Rosa and across the North Bay, we’re mad as hell—and we’ve taken to the streets. From the Hands Off! protest in April that brought 5,000 people to downtown Santa Rosa, to thousands more mobilizing in surrounding towns, resistance to the rise of fascism in the U.S. is fierce and growing.
Some of the signs from our protests
Here in Sonoma County, protests are a near-daily occurrence. Demonstrators are targeting a wide range of issues: U.S. complicity in the genocide of Palestinians, Avelo Airline’s role in deportation flights, Elon Musk’s attacks on federal institutions like Social Security and Medicare/Medicaid, the gutting of the Veterans Administration, the criminalization of immigrants, assaults on free speech, and—by us tradeswomen—the dismantling of affirmative action and DEI initiatives.
The Palestinian community and its allies have been gathering every Sunday at the Santa Rosa town square since October 2023.
Weekly actions include:
Thursdays: We the People protest in Petaluma.
Fridays: Veteran-focused rallies protesting VA budget cuts.
Saturdays: Tesla Takedown at the Santa Rosa showroom, and a vigil for Palestine in Petaluma.
Sundays: Protest at the Santa Rosa Airport against Avelo Airlines, and a Stand with Palestine demonstration in town.
Tuesdays: Resist and Reform in Sebastopol.
Ongoing: In Cotati, a weekly Resist Fascism picket line.
In Sonoma Plaza, there’s a weekly vigil to resist Trump. Sebastopol hosts a Gaza solidarity vigil, along with Sitting for Survival, an environmental justice action.
Beyond the regular schedule, spontaneous and planned actions continue:
A march to raise awareness of missing and murdered Indigenous women.
In Windsor, women-led organizing for immigrant rights.
A multi-faith rally at the town square on April 16.
Protest musicians and singers are coming together to strengthen the movement with art.
Trump’s goons are jailing citizens, and fear runs deep, especially among the undocumented and documented Latinx population—who make up roughly a third of Santa Rosa. But fear hasn’t silenced them. They continue to show up and speak out.
I’ve joined the North Bay Rapid Response Network, which mobilizes to defend our immigrant neighbors from ICE raids.
Meanwhile, our school systems are in crisis. Sonoma State University is slashing classes and programs in the name of austerity. Students and faculty are fighting back with protests, including a Gaza sit-in that nearly resulted in a breakthrough agreement with the administration.
Between all this, Holly and I made it to the Santa Rosa Rose Parade. The high school bands looked and sounded great—spirited and proud. Then, our Gay Day here on May 31, while clouded by conflict about participation by cops, still celebrated us queers.
And soon, I’ll hit the road heading to Yellowstone with a friend. On June 14, we’ll join protesting park rangers in Jackson, Wyoming as part of the No Kings! national day of action—a protest coordinated by Indivisible and partners taking place in hundreds of cities across the country.
On the Solstice, June 20 in the Northern Hemisphere, we expect to be in Winnemucca, Nevada, on the way home.
Wide Hollow Elementary School in Yakima, Washington, was already an old building when I began attending in the 1950s. At the time, it served students from first through eighth grades. The little kids were on the first floor, the big kids upstairs. I remember the worn wooden steps leading to the second floor, scalloped by generations of student feet.
Our classrooms held old-fashioned desks—wooden with ornate cast-iron legs—each one with a small hole in the top for an ink bottle. We were taught how to fill our fountain pens by dipping the nib into the ink and lifting a lever to draw it in. (This cannot have happened without spills—the poor teachers!)
Valentines day 1956 at Wide Hollow school. That’s me on the far left.
Every room had a long wall of blackboard, with erasers that students cleaned by smacking them together, creating great clouds of chalk dust. The tall windows were opened using a long pole. Above the blackboards, neat rows of Palmer Method cursive letters reminded us of the proper way to form our handwriting.
The school was heated by a coal furnace. A coal chute led to the basement, where the coal man would periodically unload his delivery.
My first grade class at Wide Hollow
Outside, the playground seemed enormous. A towering maple tree stood right outside the building. We had swings, a slide, and a ride called the “ocean wave”—a notoriously dangerous contraption rumored to have killed children in other schools. As far as I know, ours survived it, though I did rip my good dress riding it on the very first day of first grade.
At recess, we played Ring Around the Rosie, Red Rover, jump rope, tetherball, and a game where we bounced a ball against the wall chanting, “Not last night but the night before, 24 robbers came knocking at my door.”
Much has changed. The old building was torn down years ago and replaced. The curriculum has become more inclusive. I still remember being twelve and furious that our new history books made no mention of the Indigenous peoples of the area. Today, Wide Hollow proudly displays a land acknowledgment on its website:
“We would like to acknowledge that we’re coming to you from the traditional lands of the first people of our valley, the 14 Confederated Tribes and Bands of the Yakama Nation, and we honor with gratitude the land itself and the Yakama Tribe.”
Wide Hollow is now a K–5 school. They host a “multicultural celebration,” but I don’t believe the ancient pagan Spring holiday of May Day is among those still observed. Back in our day, we celebrated May Day by weaving ribbons around a maypole (perhaps the tetherball pole?) and making May baskets, often filled like Easter baskets with flowers.
Dancing around the maypole
While May Day celebrations have largely fallen out of fashion in the U.S., they still take place in some towns. In Europe, the tradition persists more strongly. In modern pagan communities, May Day has been revived and reimagined through the Celtic festival of Beltane.
In Sweden, maypole dancing has shifted to the big Summer Solstice festivals, but until the 19th century, May Day was celebrated with mock battles between Summer and Winter. I love this account by Sir James George Frazer in The Golden Bough (1911):
“On May Day two troops of young men on horseback used to meet as if for mortal combat. One of them was led by a representative of Winter clad in furs, who threw snowballs and ice in order to prolong the cold weather. The other troop was commanded by a representative of Summer, covered with fresh leaves and flowers. In the sham fight which followed, the party of Summer came off victorious, and the ceremony ended with a feast.”
Note: the picture of Wide Hollow school at the top is a postcard labeled North Yakima. That means the picture was taken before 1918 when North Yakima was changed to Yakima. So the school was originally built probably in the teens.
May 1 is also International Workers Day
At the Santa Rosa International Workers Day celebration
May 1st is also recognized globally as International Workers’ Day. In 1889, the date was chosen by an international federation of socialist groups and trade unions to commemorate the Haymarket Affair—a violent deadly police riot in Chicago in 1886 targeting workers organizing for the eight-hour workday.
Here in Sonoma County, this year May Day marks the beginning of the Days of Action May 1-5, organized by Community United to Resist Fascism (CURF). The International Workers’ Day march will call for immigrant rights and is co-organized with the May 1st Coalition. The event will begin at 3 p.m. in Santa Rosa at the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office, proceed to the Board of Supervisors’ office, and then continue to Old Courthouse Square to rally at 5pm. I’ll see you there!
Colonialism: the violent seizure of land, the domination of people, the erasure of cultures. It is the practice of extending and maintaining political and economic control over another people, typically through displacement, suppression, and destruction.
While researching pre-christian seasonal celebrations around the world, I keep running into the same brutal reality: colonialism didn’t just conquer people—it annihilated their histories, their traditions, and their sacred knowledge. Lately, I’ve been searching for evidence of spring rituals in Latin America, only to find that much of what once existed has been deliberately erased.
European colonial invasion of the Americas was not just a conquest—it was an extermination. The very term “pre-Columbian” grates, as if history only begins with Columbus’s arrival, ignoring the fact that indigenous civilizations flourished for millennia before European diseases and massacres decimated their populations.
Nowhere is this erasure more apparent than in the destruction of Mayan knowledge. In the 16th century, Spanish catholic priests set fire to nearly all Mayan codices, incinerating vast repositories of scientific, spiritual, and astronomical understanding in a frenzied effort to impose christianity. Only a handful of these texts survived. What remains is a civilization whose intellectual and architectural brilliance we can only glimpse—its great stone pyramids standing defiantly even as its written history was reduced to ashes.
Can you see the shadow image of the serpent? Photo: Chichen Itza
Yet, despite this attempted obliteration, traces of indigenous traditions persist. In Mexico, celebrations of the spring equinox remain deeply connected to pre-Hispanic heritage, even as they blend with modern religious elements. Across the country, people gather for festivales de primavera, celebrations that embrace the new season and pay homage to a past that refuses to be forgotten.
Chichén Itzá in Yucatán remains the most famous site for these celebrations. Every spring, thousands of people come to witness the astonishing spectacle of light and shadow on the Kukulcán pyramid. Designed with mathematical precision, the structure casts shadows that create the illusion of a serpent slithering down its steps during the equinox. This event is not a coincidence—it is the result of a civilization that understood celestial mechanics better than many modern observers. The pyramid, built in the 12th century CE, stands as a testament to Mayan brilliance, though the city of Chichén Itzá itself dates back to 550–800 CE.
Another important site is Teotihuacan, where thousands—often dressed in white—gather to greet the equinox. With arms raised to the sun, they take part in rituals of purification and energy renewal, honoring the sacred astronomical knowledge that once made this city one of the most important spiritual centers in Mesoamerica.
Mexican equinox celebration. Photo: kunuk hotel
I plan to adopt the tradition of wearing white on the spring equinox. I still have my white jeans and jacket, bought in anticipation of Hillary Clinton’s 2016 presidential victory. White is also the color of the women’s suffrage movement, and it seems we might need to again fight for the right to vote. Trump and his allies would like to take us back to the 18thcentury. I’ll be holding onto my suffrage gear as we witches resurrect our hexes.
The vernal equinox this year falls on March 20. Holly and I will be visiting our exes in San Bernardino County’s high desert. My brother Don and his husband John will join us on their way back from Mexico to Vancouver. We hope the poppies in Antelope Valley will be in bloom, though the lack of recent rains might mean disappointment.
This winter, California has experienced what our weather guru, Dr. Daniel Swain calls hydroclimatic whiplash—extreme shifts between wet and dry weather, an increasingly common global phenomenon. Sonoma County saw zero rainfall in January. Then, in February, while dry Los Angeles burned in the worst wildfire in its recorded history, Northern California was drowning. Though the flooding wasn’t the worst ever, two people died, reminding us to take road warnings seriously: Don’t Drown. Turn Around.
Swain frequently references the Great Flood of 1862, when California, lacking big dams, saw the town of Sacramento submerged. Before colonization, the Central Valley was essentially a giant swamp, and California’s climate has always swung between extremes since it was first monitored in the mid-nineteenth century.
California winter holds some other surprises. February is skunk mating season and, driving around Sonoma County, we see bumper skunk roadkill. They traipse through our garden and they are welcome visitors, eating mice and grubs. Nearsighted but with a keen sense of smell and hearing, they are quite beautiful. Skunks are nocturnal and so we see them only on trips to and from the hot tub at dawn and dusk, which is where Holly encountered one. She didn’t see it until the tail was raised. Too late! The resulting stink resonated in our house for a week. She had to throw away her robe and slippers, which never recovered. Now we stop and look both ways before crossing the deck to the hot tub.
Spring equinox is a time of renewal, balance, and resistance. Let’s celebrate it in ways that honor the past while reclaiming our future.
Poppies landscape photo: Pamela Heckel on Unsplash
Today, January 23, marks the end of the Persephone Period here in Sonoma County.
Have you heard of the Persephone Period? It’s a concept we’ve only recently discovered, but it’s already proving to be a valuable guide for us gardeners.
Most of us are familiar with the myth of Persephone, the daughter of Zeus and Demeter, the goddess of agriculture. According to Greek mythology, Persephone was abducted by Hades, the god of the underworld. Grief-stricken, Demeter caused the earth to grow barren until a compromise was reached: Persephone would spend four months of the year in the underworld, during which the earth experienced winter, and then return to bring the renewal of spring.
In gardening terms, the Persephone Period begins on the last day of the year with 10 hours of sunlight and ends when daylight hours rise above 10. Across much of the Northern Hemisphere, this period typically spans mid-November to early February. I like to think of it as starting around Samhain, the pagan holiday on November 1, and ending at Imbolc on February 1. Another fitting end point is the lunar new year, which in 2025 falls on January 29.
In Northern California, our Persephone Period is shorter than in regions further north. In Sonoma County, it starts on November 18 and ends today.
The Myth Meets Science
Ornamental flowers blooming nowNarcissus
The Persephone Period isn’t just a poetic reference—it mirrors the biological response of plants to diminishing sunlight. When daylight drops below 10 hours, most plants enter dormancy, conserving energy and resources to survive the colder months. Growth slows or halts entirely, allowing plants to endure harsh conditions and rebound when warmth and light return.
For gardeners, understanding this phenomenon is key to successful planning. During the Persephone Period, it’s best to avoid sowing seeds or transplanting seedlings, as plants struggle to establish themselves while dormant.
TobaccoMiner’s lettuceNative verbena
Timing Is Everything
Here in the San Francisco Bay Area, we’re lucky to have a “secret season” for winter gardening. The key to success is planting seeds well before the Persephone Period begins, giving plants enough time to develop roots and begin growing before sunlight dwindles.
In the past, I assumed planting when rains come in October—or even early November—was sufficient. Snow peas planted in our garden in October yield a crop by February. But Sonoma County Master Gardeners recommends planting winter seeds as early as August or September. This gives plants more time to grow before the Persephone Period slows them down. The downside? Planting in late summer requires consistent watering, often daily or every other day, during the dry months—a challenge for many gardeners.
Our Winter Garden
I’ll admit, I’m not particularly enthusiastic about winter vegetables like carrots or Brussels sprouts—they’re cheap and plentiful at local farmers’ markets. But I do appreciate winter greens. I love being able to harvest greens in the middle of winter. Just now I’m snacking on miner’s lettuce, coming up around the garden. The kale I planted last year has grown to an impressive three feet tall. Birds, especially finches, eat the leaves and so we’ve left those plants for the birds.
CalendulaWooly blue curls
Seasonal Markers
Other plants, too, thrive here even during the Persephone Period. The start of winter rains wakes them up. Here are a few standouts in our winter garden:
Calendulas: Their cheerful, easy-to-grow blooms brighten the garden.
Woolly blue curls: A native plant gifted by a friend, it’s flourishing in our front yard.
Native verbena: A reliable bloomer nearly all year long.
Ornamental flowers: Planted in the fall, they’re still adding a welcome burst of color.
Narcissus: Lovely, though I find their fragrance too overpowering for indoors—I’ve had to move the gifted bouquet outside.
And last week our daffodils started blooming!
Winter may bring shorter days and quieter rhythms, but it also offers its own moments of beauty. Between the blooms in the garden and the bounty of oranges from our old tree, I’ve learned to appreciate the Persephone Period for what it is: a time of rest, resilience, and subtle life persisting through the season’s challenges.
To all a blooming Imbolc and festive Lunar New Year!
My Regular Pagan holiday post:Mysteries of Santaland
Even as a little kid, I was skeptical. The story is preposterous: a jolly rotund man in a red suit operates a workshop at the North Pole where elves make toys for children. On Christmas Eve, he loads them into a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer and delivers gifts to every child in the world by descending through their chimneys.
Did adults really expect us to believe that! How could that fat guy even get down a chimney? And what if you don’t have a chimney? And visiting every child in the world on one night! Give me a break. And how can wingless reindeer fly anyway? Wouldn’t it make more sense to harness a herd of Pegasuses,* or even a flock of owls? My parents were unable to satisfactorily answer these questions.
But it all starts to make sense when you look at the traditions of Arctic indigenous peoples. Turns out, Santa’s origins might involve a bit more…tripping.
Santa is a modern counterpart of a shaman, who consumed mind-altering fungi by drinking the urine of reindeer.
A Ten Thousand Year High
Santa’s story bears striking similarities to the winter solstice practices of Arctic shamans—specifically those of the reindeer herding Koryaks of Siberia and the Sámi of Sápmi (formerly called Lapland) who used hallucinogenic mushrooms in their winter solstice ceremonies. These shamans consumed the mind-altering Amanita muscaria mushroom—the iconic red-and-white fungus often depicted in Christmas decorations—to commune with the spirit world.
Shamanic rituals involving A. muscaria date back over 10,000 years. During Siberian midwinter ceremonies of Annual Renewal, shamans, dressed in red-and-white fur-trimmed coats and tall black boots, gathered the mushrooms from beneath sacred pine trees. These mushrooms are the fruiting bodies of fungi whose mycelial networks interlace with tree roots underground. The association of red mushrooms with green pine trees might explain the colors of Christmas.
Gifts of Vision and Insight
In winter, heavy snow often blocked the doorways of Arctic yurts, forcing shamans to enter through the roof. They slid down the central birch pole, carrying a bag of dried A. muscaria—a probable origin of Santa’s descent through chimneys with a sack of gifts.
Amanita muscaria, found growing under pine trees in Northern California. Photos by author.
After consuming the mushrooms or drinking the urine of reindeer that had eaten them, shamans would enter altered states of consciousness. Amongst the Siberian shamans, the reindeer was an animal spirit to journey with in their vision quests. The gifts shamans brought to their communities included the visions and insights from their psychedelic experiences, as well as portions of the mushrooms themselves.
Flying Reindeer Explained
Reindeer play a crucial role in this story. These animals can eat A. muscaria without suffering its toxic effects, metabolizing the mushroom’s compounds in a way that makes their urine safe—and still hallucinogenic—for humans to consume. Drinking reindeer urine allowed people to experience the mushroom’s psychoactive effects while avoiding its more unpleasant toxins.
The hallucinations induced by A. muscaria often include sensations of flying, contributing to the myth of Santa’s airborne sleigh and reindeer. After ingesting the mushrooms, the shamans were said to experience heightened senses, bursts of energy, the desire to sing, feelings of joy, and increased muscle tone, so any physical effort was easier to perform.
Stockings Hung by the Fire
Indigenous peoples dried their mushrooms on tree branches or by hanging them in socks near fires, practices reminiscent of today’s Christmas stockings. As with many pagan traditions, Christians appropriated these shamanic elements, attributing them to Saint Nicholas, a 4th-century Turkish bishop known for his generosity to children and the needy.
Incidentally, the plural of shaman is shamans, not shamen. There were female shamans among the indigenous peoples, just as there are in many cultures today.
Koryak shaman woman, photo from Jesup North Pacific Expedition 1900. (PD-US)
The Arctic shamans might have been jolly, but probably were not fat. That image was exploited in ad campaigns by Coca cola, starting in 1930 (although folks are mad that the company’s latest AI video ad focuses on trucks instead of Santa).
Mushrooms and Me
My own relationship with mushrooms is one of wonder and deliciousness. Wonder-ful because mushrooms are witchy and mysterious. Scientists estimate that as many as 95% of fungal species on Earth are still unknown! Many mushrooms are associated with particular species of trees, so in learning about ‘shrooms, we learn about the forest and its ecosystem too.
Deliciousness because I’ve foraged, eaten and enjoyed many mushrooms. But A. muscaria is not one of them. The poison is not a deadly one like some of the other Amanitas, but it does make you sick. And while I am curious about hallucinations, I’m not so curious about regurgitations.
Still, A. muscaria fascinates me, not just for its beauty but also for its potential. Recent research explores its psychoactive compounds, muscimol and ibotenic acid, for therapeutic uses. These compounds show promise in treating conditions such as stress, anxiety, insomnia, addiction, and even neurodegenerative diseases like Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s.
Solstice Spirits
As the winter solstice approaches on December 21, I’m reminded of the deep connections between ancient rituals and modern traditions. So, whether you celebrate with a cup of cocoa or an appreciation for fungi, happy solstice to all—and to all a good long night.
*The proper plural of Pegasus is Pegasi but I like Pegasuses better
She is a towering figure, casting mountains by flinging stones from her wicker basket. She is the crone goddess, ancient and wise, with flowing white hair and—some legends say—one eye in the center of her forehead. The Cailleach (pronounced kallyak), the Celtic goddess of winter, seizes control of the earth on November 1, at the pagan festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-in), and reigns until the thaw of spring. She governs the weather, especially storms, and with each step, she shapes the land.
The hag’s face is pale blue, cold like a corpse, her long white hair streaked with frost. Cloaked in a gray plaid, she appears worn by time, yet her power is immense. She is both creator and destroyer, molding the hills and valleys with her hammer, a deity tied to cycles of death and rebirth. Some say she has roots as ancient as the Indian goddess Kali.
As the harbinger of winter, the Cailleach has been feared and revered for centuries. On Imbolc, February 1, she is said to gather firewood for the remainder of winter. If the weather is clear and bright, it’s a sign she intends for the cold to stretch on, collecting plenty of wood to sustain her. But if the day is foul, people sigh in relief—the Cailleach sleeps, and winter’s end is near. Today, we mark this custom with Groundhog Day.
“Winter is coming”—a phrase popularized by Game of Thrones—is not just a warning of seasonal change, but a metaphor for scarcity, hardship, and the potential for conflict. The ominous truth is that winter is always coming, unless we are already in the thick of it. Perhaps, politically, we are.
The looming threat of a Trump presidency feels like the onset of a long, harsh winter. It keeps me awake at night. For decades, Republicons have skewed the game, and I’ve lived long enough to witness it firsthand. From voter suppression to outright vote theft, it’s been an ongoing battle. I was blown away by Greg Palast’s latest documentary, Vigilantes Inc.: America’s New Vote Suppression Hitmen, produced by Martin Sheen, George DiCaprio, and Maria Florio (Oscar, Best Documentary). He exposes the political history of racist Georgia Gov. Brian Kemp and his slave owning family. Stream it for free.
For those unfamiliar with Greg Palast, he’s a freelance journalist with a history of working for the BBC and The Guardian. His investigations predict that MAGA extremists may riot on December 11, the constitutional deadline for states to submit their final lists of electors. You can read more on his site: https://www.gregpalast.com/maga-militants-to-riot-on-december-11/
I’m sending this message before Samhain, hoping these warnings help to thwart the political winter ahead. We may already be in the storm’s grip, but awareness can help us weather it.
For those of you in Sonoma County, I hope you’ll join me at a Democracy Fair, sponsored by the Deep Democracy group of the North Bay Organizing Project. Get voter information about local and state propositions and races. Plus games and prizes! It’s happening this Friday October 18 from 4 to 7pm at the SRJC student center. Registering ahead will help us plan. Here’s the RSVP link: tinyurl.com/deepdemfair. (Apologies to those I’ve already sent this to.)
She was always working on art projects and her friends were often the lucky recipients of her creations. One of her gifts to me was this painting of Bernal Hill viewed from Precita Park where she lived. I lived on the opposite side of the hill. The painting had originally been framed in something she’d found at Scrap, but it fell apart over time. Recently, I rediscovered it in the garage and had it reframed. Now it’s hanging on the kitchen wall, and it’s a beautiful way to remember both Mary and our beloved San Francisco neighborhood.
Sending Samhain greetings to all.
Love, Molly (and Holly)
The top photo is by David Mirlea on Unsplash (having trouble with captions)
You can shake your fist at heaven, you can file your appeal
You can try to rise above it, you can crawl and you can kneel
No matter what life gives you, no matter what you steal
You cannot stop the turning of the wheel
Chorus from Jennifer Berezan’s song Turning of the Wheel
Naked ladies (Amaryllis belladonna), a ubiquitous and favorite fall flower
Sitting out in our yard on a lovely evening at the ides of August, Holly and I luxuriated in the garden’s summer radiance. The day was cooling as the sun retreated. Colorful zinneas and cone flowers bloomed and the fragrance of the rockrose bush enveloped us. Hummingbirds zipped back and forth. Finches and oak titmice populated the feeder. Towhees scratched the ground as mourning doves bobbed and cooed. It was a perfect summer evening.
But as we sat in our twin rockers, we both said, almost in unison, “I’m looking forward to the turning of the seasons.”
Summer, with its long, warm days and bountiful harvests, has been beautiful, but we’re ready for the change. Holly says that humans evolved with the rhythm of change, and that’s why we appreciate the wheel of the year turning.
Now, with the autumn equinox upon us, the new season begins. Pagans call this time Mabon, after the Welsh God who is the son of the Earth Mother Goddess.
Recently, I learned about the lunistice, the moment when the moon seems to pause, similar to the way the sun appears to stop at solstices before shifting direction. It’s a fascinating event, though hard to observe unless you track the moon regularly.
The major lunar standstill is marked by observing the extreme points where the moon rises and sets on the horizon, akin to watching the sun at solstices. Just as the sun’s position reaches its furthest northern and southern points at solstice, the moon does something similar every 18.6 years during a maximum lunistice—an event that occurs near equinoxes and eclipses, and it’s happening now!
This 18.6-year cycle is due to the moon’s orbital tilt and the gravitational pull of the sun, causing the moon’s orbit to swivel and vary its angle relative to Earth.
Excited, I reached out to the folks at Ferguson Observatory at Sugarloaf State Park to learn more. I was intrigued by the idea of “maximum lunistice,” thinking it sounded particularly special. But I learned something surprising: the minimum lunistices are actually more significant, especially in relation to tides.
The Observatory explained that during maximum lunistices, the moon is furthest from the celestial equator, resulting in less dramatic tides. However, minimum lunistices bring larger tides because the moon is closer to the equator’s gravitational bulge. But since “maximum” sounds more impressive, it tends to get more attention. The next minimum lunistice won’t be until 2034.
At an Old Lesbians retreat in the Mayacamas mountains as a group of us stargazed, I attempted to explain this lunar phenomenon but stumbled over the details. Honestly, I don’t fully grasp it myself. Yet, here’s what’s clear: ancient peoples understood this cycle.
Bronze Age societies, like those who constructed the megalithic monuments in Britain and Ireland, placed great significance on lunar standstills. Modern Neopagan religions find meaning in them too. Ancient cultures beyond the British Isles also recognized these events—sites like Chaco Canyon in New Mexico, Chimney Rock in Colorado, and the Hopewell sites in Ohio all feature alignments to the moon during lunar standstills.
As I write this, the full supermoon is rising with a partial lunar eclipse. The turning of the celestial wheel continues to fascinate us, just as it did our ancestors.
I’d like to call back summertime and have her stay for just another month or so
But she’s got the urge for going so I guess she’ll have to go.
From Joni Mitchell’s song Urge for Going
One of my favorite Joni Mitchell songs, Urge for Going, laments “summertime falling down.” Joni was thinking about snow and cold and pulling the blankets up to her chin. She sang, “All that stays is dying and all that lives is getting out.” But she was singing about winter coming in Canada. In California when I think about winter coming I think rain, which makes plants start to grow in the outdoors. It brings mushrooms, grass, new leaves and flowers. The cold coastal summer fog falls away and dust is dampend.
David Douglas, the Scottish botanist who traveled in North America in the 1830s (after whom the Douglas fir and other plants were named) remarked on how dead the Sonoma area was in summer. He collected plants in the winter and spring when they were growing and flowering.
These are some of the reasons we here in summer-dry California exclaim with anticipation “Winter’s coming!”
The autumn equinox takes place Sunday September 22. Wishing you all a fabulous fall season.
Lewisia, a native in our garden, named for Meriwether Lewis who encountered the species in 1806
tradeswomn musings 