Queen Anne's Lace

I have been following along with Christopher Penczak's The Temple of Shamanic Witchcraft book all this year, having started the year-and-a-day course within it on the first of January; I figured it was a good place to start, even though I've been doing a good deal of what is in there on my own. It can be good to have a structure, and even some rules once in a while, even if one just throws out those rules later. (The same goes for art, of course.) Also it looked pretty balanced and that I'd get a good taste of things by following it.

So this month the lesson in part has been about plants, and journeying to find the 'medicine' they have for you. I have some problems with that terminology because it does strike me as appropriative of Native American traditions; however there isn't really an equivalent word in English that has all the nuances of it used in that context, so.

Last week or so I did a journey to connect with a plant, one whose 'medicine' was 'correct and good for me at this time', as Penczak suggests; what I got was Queen Anne's lace, Daucus carota, the wild carrot, as well as the word Sovereignty and a connection to the Goddess Áine of the Irish, which was especially interesting as I didn't know She was a sovereignty Goddess until I looked it up afterwards.

As that, however, just felt like an introduction, yesterday I sat down with some Queen Anne's lace I'd picked and painted it. And let me tell you that is one freakin' complicated flower. It's more or less a fractal, with the spray pattern of the main umbel repeated in the smaller ones. The finished art is pretty impressionistic, but there's only so much detail I can get in that particular style. Still, though, I think it came out pretty good. It's certainly recognizable, and that's the important part.

When I finished painting last night I put some of my really-very-mild honeysuckle flying ointment on and counted down. I haven't actually tried drumming myself; I have this feeling the movement will keep me on the surface. I really do have to be able to be still to get into trance, at least in my experience so far. I have tried to listen to a drumming track, and I'll say it certainly worked. Far too well. When I was done I couldn't make a fist I was so relaxed, though I was simultaneously sort of anxious, because the drumbeat was too fast. It didn't feel exhilarating; it felt like I was being chased by something big and nasty. And from the point of view of someone recovering from abuse, i.e. being prey my whole life, that was a definite no. At least for now.

So anyhow there I was by the Tree, and there was that spirit husband of mine. And there he was, and there I was and there was honeysuckle ointment on my third eye and wrists and damn but didn't he look good and so after a bit of distraction because, well, side effects, he took me around back to the little herb garden. I swear. It's kind of hilarious. I mean not that I need help finding the man attractive, Holy Mother of the Gods I really don't. But sheesh.

So he takes my hand (my left in his right, as usual) and leads me to a spot in the little herb garden by the Tree, the one with the brick circle-in-a-square; and there in the hottest driest sunniest spot of the garden, is a Queen Anne's lace plant. It is quite robust, a good four feet tall.

I sit down in front of it on the bricks; he sits behind me and I lean on him a bit. I look at the flower. I have never heard of anyone cultivating it as an ornamental, and I wonder why. It is really very beautiful, and just in the Googling around I did looking at pictures I can see that sometimes each little cluster has a pink or purple tinge to the center. I'll bet some hybridizer could really bring that out, as well as make the umbels like ten inches across. But as far as I know no one has. I suppose they've bred it for the carrot root, and I also know that it is a fine thing sometimes to leave well enough alone, and that the idea of it is, if not insulting in some ways, simply unnecessary. It is wild, and beautiful, and that is enough. I still wonder, though.

I ask if it would like to talk to me; I don't get anything, though I can feel that it is a she, although maybe that is just the name. I tell her I have made a little picture of her and I hope she finds it pleasing.

I think I faintly hear just a little bit of giggling. She's named after a queen, but there is also something a little bit like a child playing dress-up to her, too. Maybe it's the connection with the common carrot, I don't know. But she feels more like a princess than a queen to me. It is an interesting dynamic; there is, if not a contradiction to her, a complexity.

Suddenly I get a picture of her, something in motion; I watch each flower head explode, like a firework, then each little piece of that first explosion also explode. And then I See it: it's not a firework. It's the Big Bang, the explosion from which the Universe was made. The main umbel is the Universe; each secondary one a galaxy; each tiny little white flower a star. And the single dark flower in the center is reminder that it all begins in darkness, with the Void.

Then I watch it ungrow, the flower closing up into a bud, and the stem and leaves withdrawing down down into the ground; and then there is the root of her, the tough woody thing that fights its way through the poorest soil here in New England.

When I can find the words I ask, "How do you heal?"

She says without words, By growing a deep root so strong it enables me to stand tall as myself. Ah. That goes with 'sovereignty' quite well, doesn't it.

She then says The only way to disentangle complexity is to learn it, to really understand it by looking at it.

I realize that her flower head is also a symbol for the labyrinth, that complexity within, the journey into the dark and the Self; she connects the outer and inner, the higher and lower, the delicate and the tough, the macrocosm and microcosm, the light and the dark, the Universe and the Labyrinth.

After that just as suddenly I find myself looking again at this ubiquitous wildflower, one which is yet another introduced species in these parts, and don't think I haven't noticed that the invasive European plants are the ones asking for my attention. I am, I suppose, descended from invasive Europeans myself.

I bought carrots this week. That sounds silly, but it is an old, old, magic; for eating something is a way to take its essence into you. I don't care for them too much, I will admit, especially cooked; but, there at the end of this vision I get the suggestion that I should make some carrot cake. I think about it; I have all the ingredients, even cream cheese for the proper frosting. I am to bless it, and make it with intent, as taking the 'medicine' of the wild carrot into myself.

I thank her then, and as offering breathe on her, as both the gift of carbon dioxide and a little of my own life-energy, my spirit. I think she is pleased.