incubate: autumnal whispers

listening to the earth shift

last weekend I arrived home from a trip to central washington where I spent some time hiking and camping. immersed in nature’s orb, with no cell service or web, I couldn’t help but observe the slight brisk inhale at the river’s edge, the yellow splotches of leaf against evergreen, and my freezing purple fingers at the mountain’s peak. the desire for fire, soup, and roasted root tea over-taking, and the giddyness that ensues from a sunny fall drive.

after spending the day unpacking, I took to a trail by my cabin - listening for whispers. though inspired by books I’ve been reading, practitioners I’ve been listening to, and the days spent hermiting by glacial lakes, there lives this tension in the center of my body that has yet to ease. if you’ve ever worked in the service industry, I equate it to having a dinner shift at 4PM and being utterly unable to start anything before you go in.

I think this feeling largely comes from knowing I have some big changes afoot: moving across the country in roughly 40 days. consequently, it feels nearly impossible to start anything right now. ideas for new tea blends, tinctures, flower essences, and starting the journey to teaching classes float around in my brain for ara — and at this time of year when I feel most inspired to be creating these offerings, I feel like I have a shift at the restaurant I gotta get to.

I’m thinking about the local farms in my new location that I’ll want to connect with, the type of community I want to build or join, and the time it will take to get reacquainted with my immediate surroundings. some part of me feels like I should still push forward, pretend this shift isn’t occurring, put out new products and continue this little business as usual. But when my work centers completely on the environment around me, it feels a bit disjointed to do so.

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on my walk, I ask the trees for their advice. and the word I keep hearing is:

incubate

to incubate is to sit, in most cases of the word, on eggs until they are ready to hatch. it is to keep something safe and warm so that it can grow under the right conditions, so that it can one day emerge, healthy and new.

I think about incubating and hibernating on the rest of my walk, feeling my surroundings naturally dying back at this time of year. bears returning to their dens, the plants withering, leaves falling, and energy redirected to roots.

it’s rare that we honor this innate occurrence in nature within ourselves, in many cases tending toward the opposite - busy holiday seasons, gifts and plans and flights booked.

to sit with candle light, to honor the dark and liminal space between worlds is not something our culture supports, but it is undoubtedly the way we’re intrinsically wired. we are mirrored in nature.

I’m coming to accept my predicament, resolving to google-doc my ideas and to do’s if nothing else than to get them down on paper so they can stop living in my brain. I draft emails, take last local orders and communicate my departure. I think of ways I can still be present during this period, ways of showing up through this newsletter, while still honoring the incubation.

finally, I take my eggs and tuck them under, adjust myself to a proper sit, and look ahead to the hatching.

::

as we move closer to the cold, dark season, what are some ways you can be in relationship to this time? here are some ideas —

~ collect rowan berries and string them on thread while watching your favorite autumnal film. hang them in your home, in your car, or anywhere you need added protection

~ harvest hawthorn berries with a friend or alone, listening to what arrives

~ create apple magic - apple pie, apple cider, apple charms

~ start your fire cider (ours will be ready soon)

~ harvest and freeze elderberries for winter syrups

~ look up some ancestral recipes and try making something new. leave a small portion on your altar if you have one.

~ draw a bath and sprinkle some fun herbs on top - I love rose petals & chamomile

~ sit by candlelight for one hour each evening, without any other electricity. journal, read, or observe the flame

thank you for being here. if you’d like to shop our products, you can do so here. if you like this newsletter, feel free to subscribe and share with a friend.

xx,

britt