Rituals for the Autumnal Equinox

Here in the central Coast Range Mountains of California, where I live, the Wheel of the Year is quite different from most other places in which Druidry is typically practiced. In order for my personal practice of Druidry to authentically connect with the land, sea, and sky with which I live, it was necessary to rewrite the Wheel of the Year and develop a completely new set of seasonal rituals, which honored our local spirits of place, and the wisdom embodied by the natural seasons and cycles, found here.

The following activities are those which I perform, with family, on or about the day of the Autumnal Equinox, in a dormant, outdoor wild-space — unless smoky air-quality proves too dangerous, in which case it is performed indoors at my altar, aside from the act of offerings of food and water to local wildlife, which must be done outside.


I come to the Sacred Grove today to celebrate the Autumn Equinox, a time of balance between darkness and light that is shared by all living beings on Earth. It is also a time of dramatic change in weather, all over the world. This shared experience, of perfect balance coupled with rapid change serves to unite all beings of planet Earth, despite our many differences.

Here in the Coast Range mountains of Northern California, autumn is the Season of Fire.

As the sun continues its journey southward toward its winter home, the icy Pacific upwelling stops, and summer fogs disperse. Temperatures near the coast now soar, and tinder-dry brush and trees, stressed by the summer-long drought, catch light. Smoky wildfires ravage the land, killing flora and fauna, and destroying forests, fields, and homes.

Though the obvious face of Fire Season is one of destruction, the Power of Fire is also a force of cleansing and renewal. Fire clears space for new growth. It enriches the soil with its ash. And it serves to remind us of our duties, as stewards of the land.

In times of dearth, when Nature fails to provide for our immediate needs, it is the responsibility of wise stewards to provide a Plan B. It is up to us to be prepared, to keep stores of seed, and water, and food, so that we can provide for our beloved kin until the season of suffering ends. Until the arrival of the winter rains, we can help our kindred Beings of land and sea and sky by sharing a bit of our stored water and food, and offering up our heartfelt prayers for the return of the autumn rains.


Read aloud, and re-enact the story, “Singing Down the Rain”

Refresh and restock all emergency supplies; review all emergency preparedness procedures for home and family.

Set out water offerings for the local wildlife. Keep the water bins clean, fresh, and filled throughout the duration of Fire Season.

Lesson from a Mama Woodrat

We’ve been working over the past dozen plus years on a Native California ecosystem restoration project on our 1/3-acre property, and over the past two years, developing an organic fruit/veggie mini-farm, with small growing areas interspersed with the native habitat area. So, we are both providing for ourselves, and the wildlife. Last week, we discovered a nest with five baby grey-brown rats, and a mama rat in attendance.


I am sure that popular opinion is that their first appearance should be met immediately with the Dalek-like exclamation: “EXTERMINATE!” followed by outright war. Especially when one is seen among human food-growing beds. As farmers we only wanted to keep them out of our food. As parents of a young child, we were also concerned with the safety against disease-vector potential for our inquisitive boy.

But as druids, we also wanted to respect the life of a devoted mother with newborn babies.  She was trying so hard to be a GOOD mother. And her babies barely had eyes open. And they were put here by Nature, just as I was. And Nature does have a way of keeping pests in balance: owls, hawks, coyotes, etc.

Our solution: we waited until afternoon, when the temps had cooled a bit, and daylight was still strong. Then, we removed the “roof” of their nesting place (boards covering the underground watering system controls), to make them feel exposed and uncomfortable — but with a running head-start before our resident owls go hunting tonight. Then, we went in to dinner. By the time dinner was over, mama rat had relocated her babies to a less inconvenient location for us.

Or so we thought.

The following day, in bright, sunny, blistering heat, I saw the mama out and about, hunting for food and/or water with an air of desperation (they are normally nocturnal) — around the perimeter of our blueberry patch.  She still had not managed to find her way through our veggie-bed hardware-cloth cages, but she was studying them, and I do believe she was working out the math.

So, what was a Druid to do?

Answer: Refuse to panic or take action in a knee-jerk response prompted by fear. Instead, adopt a meditative state of carefully observant, reverent behavior, and consider all options. Watch and listen, and phrase our questions carefully:

NOT: “Eeeek! What is it!?! How do I get rid of it?!?”

BUT: “Hello! Who are you? Why did you come here? What are you trying to accomplish? Can we find a way to live and work peaceably, together?”

It was only upon taking this approach that we discovered, upon closer inspection, that we did not actually have a brown RAT (Rattus Norvegicus — below, on right), but a dusky-footed WOOD RAT (Neotoma Fuscipes — below, on left). And the difference is huge — even though they look very similar, at first glance:

Neotoma Fuscipes (California dusky-footed woodrats) are solitary creatures, except during breeding (once or twice per year), whereas Rattus Norvegicus (brown rats) species live in groups, and breed continuously.

Neotoma Fuscipes are clean animals, pooping only outside of their nests, in dedicated latrines, and using partly-chewn leaves of aromatic plants like Bay Laurel, to keep their nests free of parasites like fleas (and the diseases they carry), whereas Rattus species are dirty animals, and pose serious disease-vector problems.

Neotoma Fuscipes has an important role in our local ecology, eating leaves and acorns, and fungi, and thereby spreading the mycorrhizae critical to the health and longevity of the native plants of our area, whereas rattus species are merely pests and dangers, eating everyone’s gardens, garbage, and pet food.

Finally, Neotoma Fuscipes are just plain PRETTIER than Rattus species: bigger ears and eyes, softer, glossier coats, and furry tails.

More info on the Neotoma Fuscipes can be found at:


Yes, she might eat a bit of our veggies, now and  again, but she is unlikely to breed out of control, or spread diseases to her neighbors (us). So, Mama Wood Rat is welcome to stay.

With our blessings.

Rituals for the Summer Solstice

Here in the central Coast Range Mountains of California, where I live, the Wheel of the Year is quite different from most other places in which Druidry is typically practiced. In order for my personal practice of Druidry to authentically connect with the land, sea, and sky with which I live, it was necessary to rewrite the Wheel of the Year and develop a completely new set of seasonal rituals, which honored our local spirits of place, and the wisdom embodied by the natural seasons and cycles, found here.

The following ritual activities are those which I perform alone, on or about the day of the Summer Solstice, in an outdoor wild-space, surrounded by drippy, morning fog – preferably surrounded by giant, coast redwoods.


I come to the Sacred Grove today to celebrate Summer Solstice, time of longest light, when the sun reaches its northern-most position, and reverses its course along the horizon, with days now shortening, as we head back towards winter.

Here in the Coast Range mountains of Northern California, summer is the Season of Fog.

While the sun is in its summer home, it creates a Pacific high-pressure zone that sends us our summer westerly winds. As those winds approach our shores, they push aside the surface waters of the ocean, allowing a powerful upward surge of icy water from the depths.  As damp ocean breezes reach our shores, the chill of this icy upwelling causes the moisture to precipitate, giving birth to the Great Fog Bank of summer.

But the ways in which we experience that fog will vary with the microclimate in which we happen to live. Those who reside near the mountain gaps may find themselves surrounded by mist on most days. Those farther inland, who are more protected by the coast range mountains, may never see a wisp. And in all cases, the weather changes with the cyclical surge and retreat of summer fog.

Within the quiet stillness enforced by the thick grey veil of fog that blankets the world, I find myself drawn to the world within, where quiet stillness may always be found, and the voice of Divine Wisdom may be heard.


Holy Book of Nature, teach me;
Holy Powers of Nature, guide me,
While I kindle Inner Light.

Enter a state of receptive meditation, connecting with the Holy Powers of Nature and the Spirits of Place, and then, quietly close eyes, and enter the World Within, watching and listening for revealed wisdom, throughout the journey. When the inner journey is complete, return to the physical world.


Using found objects along the coast or in the forest, create a work of nature art, exploring, expressing, and meditating upon any new insights discovered during the journey in the World Within.

Summarize the results of these meditations in the form of crafts, stories, poems, or songs.


Lesson from Mr. & Mrs. Bewick Wren


A few weeks ago, the tiniest little Bewick wren I ever saw flew out of a bush and sat on the fence while I snipped some kale for dinner, peeping at me continually, to let me know that this bit of the yard was his, that he was watching me, and that he was NOT AFRAID of me! I wondered: should I be afraid of him?

So I introduced myself, and reassured him that I would never harm him or his family, and that he was welcome to my mini-farm as hunting ground.

A couple of weeks later, I discovered that he and the Mrs. had discovered that they can squeeze through the holes of our 1″ mesh hardware cloth (which protects our crops from rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, and crows), and inside, they have found a completely protected location in which to vacuum up pest bugs for us. Top tier restaurant dining, that!

This morning, they came to our garden with their kid.  The three of them feeding voraciously on the caterpillars that have started pestering our caged and ripening blueberries.  Mr. Bewick even came by the window to peek in and say hello.

This is the essence of a thriving gift-economy at work: we work to offer them a protected hunting ground in the mini-farm area of our yard, and nesting sites in the restored native ecosystem; they work to keep the pest population down for us.  A lovely alliance.


Lesson from a Redwood Grandmother


Earlier this week, I drove through a wall of fog to visit the coast redwoods of Muir Woods. They were sparkling in the full glory of their pale-green new growth for the year. And one of them beckoned me to touch her, and learn the reason why she lived so long: though the bulk of her body was strong and tall and tough and protective, her new growth was not merely pliable (as in other evergreens I have met), but the softest, most delicate plant tissue I have ever encountered — far softer than a human infant’s skin. It was like touching warm water. Fluid, gentle, inviting.

It is an odd combination of qualities of character that I think humans would do well to cultivate, too.