Plants and Herbs

Plum Folklore and Magical Uses

J.

In autumn of last year, my Handsome Assistant and I planted a plum tree. As we work on getting rid of the lawn in the backyard chunk by chunk, we’re replacing those chunks with tree guilds. We couldn’t decide what kind of fruit tree we wanted for that space — it had to be a dwarf variety, and it needed good disease resistance. If the fruit didn’t need a lot of processing to be edible, so much the better. I was torn between a sand pear and a cherry, but, in the end, we went with a beautiful little Pershore yellow egg plum (Prunus domestica).

Right now, it’s shed its pretty white flowers to leave behind a number of tiny green plums-to-be. While I was looking up ways to protect at least some of the fruit from the other yard denizens, I got caught up reading about some very interesting plum facts and folklore.

Plum Magical Properties and Folklore

Plums have an interesting reputation across multiple cultures. They’re harbingers of spring, protectors against evil, and cultivators of romantic love.

When used as wood for wands, plum is said to be useful for healing. This may tie back to the idea of plums as promoters of vitality (and even immortality — ). Since plum trees also banish evil, plum wood wands are suitable for pretty much all magical workings.

In China, plum (Prunus mume) is one of the Four Gentlemen, along with orchid, bamboo, and chrysanthemum. The plum blossom’s five petals represent the five blessings of good luck, fortune, longevity, and joi, and wealth. Plum blossoms are also symbols of resilience, since they bloom so early — well before the last of the winter snow has melted away.

The plum blossom is one of the national symbols of Taiwan.

In Japan, plum trees are symbol of elegance and purity. They’re also charms against evil and are often planted in the northeastern area of gardens as a protective talisman.

White plum blossoms on a black twig.
Photo by Cats Coming on Pexels.com

Pershore, Worcestershire, has a designated Plum Charmer. This person plays music to the plum trees during the summer in order keep spirits away and ensure a good harvest. (This probably also has the effect of shooing hungry birds and squirrels away, which ensures that fewer plums get nibbled on!)

Unfortunately, good plum harvests are a bit of a double-edged sword. It was also said that plentiful plums mean cholera is sure to follow. (Cholera is caused by the bacterium Vibrio cholerae. Most human cholera cases are caused by consuming food or water contaminated with infected feces, and fruits in general [with the exception of sour fruits] are a potential vector for cholera when they’re prepared by someone affected by V. cholerae.)

I wasn’t able to find much information on plums as a fruit for love, other than the general ideal that any sweet, juicy fruit is suitable for love workings (or as offerings to deities of love and beauty). The blossoms are associated with beauty and marriage, however, and the coverlet on a bridal bed is sometimes referred to as a plum blossom blanket.

Overall, plums are a boundary tree. They’re planted in gardens to be a ward against evil. They bloom on the narrow line between winter and spring. This makes them a useful, surprisingly versatile plant to grow and work with — they seem to function as a way to keep unwanted influences at bay, clearing the way for whatever you want to accomplish.

Plums are associated with the elements of Water and Air, as well as the planet Venus.

Using Plums and Plum Wood

Naturally, you could grow a plum tree and request that it guard your space, but that might require quite an investment of time, money, and room. Since plums are associated with keeping evil away, one easy way to make use of them is to hang a windfall plum branch over your front and back doors.

As far as love workings go, the simplest way to use plums there is to share one with a partner (or partner-to-be). For this, I’d probably choose a plum with a deep red flesh and a sort of heart (or, let’s be real, butt) shape. Of course, as with any love working, you’ll only want to do this with a consenting partner. Nobody likes to be sideswiped by a love spell.

Red plums nestled amid plum leaves.
Like these. Photo by ALINA MATVEYCHEVA on Pexels.com

Plums are stunningly beautiful trees with lovely, delicately scented blossoms. This year, it looks like we’ll be fortunate enough to be graced with plum fruit, too. While I don’t have any windfall branches or evil spirits to keep away, I am looking forward to plenty of preserves this summer.

Plants and Herbs, Witchcraft

Bluebell Folklore and Magical Uses

J.

Hello! How’re you doing?

I sprained my ankle a little bit ago when I made the foolhardy error of trying to get my mail. This has, as you can imagine, somewhat curtailed my adventures. (Well, with the exception of going to see Whose Live Anyway at Warner Theater. Shoutout to the lady who let us go in through the lounge so I wouldn’t have to walk as much! I hope you experience a series of small, comfortable miracles.)

Fortunately, I’ve got plenty to get up to at home. For example, right now, the yard is filled with flowers. Many, I planted — moss phlox, strawberries, blueberries, apple blossoms, pear blossoms — and many I didn’t. I expected to see the same violets, dandelions, and stars of Bethlehem that I saw last year. What I did not expect was all of the bluebells.

We didn’t have bluebells last year.

I didn’t plant bluebells.

Whycome bluebells?

The particular species we have right now seems to be Spanish bluebell (Hyacinthoides hispanica). I know it probably isn’t English bluebell (H. non-scripta) and definitely isn’t native Virginia bluebell (Mertensia virginica). Nonetheless, they’re delightful little flowers and I’m enjoying them. They don’t seem to be stealing space or resources from anything but the grass that I’m systematically attempting to assassinate anyway at the moment, so they can stay for now.

A pair of small Spanish bluebells growing in a patch of clover.

(Spanish bluebells are a bigger issue in the UK, where they’re more likely to be invasive and can hybridize easily with — and eventually displace — native H. non-scripta. The bluebells we have here won’t hybridize, however, as they’re not closely related at all.)

Either way, I’m always in search of new plants to study and write about, so the appearance of these guys is pretty fortunate — I haven’t really looked into bluebells before this, and I like that they’re demanding my attention now.

Bluebell Magical Properties and Folklore

Bluebells are strongly associated with faeries. The fae were believed to ring them, just like you would a metal bell, in order to call other faeries.

However, should you hear the soft tinkling of bells when you’re near bluebells, watch out — anyone who hears the bluebells ring was said to experience the death of a loved one soon after.

This connection to faerie magic is also why it was considered unwise to pick a bluebell. Anyone foolish enough to do so put themselves at risk of being cursed or led astray by the faeries.

A similar, but unrelated, plant is known as the harebell, witch’s bell, or Scottish bluebell (Campanula rotundifolia). These flowers get their name because hares frequent fields of them. It was even said that witches would disguise themselves as hares and conceal themselves amidst the harebells.

It has been a frequent complaint, from old times, as well as in the present, that certain hags in Wales, as well as in Ireland and Scotland, changed themselves into the shape of hares, that sucking teats under this counterfeit form, they might stealthily rob other people’s milk.”

Gerard of Wales, Topographica Hibernica

(It’s weird how much traditional witchcraft reportedly revolved around stealing milk. Case in point, the tilberi.)

These bluebells were also known as “the aul’ man’s bell,” where the “old man” in question is the Christian Devil.

Blue and violet English bluebells.
English bluebells, photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

Bluebells are also connected to love magic. This seems to be largely due to the fact that they’re tenacious, bulb-growing plants. They even send out contractile roots that allow them to sort of “burrow” into the soil where there’s more moisture and protection. As a result, they come back year after year and are considered a symbol of enduring love.

They’re also used for a kind of love magic. Should you be able to brave the faeries’ wrath, pick a single bluebell flower, and turn it inside out without tearing it, you could ensure that your true love returned your affections.

Bluebells are related to hyacinths, and, like hyacinths, they actually can come in a variety of colors — pale to deep blue, violet, and pink. As with other flowers that come in many colors, their colors do, to an extent, dictate their potential magical uses. Pink flowers, as a rule, are useful for love magic. This can be attracting new love, strengthening an existing love, or even just helping with emotional healing and self-love. Purple flowers, crystals, and such are commonly used for more mystical, psychic, or divinatory pursuits, as well as ambition and success. Blue flowers and the like are helpful in rituals for healing, peace, truth, and emotional understanding.

Speaking of which, putting a wreath of bluebells around a person’s neck was said to compel them to speak only the truth.

While bluebells produce a wide range of compounds with potential medical uses, this is one of those situations where there’s a fine line between “medicine” and “poison.” Some of these compounds may be the next line of anticancer drugs, if they’re properly standardized. If you just straight-up eat bluebells, however, you’re setting yourself up for an evening of nausea, pain, and heart rhythm disturbances. Possibly even a long nap on the wrong side of the grass.

Today, bluebells are considered an ancient woodland indicator. This means that they’re commonly found thriving on the floors of old growth forests.

Bluebells and ferns on a forest floor.
Photo by Jocelyn Erskine-Kellie on Pexels.com

In Victorian floriography, the “language of flowers,” bluebells represented kindness.

Bluebells are associated with the planet Saturn and the Moon, as well as the element of Air.

Using Bluebells

Overall, the message of the bluebells seems to be pretty clear: They’re beautiful, they can represent things like kindness, resilience, and everlasting love… and if you pick them, you’re screwed.

(No, seriously. Depending on where you live, if the faeries don’t get you, the legality of picking wild bluebells might.)

I’ve found several references to drying bluebells and keeping them in the bedroom, but not any definitive reason to do this. Presumably, this may tie into bluebell’s association with peace or love magic. It definitely seems to be either a peaceful dream thing, a romantic love thing, or a “do this to dream of your lover” thing.

Bluebells could theoretically be offered to faeries or other nature spirits. However, since this would involve picking the bluebells first, they might interpret it more like the horse head scene in The Godfather. A much safer bet would be to designate an area of your garden for the faeries and keep an offering of potted bluebells there instead.

If you’re in the United States, you may want to consider planting native bluebells in your garden. Should you choose to work with English or Spanish bluebells, do so conscientiously — avoid planting them directly in the soil, as their sheer resiliency means that they can become invasive under the right circumstances.

All told, I’d recommend enjoying bluebells as they are, as harbingers of faeries, reservoirs of nectar for pollinators, and indicators of ancient forests. These are one plant that is best worked with in situ, rather than picked, dried, and added to a spell.

animals, Neodruidry, Witchcraft

Egg Folklore and Magical Uses

J.

Hello! If you’re in the US, hopefully you enjoyed the eclipse on Monday. I spent most of it enjoying the lovely weather, painting my porch, and experiencing the very surreal feeling of an eclipse-dimmed sun.

The family of crows who hangs out here all came to rest in the maple tree in the backyard. (I read that zoos had noted that the eclipse affected animal behavior, and some birds seemed to be agitated by this bit of celestial disruption. I’m guessing these guys figured it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to spend the eclipse in a place they knew came with food, water, and safety.) So, once the porch was finished, I spent the rest of the time relaxing, reflecting, and feeding them hardboiled eggs.

This, and the recent Spring Equinox, got me thinking about the folklore and magical properties of eggs. I don’t eat them, myself, but they’re rich with symbolism and certainly deserve a look.

Egg Magical Properties and Folklore

In ancient Greek Orphism, there was the Orphic Egg. This was an egg, usually depicted with a serpent coiled around it, from which hatched the primordial deity Phanes.

Ancient Egypt had their own concept of a cosmic egg not unlike the Orphic Egg. There was a cosmic goose called the Great Honker (Gengen-Wer) who laid a world egg, from which the Sun and Earth hatched.

In Hinduism, there are multiple mentions of eggs. The Hiranyagarbha is similar in concept the world/cosmic egg. In one tradition, the creator deity Brahma emerged from the egg and created the world. The Shatapatha Brahmana mentions another creation story, in which the Prajapati reproduces himself, releases the waters of the world, transforms into an egg to enter the waters, then emerges from the egg to make the Earth, sky, and middle regions. In Garuda Purana, Vishnu was born from a golden egg.

A small dish of spotted quail eggs on a checkered tablecloth.
Photo by Mikhail Nilov on Pexels.com

Eggs are a strong recurring theme and metaphor for creation across cultures, and they’re also associated with the Sun. In Egypt, the Sun was sometimes conceptualized as an egg. In Australia, some Indigenous Australian peoples held that the Sun was produced during a fight between birds. Brolga the dancing crane and Dinewan the emu quarreled, and Brolga grabbed one of Dinewan’s eggs and tossed it from its nest. The egg struck a piece of wood, freeing the yolk from the shell and catching it aflame. This flaming yolk stayed in the heavens as the Sun.

In Europe, eggs were also a symbol of creation, birth, and fertility. French brides would break eggs to ensure a swift pregnancy. German farmers would rub egg yolks on their ploughs to transfer the egg’s fertility to their fields.

As in Australia and Egypt, eggs were also associated with the Sun in much of Europe. This, however, seems largely to do with the fact that both return at the same time. Most of Australia and Egypt have milder winters, but winters in much of Europe can be pretty harsh. The Spring Equinox marks the beginning of spring and longer, warmer days, which is also when birds start laying again. Even modern chickens, who’ve been selectively bred to produce far more eggs far more often, will take a break in winter if they aren’t “tricked” with supplemental lighting. Chickens literally need the Sun or eggs don’t happen!

A paperboard container of pastel-colored eggs.
Photo by ROMAN ODINTSOV on Pexels.com

Slavic egg decorating further connects eggs with the Sun, and is the source of modern Easter egg traditions. Slavic Paganism has a Sun deity named Dabog (or Dazibogu, Dazhbog, Dazhboh, Daždźboh…). Birds were his chosen creatures, for only they could get close to him. Eggs, therefore, are intimately connected to both the Sun deity, and the return of warmer weather and the fertility of animals and the land in spring. Decorating eggs was a way to honor this. The simplest form of decorated eggs, a single solid color, are to be blessed and eaten, conferring the blessing to the consumer. More elaborate designs are for ritual or amuletic purposes.

Eggs are frequently used for cleansing. In Brujeria, they’re a key component of huevo limpia — egg cleansing. Egg cleanses are also a part of Hoodoo. Sometimes, these eggs have certain restrictions imposed on them by the practitioner. For example, the egg may need to come from a specific color of hen, and be laid before noon.

Using Eggs

Using eggs can be as simple as boiling, blessing, and eating them. They’re a traditional food for spring festivals. Though I don’t eat them myself, when I end up with some, I offer them to the birds during their breeding season. The extra protein and calcium seem to be very much appreciated.

Eggs can also be a vehicle for container magic, albeit a delicate one. To do this, make a small hole at both ends of the eggshell without shattering it. Blow through the hole to push the yolk and albumen into a separate container. Use the now-hollow egg to hold dried herbs, petition papers, or other spell materials. Hang the egg from a tree branch with a bit of twine or ribbon. When the egg eventually breaks, the spell will be released.

As with Slavic decorated eggs, you can also decorate egg shells for ritual or amuletic purposes. (For this, you may actually want to use a ceramic or wooden egg instead of a real one — whole eggs will rot, and hollowed-out eggs are very fragile.) Decorate it with wax and dye, decoupage, beadwork, painting, or, if you use wood eggs, pyrography. Choose symbols that relate to the egg’s significance to your practice — creation, fertility, birth, abundance, and so forth. Carry one with you as an amulet, or use them as altar decorations or ritual power objects.

You don’t need to buy or eat eggs to be able to work with their powerful symbolism. Purchase ones made of ceramic or wood, or you can make your own using air-dry clay or papier-mâché. They represent the earliest, oldest magic — the creation of the world, the cosmos, and everything that is. Eggs are the infinite seed of creation, and a very worthy addition to any spiritual path.

crystals, Plants and Herbs

The Absolute Worst Crystals for Plants

J.

It’s spring! Kind of!

Yesterday marked the average last frost date for my area (as calculated by the National Arboretum in DC). If you’re like me, you’re probably itching to get your garden started, or at least reclaim some desk space by moving your indoor plants outside for a little bit.

I’ve seen a lot of posts about using crystals and other minerals to help plants. You’ve probably seen the same kind of advice that I have — tuck a quartz point in with your plants to help them grow. Bury four green jades, one at each corner of your garden, to protect your plants and help them flourish.

This got me thinking: What are the absolute worst crystals you could conceivably use for your plants? If some crystals can help, it stands to reason that others can hurt. And hoo boy, can they ever.

While there aren’t many crystals whose metaphysical properties would cause problems in this context, there are definitely plenty that can harm your plants.
Or ruin your life.
Either or.

1. Halite

Halite is salt.
Like, it’s just rock salt.
When people joke about “going to the salt mines,” this is the stuff they’re talking about.

A crystal of halite. It kind of resembles a small pile of snow.

If you’ve ever heard about conquerors razing towns and salting the earth, you probably know that salt and plants don’t mix. (Well, not while they’re growing, anyway. Once harvested, washed, and lightly steamed, it’s a whole other story.)

The reason behind this is that plants’ roots take up water and dissolved nutrients through osmosis. Osmosis works because nature attempts to establish equilibrium. Things move from areas of high concentration to areas of low concentration, until that equilibrium is achieved. It’s much easier for cell membranes to allow water to pass into and out of the cell than to try to move minerals around, and this works out okay because soil almost always has less dissolved solutes in it than the plants’ cells do. The plants’ roothair cells let more water in, osmosis balances the concentration of solutes vs water on either side of the cell membranes, and everything’s good.

Since salt is very soluble, adding salt and water to soil can make it so that there’s more dissolved solutes in the soil than there are in the roothairs. Taking up more water won’t fix things, and so the roots end up losing water to their surroundings.

Some types of soil (specifically heavy clays) can also form compounds that are impermeable to water when they’re exposed to salt. All plants also depend heavily on soilborne bacteria and fungi, which tend to be much less resilient when exposed to sudden changes in their environment. (Like, say, adding a bunch of salt to it.) Kill off these crucial microorganisms, and the plants will soon follow suit.

2. Selenite or Satin Spar

Selenite, satin spar, and desert roses are all forms of gypsum. Gypsum is a calcium sulfate mineral. It’s also soft and somewhat soluble in water. This means that, when you go to water your plants, you’re likely melting these crystals at the same time. This not only damages the stones, it also deposits all of that calcium sulfate in the soil, altering its pH and potentially negatively impacting plant growth.

Interestingly, gypsum is one of the few materials that exhibits something called “retrograde solubility.” This means that it’s actually more soluble at lower temperatures than it is at higher ones. That’s not great news for anyone who may want to place a selenite specimen in their garden — as soon as a chilly rain hits, they may end up with a disappearing crystal and a whole bunch of dead plants.

3. Calcite

Calcite is a calcium carbonate mineral. It’s not really soluble in regular water, but it is in dilute acids. It’s also pretty soft.

A lovely piece of orange calcite.

This means that calcite can easily be scratched by other minerals present in soil. Rainwater also tends to be on the acidic side, so placing it in your garden or watering your plants with saved rainwater can cause it to dissolve over time. This will alter the pH and level of solutes in the soil, which can be detrimental to your plants. While that’s less likely to be catastrophic in a whole garden, it can definitely cause problems for the small volume of soil in the average plant pot.

4. Hematite

Hematite is an ore of iron. When it’s found in nature, it often doesn’t look like the smooth, mirrorlike, silvery-black pieces commonly seen in stores. In fact, it usually looks closer to a hunk of vaguely rusty metal. Some massively crystal specimens can exhibit that shiny silver-black appearance, but a lot of inexpensive hematite is rough and rusty and gets polished up before sale.

Hematite is fine to occasionally clean with fresh water, as long as it’s dried soon afterward. It isn’t great to put in with plants or outdoors, though, because this creates the right conditions for it to rust. That’ll damage the stone and leach all kinds of iron oxides into the soil. While natural soil is often pretty high in iron oxides already (like the red clay in my garden), it’s definitely not something you want to introduce if you can avoid it.

5. Pyrite

While hematite is a form of iron oxide, pyrite is an iron sulfide. The concern here isn’t rust, however. The “sulfide” portion of pyrite’s chemical formula is a bigger problem than the “iron” bit.

A close-up of a chunk of pyrite.

Pyrite is considered insoluble in water, but there’s a lot more than just water going on where plants grow. When pyrite is exposed to both moisture and oxygen, it oxidizes. This produces iron ions (specifically Fe2+) and sulfuric acid. In fact, the oxidation of pyrite and the resulting acid has been responsible for a number of ecological disasters.

This isn’t to say that putting a piece of tumbled pyrite in your yard is instantly going to turn it into a Superfund site, but it’s still best avoided whenever practicable. At best, you’ll end up with damaged pyrite. At worst, a lot of dead plants and possibly a stern letter from the city.

6. Cinnabar

Okay, so. Cinnabar is divisive. On one hand, some mineral enthusiasts act like it might as well be plutonium. On the other, some claim it’s absolutely no big deal.

Here’s the thing: Cinnabar is an ore of mercury, and mercury is toxic. However, mercury is at its least toxic when it’s in its elemental (aka, scoodly silver liquid) form. Metallic mercury isn’t all that well absorbed through your skin during brief, incidental contact — it’s much more dangerous when it’s in its organic form, or as a salt. This is not to say that cinnabar or mercury is safe to handle, I just want to avoid engaging in too much hyperbole.

Mercury vapor, on the other hand, can be readily absorbed by lung tissue. While it takes temperatures of about 674 °F (357 Â°C) to boil mercury, mercury doesn’t need to boil to evaporate and contaminate the air. Even just breaking an old fashioned thermometer can contaminate indoor air for a significant amount of time if it isn’t appropriately cleaned up.

While it’s true that cinnabar is traditionally roasted to liberate liquid mercury, some specimens do exhibit beads of pure mercury on their surfaces.

Anyhow, all of this is to say that the question of “how safe is cinnabar for plants” is too complicated for me to say that it’s safe. Cinnabar was used as a decoration (and even cosmetic) in antiquity, but buildings also weren’t nearly as air-tight as they are now. (Also, a lot of people lost their minds, went into convulsions, and died back then, while doctors blamed things like “eating cherries and milk,” “riding too fast,” and “wearing lace.”)

In the interest of safety, maybe just keep cinnabar away from heat, water, soil, your plants, your lungs, small children, et cetera. It might be safe, but it might not, and you might not find out how unsafe until it’s too late.

7. Quartz spheres

“But J,” you might be saying, “Everything says that quartz is perfectly safe in water. It’s not going to dissolve, leach anything weird, kill my plants, or turn my yard into an acidic death pit. What gives?” And you’re absolutely right!

It can, however, burn your house down.

The issue here isn’t so much the quartz itself as it is the refractive quality of crystal spheres. If the sun hits a clear glass or crystal sphere in just the right way, it can produce an effect similar to the sun shining through a magnifying glass. Crystal spheres have the ability to concentrate sunlight into a laser, and this laser can burn stuff.

So, while other crystals are mostly a problem if they get wet, crystal spheres are a problem if they’re sitting in a window. Like, say, where one might place a sun-loving potted plant.

This issue doesn’t just end at your front door, either. While I haven’t read reports of crystal balls starting fires when placed outdoors, the combination of intense sunlight, dry vegetation, and a clear sphere can definitely cause some trouble. If you have vinyl siding, the reflection of the sun just off of a neighbor’s windows can be enough to damage your home’s exterior.

What can you use instead?

Assuming you’re not in the mood to ruin your horticulture (or your life) with an ill-placed stone, the solution is pretty easy.

You can opt for different crystals instead. Any variety of silica-based mineral will work, as long as it isn’t able to concentrate sunlight. Moss agate, while not a “true” agate, is a lovely green type of cryptocrystalline silica. Jades are silicates, too.

For stones that shouldn’t get wet, like your gypsums and sulfides and such, you can always place them near indoor plants. Just avoid putting them in places where they’ll come in contact with water or the soil.

For quartz spheres, it’s best to keep them covered when they aren’t actively in use. (That’s a big part of where the custom of covering one’s scrying ball comes from.) If you have to put them in with your plants, either bury them entirely in soil or place them in a small, opaque bag first. Just keep them out of the sunlight.

That’s pretty much it. Do your homework on the chemical composition of your crystals, avoid stones that will actively turn into acid or poison when exposed to water, and be careful with the ones that’ll burn your house down.
Happy growing!

Neodruidry, Witchcraft

The Magical Meaning of a Solar Eclipse

J.

Picture it. A group of early humans look up to the sky as it grows dark. A black orb moves into view, blocking the light of the light-giving Sun. The people shout in fear — will the Sun return? Will it be able to fight off the invader? After a few moments, the light returns. The Sun is safe.

If this sounds like a case of cavepeople being foolish and unadvanced, imagine this instead:

You walk outside to your car, travel mug of cold brew in hand. Your eyes are still bleary from sleep. You pat your pockets — wallet, phone, keys.
Suddenly, the sky flares into an indescribable bright green color. Angry clouds of magenta move in, obscuring everything from view. It seems as if the heavens themselves overturn, pouring down a rain of tiny, glowing meteors. Confused, and probably afraid your skin is going to be stripped from your bones, you duck back into the house to wait out this bizarre phenomenon.
Then, about three minutes later, the glowing meteor shower stops, the clouds part, the meteors sublimate into vapor, and it’s as if nothing ever happened.

And, lightyears away, peering through some kind of very advanced telescope, a bunch of aliens laugh their multiple asses off at the primitive Earth people who don’t even understand that glowing tiny meteor season is a perfectly normal and harmless phenomenon that happens naturally every twenty thousand years.

An image of Grogu, "Baby Yoda," pointing. He's wearing a brown robe and blue sneakers.
“lol, newbs.”
Photo by Erik Mclean on Pexels.com

Sure, eclipses aren’t that rare. Eclipse season happens every six months or so, after all, and even total solar eclipses occur somewhere about every year and a half. But total solar eclipses are also a whole other animal when compared to a partial solar eclipse.

Things need to line up just right (pun only slightly intended) for a total solar eclipse to happen. When they do, the total obscuration of the Sun is only visible across a narrow band of the planet. This very rarely happens in the same place twice. Like, you’re looking at about every 360-410 years or so, or a one-in-every-fourteen-generations kind of thing. You’ll most likely experience several partial eclipses in your lifetime, but what’re the odds you’ll ever be in the path of a total solar eclipse?

Back when people didn’t travel with the kind of swiftness and ease with which they do now, a total solar eclipse was a Very Big Deal. As a result, this phenomenon has accumulated a lot of folklore and metaphysical connections over time. Since we’re about to have one in the US on April 8th, I thought now might be a good time to look at some of the folktales, traditions, and magical practices surrounding solar eclipses of all forms.

Solar Eclipse Folklore and Traditions

In Chinese, the word for eclipse is 日食 (Rì Shí). It includes the word 食 (Shí), meaning edible, food, or to eat. It was once thought that a solar eclipse occurred when sun-eating dogs (in some interpretations, dragons or demons) would attack the Sun. People would fire arrows and bang pots and pans to drive them off and ensure the Sun’s survival.

The Choctaw people saw eclipses in a similar way. Instead of dogs or dragons, greedy squirrels would come to eat the sun. And, just like in China, people would make noise and fire arrows to shoo them away.

The belief that an eclipse was the Sun being eaten (or nearly being eaten) is or was very common all around the world. In Vietnam, it was a giant frog. In the Andes, a puma. In Java, the God of Darkness. In Indonesia, it’s Rahu… but the Sun burns his tongue, so he spits it out.

In ancient Greece, a lot of things were omens. A bolt of lightning flashed from left to right? Omen. You saw a bird flying a bit weird? Omen. Bad dream? Omen. Solar eclipse? Omen. Eclipses were thought to happen as a punishment when mortals displeased the Gods in some way. This is actually reflected in the English word “eclipse,” which comes from the Greek ekleipsis, meaning “abandonment,” or “to forsake a usual place.”

This is somewhat akin to Transylvanian folklore. There, it was said that solar eclipses happened because the Sun, displeased by people’s actions, turned away from the Earth.

The corona around a total solar eclipse.
Photo by melissa mayes on Pexels.com

The idea of a solar eclipse as a bad omen took a rather funny angle in ancient Babylon. There, kings would hire a temp to stand-in for them for the day. This way, they reasoned, any harm or bad luck that might come to them as a result of the eclipse would happen to the other guy instead.

In Australia, things are a bit different. Australian Aboriginal culture has a long tradition of astronomy, passed down orally, through artwork, and in ceremony, and many different tales about the Sun and the Moon. The Warlpiri and Wirangu people say that eclipses happen when the Sun-woman and Moon-man make love — his body covers hers from view, darkening the sky.

The Diné people of North America also see eclipses differently. Rather than a thing to be feared, they’re a time for peace and reflection. People still observe traditional eclipse ceremonies, and schools and businesses close for the day.

While nobody knows what the people of ancient Ireland thought about eclipses, we do know that they recorded them. The oldest known marking of an eclipse was made over 5,000 years ago. Images of it were carved into a stone cairn at Loughcrew, in Meath. (This doesn’t mean that other cultures didn’t bother recording eclipses, but these recordings either may not have survived, or were done in a symbolic form that has since been interpreted as something else by modern eyes.)

Some harmful solar eclipse superstitions are weirdly persistent. One bit of very stubborn folklore warns that, if you’re pregnant, you should stay indoors during an eclipse. This belief holds that eclipses create radiation which can harm a developing fetus. The thing is, the Sun’s solar radiation doesn’t change during an eclipse. The sometimes weirdly colored corona you see around the Moon’s silhouette during a total solar eclipse is an optical illusion. It’s caused by the interaction between the light at the sun’s edge, the atmosphere, and your perception, not unlike the green flash you can sometimes see on the beach at sunset.

This idea also sounds an awful lot like the idea of maternal impression, an obsolete theory that holds that certain mental or physical influences can affect a developing fetus. It’s the same school of thought that claimed that Joseph Carey Merrick, the “Elephant Man,” developed Proteus syndrome because his mother was frightened by an elephant while she was pregnant, or that pregnancy cravings will give a baby a birthmark in the shape of that specific food.

Speaking of food, another bit of modern-ish folklore holds that food prepared or left out during an eclipse will be poisoned by the same mysterious baby-mutating radiation mentioned above. The thing is, were this true, all of the food growing in the fields or being picked or transported during the eclipse would need to be thrown away. Also, what kind of radiation are we talking, here? Is aluminum foil enough to keep it out? A cabinet door? A fridge? The vague mention of “radiation” is like the vague mention of “toxins” — if it doesn’t ever get more specific than that, it’s probably a fake idea.

(I’ll be real with you, we’re probably better off believing that eclipses are the Sun being eaten. At least nobody wastes food that way, and pregnancy’s stressful enough as it is without having to worry about baby-mutating sky radiation. Besides, then you get to make some noise and have a party afterward to celebrate the Sun not becoming a snack!)

In general, eclipses were (and still are) very often viewed as an omen of some kind. One persistent belief holds that an eclipse within six months of your birthday foretells bad health. Many cultures, like the ancient Greeks mentioned above, saw eclipses as a bad omen and sign of divine disfavor. In the Czech Republic, on the other hand, Bohemian miners saw solar eclipses as a good omen for finding gold.

The Magical Meaning of a Solar Eclipse

So, with such a long history of folklore and mythology behind it, what does the solar eclipse mean for magical practitioners today? That depends on a couple of things.

For one, many people still observe ancient eclipse traditions. If your cultural, religious, or magical tradition has a particular way of observing the eclipse, that can give it meaning for you.

For two, there isn’t really a guide for more modern traditions. In very modern magical circles, particularly those that are heavily shaped by astrology, eclipses are sometimes viewed as a very chaotic time during which people absolutely should not use magic. Others see it as an ideal time for manifestation, during which people definitely should use magic.
Social media has made everything weird and confusing.

For people whose traditions don’t have a specific eclipse ceremony or belief, solar eclipses are often viewed as times of change, transformation, and renewal. This is closest to my personal feelings. My path is largely informed by what information I’ve been able to find on ancient Celtic practices. Objects like the carvings at Loughcrew seem to indicate that solar eclipses were important events, but not a thing to be feared or hidden from. Seeing it as a quiet (literally quiet — in the path of totality, the darkness causes birds and insects to fall silent and its super eerie) time of renewal makes the most sense to me. I may use this time to charge some water, and I’ll celebrate once the Sun’s back doing its thing again, but that’s about it.

No matter what you decide to do, do it safely. Does this mean shielding yourself from negative energy? I guess, if you feel that it’s appropriate to do so. I mainly mean following NASA safety guidelines so you don’t burn your retinas out, though. Retinas are really important.

animals, life, Neodruidry

We have a spy.

J.

As the weather warms up, the crows come back in force. They distribute themselves around the perimeter of their territory, sending a single “caw” in a kind of relay. As far as I can tell, it seems to mean, “Hi, I’m a bird! Status update: Still a bird!”

This single “caw” is passed from sentry to sentry until something happens to disrupt it. That could be a cat, an owl, a snake, or the sudden appearance of a quantity of snacks.

One of these sentries is positioned in the big maple tree in the back yard. As far as I can tell, he has exactly one mission: Keep tabs on my comings and goings.

I know this because I hear his single cries throughout the day, echoed by the equally single cries of his family group. As soon as I show up on the back deck, that single “caw” turns into a rapid series of calls. If I start putting out the crow salad, the shouts get even faster and more high-pitched. By the time I turn around to go back inside, the apple trees and the roof are full of black shapes.

A pair of crows investigate a platform filled with crow food.
Pardon the raindrops on the window pane.

Sometimes, they don’t even wait for me to go all the way inside before they swoop in and start eating. If they’re particularly feisty, they’ll barely hop away when I go out to refill. This seems to be out of a sense of avian practicality, rather than fear — it really seems like they fly up to the roofs to wait in order to be out of the way, not because they’re genuinely wary of me anymore.

I’ve found a mix of food that doesn’t seem to appeal much to other bird species, so this family can feed safely without concerns about being hassled or coming into contact with pathogens from unrelated birds that might otherwise swarm the feeder.

I can’t be positive, but I’m also reasonably certain that this sentry is the same li’l nerd who came and stared in my bathroom window after my Handsome Assistant and I returned from being out of town for a few days.

I can’t overstate how helpful they’ve been to have around — they deal with nuisance animals, and I’ve gotten a ton of free garden plants from them (and one small bouncy ball). I love this band of weirdos so much. It always makes me so happy to see them.

animals, life, Witchcraft

The Magical Meaning of Mockingbirds

J.

I’ve been filling the little raised bed next to the house. It isn’t much, just a long, sturdy box made of cedar planks, but I didn’t want it to sit fallow for too long. I built it last autumn, a bit too late in the season to plant anything, but that’s okay — my objective was mainly to set it up and observe how it interacted with its surroundings. Would it get enough rainfall, or accumulate too much? Would the sun fall on it in the right way, or would it be too shady all day long?

Anyhow, gardening angsting aside, I returned from filling the bed with soil and compost to see a mockingbird eating on the deck. They eyed me curiously, but not warily, and didn’t seem to care much about what I did or how close I came. I said, “Hello.” They went about their business. It was all very chill. It was also interesting, because I’ve never seen a mockingbird back here before. There’ve been plenty of crows, starlings, a blue jay, juncos, house sparrows, a pair of cardinals, and absolute loads of morning derps, but no mockingbirds.

A close up of a gray mockingbird in green grass.
Photo by Tessa Riley on Pexels.com

That got me thinking: What kind of omen is a single, friendly mockingbird?

Mockingbird Folklore

Mockingbird, known as Yapa or Yaupa, is a spirit that figures in Hopi Katsina ceremonies. Mockingbird is credited as the spirit being who first taught mankind to speak.

The Shasta people, a linguistic group of Indigenous peoples from the Klamath Mountains area of the Pacific Northwest, Mockingbird was a protector of the dead. (Considering their very protective tendencies, this makes a lot of sense.)

To people of the Southeastern US, mockingbirds were considered not only very intelligent, but capable of passing on this intelligence. Some even ate them in the hopes that they would then acquire the bird’s cleverness.

A mockingbird perched on a railing.
Photo by Connor kane on Pexels.com

In O’odham folklore, mockingbirds feature as mediators in two speeches used for rain ceremonies. In one, mockingbirds use their calls to calm a heaving Earth and bring gentle rains. In another, they carry the raucous shouts and laughter of intoxicated people to the home of the winds. The winds then send forth clouds and rain.

Across all of these Indigenous folktales and traditions, mockingbirds are known for their intelligence, ability to mimic sounds, and desire to protect.

The Symbolism of Mockingbirds

In Harper Lee’s novel To Kill a Mockingbird, the titular bird represents innocence. It’s said that the mockingbird sings only for the pleasure of others, not for its own enjoyment — therefore, it’s a sin to kill one. In nature, they’re mostly harmless birds. They eat insects, fruit, seeds, and occasionally small reptiles or crustaceans.

They can, however, be very aggressive when it comes to defending their territory. I remember when a mockingbird built a nest just outside a hospital I was in. (It definitely made things more complicated when my Handsome Assistant came to visit me!) For this reason, they’re also associated with protection.

A mockingbird perched atop a bird feeder.
Photo by A. G. Rosales on Pexels.com

Mockingbirds are also highly intelligent. The name mockingbird comes from the birds’ talent for imitation, as does the scientific name of the northern mockingbird — Mimus polyglottos, which roughly translates to “many-tongued mimic.” They’ve been found to mimic the calls of other birds, insects, and amphibians, human voices, and even cellphones and landscaping equipment. All birds are considered messengers across various traditions, but mockingbirds are especially associated with communication and messages.

It’s said that mockingbirds can answer any question that’s asked of them. While that’s probably a lot of responsibility to pin on one bird, you can ask a mockingbird a pressing question and then observe its behavior for signs. Divination by the behavior of birds is called ornithomancy or augury, which is an ancient art that is or was practiced all around the world.

In light of all of this, I think my small gray visitor was a positive omen. I hope to see him or her many more times in the future… Just maybe not during nesting season. That could be complicated.

life

The Feline Terrible (almost) Twos

J.

When you adopt a cat, it takes a little bit of time for their personality to unfold.

I remember bringing home Pye and Kiko — she had to stay confined for a bit, because she’d recently had an operation (one of her hind legs had been barely injured and she needed a bunch of necrotic skin and muscle removed), but Pye was free to roam around.

A small female orange tabby cat sits on the arm of a blue sofa.
She got better.

Instead, he decided to find a sunbeam on the bed and curl up. He pretty much owned the place, and he knew it immediately.

He was a kitten at the time, but an older one. At about eleven months (give or take), he was at the end of his kitten stage. Allegedly.

A few weeks later, he started misbehaving more. He wanted more attention, but he wouldn’t come over to receive it. No. Instead, he’d hassle Kiko. Push things over. Yell at the ceiling. Climb into places he didn’t fit, then sternly make eye contact as if to say, “Look what you made me do.”

We couldn’t figure out what his deal was. We figured that, as he’d become more comfortable, his true personality was coming out more. And, to be honest, he was being a bit of a dick about it.

That’s when I discovered the remedy: I had to call him over to me, make a space for him under my arm, and gently hold his face for him as he slept. He would not come cuddle of his own volition. He would not come tap or meow at me to get my attention. He’d act up, and I’d have to put him down for a nap like a cranky toddler. Once he’d slept for a bit (wearing my hand like some kind of disturbingly organic sleep mask), he’d be a perfect angel.
I don’t know, man.

A large male orange tabby cat lays on the edge of a bed. He's curled up on his side, paws in the air.
His entire internal monologue is just hold music.

He eventually grew out of this phase around age two, and it was as if it never happened. I just figured he was a weirdo and went on with life. He gradually settled down into a cat who is very much a buddy who wants to hang out with us all day, but actually prefers not to be cuddled.

Now, we have Pye, Kiko, and JJ. We’ve had JJ since she was a tiny, very sick baby, so we’ve been able to see her personality develop from the beginning. Once she hit a little over a year old… well, she suddenly started doing the same thing Pye did.

A large male orange tabby sits beside a much smaller female gray tabby. They look out of a window together.
Did he teach her the ways?

Acting up. Misbehaving. Hassling Kiko. Chewing on Pye’s face (though he’s pretty good natured about it). Being rambunctious and cranky until and unless she is given a nap. At times, circling me like a tiny shark and making small clown honking noises.

I’m not sure what it is about this age that seems to have instilled this very odd tendency in both of them. It seems like there’s some kind of physical or mental growth spurt that coincides with a) an increased need for snuggles and sleep, and b) an absolute refusal to admit it. Like human children testing boundaries and asserting their independence, it seems like they push themselves until they become tired and cranky, and I have to be the one to notice this and enforce naptime.

Pye seemed to grow out of this eventually, and I’m pretty confident JJ will too. It’s just interesting to see how nature doesn’t conform to a neat timetable — we can say that cats are kittens until one year of age, but there’s still so much growing and developing that they do beyond that. They’re not babies, but they still aren’t adults yet. There’s boundary testing and a lot of feelings, but it seems like naps and snuggles are suitable emotional reset buttons.

crystals

Lemon Quartz vs Citrine vs Tangerine Quartz vs Golden Healers — FIGHT!

J. 
You walk into a crystal shop. 
To the SOUTH, there is a DOOR.
To the NORTH, there is a glass SHELF. 

>go north

You approach the SHELF. There is a variety of yellow and orange CRYSTALS on it.

>seduce shelf

...

>attack shelf with sword

We're going to be here for a while. 

>identify crystals

Finally. There is a CITRINE, a TANGERINE QUARTZ, a LEMON QUARTZ, an OURO VERDE QUARTZ, and a GOLDEN HEALER. 

>pick up lemon quartz

Okay, but that one's not the lemon quartz. 

>pick up golden healer???

Also wrong. 

>wtf

Beats me, buddy. I didn't name them.

Before I get into this, there’s a quote on a Mindat thread that I think sums it up pretty well:

The discussion was on lemon quartz versus citrine, with one poster attempting to discern if their specimens were natural, untreated citrine. If it seems kind of confusing… it probably should, to be honest.

I’ve written about citrine in the past, and I think I did an alright job of covering the chemical and physical properties of natural citrine and heat-treated amethyst. This time, I’d like to look at a couple of other semi-related mineral specimens.

What is lemon quartz?

Lemon quartz is a variety of quartz that presents with a light yellow color. It’s unmistakably yellow, too — not the toasty orange of heated amethyst, or the smoky yellow, apple juice hue of a lot of natural citrine.

So, is it dyed? Irradiated? Cooked? What’s the difference between one type of yellow quartz, and another type of yellow quartz? While it does certainly seem like some lemon quartz is just light, very yellow citrine, this isn’t always the case.

A tower of a translucent, honey-colored mineral sits on a wooden table. In the background, there are several houseplants and a rainbowy lens flare.
Pexels assures me that this is citrine, but it honestly looks more like a faceted and polished honey calcite to me. Photo by Alina Vilchenko on Pexels.com

Ouro Verde quartz, which is also called lemon quartz, is a treated gemstone with a greenish yellow color. These are made by heating irradiated, very dark smoky quartz. (There’s a very interesting explanation of the treatment and discovery of this quartz here.)

To sum up: Specimens sold as lemon quartz may be either particularly yellow citrines, or a bright greenish yellow quartz produced by irradiation and heat treatment.

Is your stone a lemon quartz?

With all of the above in mind, how do you know if you have natural lemon quartz?

As I briefly explained in my post about citrine and heat-treated amethyst, the best way to tell is to observe how the stone behaves in light. Hold it up to a polarized light source and turn it from side to side. Does the color seem to shift a bit from one angle to the other? The stone is exhibiting pleochroism, a hallmark of natural citrine. If the stone is very yellow, that citrine can also be considered a lemon quartz. Heated amethyst doesn’t exhibit this phenomenon, and neither would irradiated and heated clear quartz.

It should also be noted that, in their natural forms, crystals don’t often exhibit the kind of bright hues you can get from heating and irradiating stuff. If it’s really bright yellow — bright, sunny, lemon-candy-highlighters-and-pineapple-Fanta yellow — it’s likely had some help getting there.

Okay, so… What about tangerine quartz?

Look, you pick a fruit, and there’s probably someone online selling quartz named after it. It’s like when people were posting about “strawberry makeup” and “latte makeup,” when what they really meant was “pink blush and eyeshadow” or “different shades of tan eyeshadow and also maybe some bronzer.”

Gem folks and mineral folks very often don’t use the same names for things. In the gem trade, having something that sounds new, unique, and exotic helps you stand out and improves the marketability of your stones. Mineral folks are more concerned with identification, so interesting new names are more of a hindrance than a help. Neither is necessarily better, they’re just two ways of approaching vastly different goals.

The trade names that stones are given don’t need to have any real meaning or relation to the stone’s actual composition. They don’t even have to relate to each other. While they’re both citrus-y, natural lemon quartz is yellow citrine and tangerine quartz is quartz with a coating of iron oxide.

You’ve probably seen or heard of aura quartz before. This is quartz that is colored by vapor deposition, in which the stone is coated with a micro thin layer of vaporized metal ions. This thin layer of metal gives it a shiny, brightly colored finish, and the specific metal ions you use determine the final color.

Sometimes, a process similar to this can occur in nature. Tangerine quartz is quartz that has received a blanket of iron oxide particles at some point during its formation, giving it an orange color. Depending on when this happens, the iron oxide may be present as phantoms or inclusions within the stone. Sometimes, it’s just a surface coating.

When nature throws quartz and various metal oxides together, you can get some really funky-looking crystals. I saw a tiny double-terminated quartz the other day that had so much iron oxide in/on it, it looked like red jasper. Wild.

If tangerine quartz is quartz and iron oxide, then what are golden healers?

Quartz and iron oxide. It’s just that sometimes iron oxide is yellow instead of orange or red.

Golden healers are often the color of citrine, but they get their color by the same mechanism that tangerine quartz does. Quartz grows, a coating of metal particles happens to it, et voilà — you get a golden yellow crystal.

Arkansas, in particular, is home to a beautiful variety of naturally occurring quartz sometimes sold as “solaris quartz.” As these stones form, they receive a layer of iron and titanium. It gives them an interesting golden yellow-orange color (and sometimes a bit of iridescence, too).

Any type of quartz can be a golden healer, as long as the right conditions are met. I have a few Herkimer quartz specimens that are totally or partially covered in golden yellow iron oxide. I’ve even seen amethysts with the typical golden healer coating.

As an aside, golden healers are unrelated to wounded healers, though you can have a crystal that’s both a golden and wounded healer. In metaphysical circles, wounded healers are crystals that have either been damaged at some point or have broken and self-healed during their formation. I’m told that these are considered some of the best crystals for crystal healing, as they have experienced what it’s like to be “injured.”

How do their metaphysical properties differ?

This is a bit of a tricky question to answer. The closest I can come is probably, “what do colors mean in your tradition?”

Lemon quartz can be used the same way as citrine, because it is — it’s just on the yellower end of the spectrum. Ouro Verde quartz, as a treated quartz, is still perfectly fine any situation in which you’d choose a yellow or green stone.

Golden healers and tangerine quartz aren’t super different. Golden healers sometimes include titanium ions, and sometimes are just coated with yellow iron oxide. Tangerine quartz is more orange. Use golden healers in situations that call for the color yellow or gold, and tangerine for those that call for the color orange.

In a lot of guides to color magic, yellow is associated with the element of Air, the intellect, friendship, and joy. Orange is associated with the element of Fire, creativity, willpower, and optimism. Green is connected to the element of Earth, prosperity, and fertility. However, all stones are innately connected to the element of Earth because they’re stones. Where the line falls between “yellow” and “green” or “yellow” and “orange” is also highly subjective.

For this reason, I’m hesitant to point to a specific metaphysical use for these minerals. Use the one that seems to volunteer to you. I guarantee, even if you pick the “wrong” kind, nobody is going to explode. Consider it a helpful exercise for your intuition!

The fact is that nature abhors absolutes. Everything — and I do mean everything — exists on a kind of gradient. At what point does a citrine become a lemon quartz, or a golden healer become a tangerine quartz? The only answer I can really give you is, “when it seems like it.” Trade names shouldn’t influence how much you enjoy your stones (or how you use them). It’s fine to be curious about how things get the names they do, but don’t give your power away to what is, a lot of the time, just a marketing gimmick.

Plants and Herbs

Phlox Folklore and Magical Uses

J.

Right now, my moss phlox (Phlox subulata) is absolutely popping off. I posted some photos in my last post about murdering the lawn, and they’ve continued to open more flowers as the days go on.

Phlox is more than just a pollinator-friendly native groundcover, however. Though most species are in North America, they’re a useful (if often overlooked) magical ally and ingredient for all kinds of traditions.

Phlox Magical Properties and Folklore

The name “phlox” comes from the Ancient Greek word phlox, for “blaze.” I’ve seen two reasons given for this etymology: One is that the intensely colored flowers are as bright as little flames. The other is the flame-shaped flower clusters of upright varieties of phlox.

A bunch of violet-colored phlox flowers.
Photo by u042eu043bu0438u0430u043du043du0430 u041eu0441u0438u043fu043eu0432u0430 on Pexels.com

It’s said that phlox flowers were created by the torches of Odysseus’ men when they descended to Hades. When they returned, they threw their torches to the ground, where they became phlox flowers. This tale most likely refers to Polemonium caeruleum, a member of the phlox family known as Jacob’s ladder or Greek valerian.

The kantuta (Cantua buxifolia), also known as the Peruvian magic tree, is a tree with bright, trumpet-shaped flowers. It’s the national flower of both Bolivia and Peru.
An Incan legend tells of two kings who, jealous of each other’s wealth, went to war against each other. They were evenly matched, and, in the final battle, both struck mortal blows. On their deathbeds, they called their sons to them and made them swore to avenge their deaths — even though their sons hadn’t been in favor of the senseless war in the first place. Nonetheless, their sense of filial piety drove them to continue their fathers’ war.
History repeated itself, and the two sons also inflicted mortal wounds on each other. However, instead of demanding that the war continue, they forgave each other and died in peace. They were buried together, on the green ground of the battlefield.
Pachamama, the Goddess of fertility, punished the sons’ unjust fathers by making their stars fall from the heavens. When they landed on Earth again, they became the mountains Illimani and Illampu. The melting snows that run down them and water the valleys below are their tears of regret for what they have done. The kantuta trees represent unity and the hope that such a war should never happen again.

A North American legend tells a similar tale, but about Phlox subulata. There, the Creek and Chickasaw peoples engaged in a battle when one nation disrespected the other. It was seen as an attempt to provoke a war, and the two nations battled for days.
When the Chickasaw people tried to retreat, they were trapped by a wall of flames. In desperation, a young boy asked all of the animals for help extinguishing the fire so his people could escape. The animals tried, but they were unsuccessful and exhausted by the attempt — the deer’s long tail was burned off by the intense flames, and the once-white squirrel was stained gray with ashes. Taking pity on the animals and people, the Great Spirit changed the burning flames into bright phlox flowers.

In Victorian floriography (the cryptographic “language of flowers”), phlox meant “our souls are united,” or even “we think/feel alike.”

Blue phlox flowers.
Photo by Julia Filirovska on Pexels.com

Planting it in a garden is said to encourage family harmony and unity within the household.

Another source holds that phlox flowers symbolize pleasant dreams and love.

Phlox is associated with the elements of Earth and Fire.

Using Phlox

The best way to use phlox is to find a variety native to your area, and plant it. (If you’re in the eastern US, Phlox subulata makes a great substitute for turf grass.) The presence of phlox is said to encourage unity and peace, and forges a harmonious household.

You can also use phlox flowers based on their color. Include dried flowers in sachets, jar spells, or herbal offerings. Since they’re a very peace-love-and-harmony plant, that may affect your perception of what each color is good for. Pink flowers are the most suitable for love, and red for passion, while white or blue are best for peace and healing. Purple flowers are useful for meditative or spiritual pursuits. Oranges and yellows are helpful for positivity and optimism. This isn’t really a flower you’d want to include in, for example, banishing work.

Phlox is associated with protection, but, from the folklore and legends that I’ve seen, this mostly seems to be “protection from harm by calming hostilities.” It doesn’t seem to be a flower for more aggressive protection magic.

To harvest phlox flowers, pick them early in the morning — just after the dew has dried. Hang them upside-down somewhere dry and out of sunlight. (Dried flowers inevitably lose some of their color, but exposure to bright light can cause their colors to fade more.) Once the flowers are dry, store them in a jar in a cool, dark, dry area.

From Odysseus to Illimani and Illampu, phlox flowers are representations of hope, togetherness, and peace. Their legends talk about the senselessness of war and the relief that comes when peace is achieved. They’re excellent allies for works involving calming, hope, and unity.