Day 213: Deep Earth Arts

When I woke up at 7, it was pouring rain, and cold. I still had no power, so I did the only thing I could – go back to sleep. 

When I finally got up, I drove to Deep Earth Arts in Littleton, NH, If you are anywhere in the area, be sure to visit. The charming old building has multiple rooms where you will find sacred and magical goods, services and wisdom you won’t find other places. Isaac Vars and his husband Josh “Leprechaun” Simonds opened at their new location in March. (See more photos on my Facebook post.) Josh is a medium whose gifts from his ancestors emerged several years ago after he sent in his DNA and began researching his family history. He’s an artist, an author and more. Isaac is the Green Mountain Mage, focusing on healing – people, community and the land – in a multitude of ways. His wall of herbs is impressive as are his salves, oils, and teas.

It had been eight months since I spent time in a metaphysical witchy earthy space. Oh how I miss my beloved store, A New Page “back home” in Middletown, CT where I grew up to be a recovering Catholic and first practiced magic – the not-so-smart way – then retreated and returned, but that’s a story for another day. The time at Deep Earth was blissful and serene. I almost forgot how important it is as a solitary to be around people vibrating at my frequency. The conversations, buying, selling and readings exchanged made for a wonderful afternoon. I was also able to plug in and recharge Karma’s batteries, thanks to their kindness and my extension cord.

I’m not sure how long my solar power will last tonight. In addition to the two-hour charge, there was only about an hour of sun ;ate in the day. I’m operating the fridge manually. About the time I was almost to my site I remembered the brilliant idea to buy ice to put in the refrigerator, but by then I had passed any sign of civilization where I could buy anything at all. A few miles from nowhere, I came upon a massive road realignment and was almost forced to cross a bridge I didn’t want to cross until I realized there were barrels spaced out on a huge plot of the earth scraped clean that were defining the sides of the new route. 

Some five miles earlier I had arrived at a bridge I had to cross – an old one-lane wooden bridge. I so wish I’d taken a photo. What kept me from enjoying its rugged rough rusticness was a sign stating its weight limit was six tons. I suddenly didn’t trust myself to know how many pounds equalled a ton. (If you have children who keep complaining learning math is useless, show them this. Then get them to take a recipe that serves four and calculate the amount of each ingredient needed to serve all the neighbors.) I pulled over but had no way to get to the internet with my phone or my laptop to loo it up. So I called a sister witch who knows rocket science. Literally. She said the bridge was rated for twelve thousand pounds. I am about four thousand more than that. She assured me there was a safety margin factored in, and then stayed on the phone with me as I drove across. 

So here I am on my bed, all five pillows piled up behind me, looking out the window as the last weak echos of the day surrender to the night. Fog rolled in, hiding the mountains soon swallowed by the kind of dark that won’t let you see your hand in front of your face. There are fireflies, with big, bright lights.

It’s been thirty five hours since I’ve checked emails, the weather, news, Netflix and Facebook. I’m getting antsy. I had been having decent success using my phone for a hotspot. While it’s showing that I am connected to the internet, every time I try to load a page, I get that dinosaur telling me to check my connections. I called to the computer spirits, Mercury, and Konrad Zuse, but to no avail. I am more or less forcing myself to stay calm until I’m back on the farm, which was the last place it worked.