In Harrow, my roots are well established. I know the texture and feel of the earth. I am acquainted with the spirits who guards the land, and I intimately know the spirit of that soil. I call her the Mother Clay. She is generous and forgiving, she holds and nurtures so much: a great city, millions of people. I know and trust her.

At Westacre*, things are different. Although I have been visiting this place for over two decades, I have never stayed here for more than a few days at a time. I have only sporadically made the time to get to know this place, this land, this earth. And seeing as I am going to live here relatively soon, making that relationship is a bit of a priority.

So this weekend I went out into the Westacre garden and walked a pentagram of blessing onto the grass. Then I asked the spirit of the place to guide me to a spot that would help me learn about the garden. I was led to one of the old apple trees, its crooked limbs held up with supporting posts. There is an angle between two branches that feels very nice to sit in.

The tree guided my roots down into the soil, so much lighter and sandier than the heavy London Clay. Here, my roots felt a layer of solid sand stone, while in Harrow the clay seems bottomless.  I felt a resistance. This land is a little more complicated than perhaps I expected. The spirit of the soil is a nurturing mother, with her round pregnant belly and her pendulous breasts. But she is also a warrior. Her face is painted with blue stripes, and she carries a spear that she doesn't fear to use.

The apple tree asked me to just sit with it, to listen and be with it and with the land. Fierce though that mother is, she also seems curious, and I will need to earn her acceptance and her abundant gifts. For now, she is happy to have me visit and explore this place. And the tree would welcome more of my time spent in the angle of its branches.

Blessed be this place. Blessed be its mother earth. Blessed be all that live here.

*This is Westacre Day minus 193.