It seemed like there should be something magical about a Blood Moon.  And there was.

“Shanny,” Aunt Kimmie’s gravely baritone rumbles into my voicemail.  “Sunday night.”  She says.  Then she pauses.  I think she assumes I’ll know whatever it is she’s reminding me of.  Maybe the ghosts who watch her drink her morning coffee are listening in.  In case I don’t get it, she adds, “Super blood moon.”  Those words come out as though they tasted like fine chocolate in her mouth…as though she’d been waiting 33 years to say them.  I suppose she has.

She tells me nothing else.  She doesn’t believe it’s safe to say such things over the phone lines.  Someone could be listening.  I can say it out loud if I want.  But she’s not going to incriminate herself.

But she knows I know.

It is a call to spiritual awakening.  A call to partner with nature for ancient rituals.  A call to remember, like anyone with celtic ancestry, my roots are just as Pagan as they are Christian.  And it is a call for magic.

But I’ve got plans for Sunday night.  A group of us from West Fulton have decided to gather in our kitchen to talk about our community.  Cornelia and Greg have been restoring the former church hall, which was once a feed mill with a theater on the second floor.  They’ve been hosting concerts, and together with neighbors, they’ve brought back the turkey supper that was once a major annual event.  Rebecca has been using the local restored barns for yoga and pilates classes.  Mom and Dad are there, joining Bob and me in our efforts to grow Sap Bush Hollow and start the cafe and farm store in the Post Office Building.  Clare has just finished building an eco cottage high on her mountaintop that she is using as a B&B.   She wants to offer bike rentals and tours.  Betsy, one of our former interns, has just moved back to the community and is looking to become more connected.  Kate, who was our intern over the summer, and who has decided to stay on with us, has moved into the apartment above the post office with her partner, Joe.  They want to help with the cafe, they want to see the local hiking trails revived, they want to help the community take shape.  There are other folks who can’t be there —   Ruth has been working with Rebecca on a local puppet festival.  Kat is looking into setting up glam camping events, Ryan is a stone mason and itinerant musician who considers West Fulton his spiritual home.  He wants to organize a music festival here.  He wants to build a cidery.

We’ve got a lot to talk about.  But Aunt Kimmie wants me to do magic.  I call her back to see what she thinks I should do.  She doesn’t pick up.  I guess I’m just supposed to know.  Meanwhile, I need to get back to work planning for this meeting.

Our gathering is a potluck supper.  I’ve agreed to make a stew.  I was going to make an ordinary beef stew, but heeding Kimmie’s call, I take out my book and make my Samhain Stew instead.  It’s not Halloween yet, but given Kimmie’s nudge, the Samhain Stew seems more appropriate.  It begins with a broth made from every bone and vegetable scrap we’ve saved up over the past few weeks.  It contains a bit of everything we grow on our land and in our community — all the animals, and by way of the broth, all the vegetables.  I season it with cayenne and ginger to awaken the senses, and simmer everything with squash, fennel and tomatoes, an unlikely triad of vegetables that are only fresh together right now.  Samhain stew is about tasting the things that sustain us, about awakening our senses to the past, about becoming aware of all that is magical in the present.  It is a Halloween ritual in our family, when we honor all that sustains us and all that came before us.  To appease Kimmie and mark the Super Blood Moon , I make it early this year, then put it out on the counter next to the other covered dishes that show up. I don’t tell anyone what it is.  I don’t tell anyone what it is for.

It is hard for us to keep from all talking at once.  We are wealthy with our ideas for our little community.  Our collective dreams and imagined possibilities seem to have no end.  So too is the list of things that must be done in order to enable them.  Our hamlet has been asleep for so long, it has become merely a blur on the road to travelers who opt for the mountain road between Middleburgh and Cobleskill.  The cars go too fast.  There are no sidewalks for pedestrians to walk safely.  We have a playground, but the equipment needs updating.  We’ve got water and sewer concerns.  On the surface, there is no reason for people to come here.

But there is one thing we know:  when they do, they want to stay.  They want to become part of the fabric of this place, just as we have.

We come up with some next steps, then our gathering breaks up and heads for home.  Bob, the girls and I head outside to watch the moon.  She is not red yet at this hour.  But she is full and bright.  We say some prayers to her, and I quietly ask for the help we need for our community to blossom.  Then Ula and I head up to bed, leaving Bob and Saoirse to watch the rest of the lunar show.

***

I am awake a few hours later, several hours before the sun rises.  The eclipse is over.  The house is so bright now, I move about easily.  I am forlorn that I thought of no more interesting way to take such a rare event and find more magic in it.  I walk into my office and sit down on the floor with the dogs, intent on spending some time in prayer and meditation in the moonlight.  But, as often happens, my mind wanders.

It drifts back to our potluck meeting.  I try to push away the overwhelm I feel about what is needed to make these collective dreams come true — all the repairs, all the marketings, all organizing.  As those concerns float away, I begin to wonder about how this all started.  Was it when Cornelia and Greg bought the boarded-up church hall?  Or when Rebecca and Ruth organized the puppet festival last summer?  Or was it when Clare started building her eco cottage so many years before?  Or was it when Mom and Dad started Sap Bush Hollow Farm back in 1979?  Who was responsible for this current shift in our community’s energy, for this desire to awaken, to shine?

The moonlight is almost blindingly bright.  It throws everything inside and outside the house into sharp relief — the grape vines, the goldenrods, the stones on the hearth in the house, the rock walls along the field edges.  And in that moment, I see everything:  I see the ground that feeds us, the timbers that hold up my house, the stones that become the foundation walls.

 

No one has “started” this, I realize.  It has been here for a long time.  The sidewalks once existed, but have now grown over.  The stage that Cornelia and Greg are restoring hosted countless performances by local talent long ago.  The fields where we graze our animals have fed livestock for over a hundred years.  The park was built generations ago.  The Post Office building where we want to put the cafe and farm store held a general store and lunch counter fifty years prior.

The moon makes it all so clear.  Those who have walked before us have left us with a good set of bones — a heritage of community, of art, music, of farming and good food, of celebration and fun.  The to-do list seems huge, but this soil has been turned before, and to good effect.

And now I see the magic that comes from this Super Blood Moon.  It is not about creating something new from nothing.  It is about recovering what was already there, and carrying it forward.

I smile and give thanks to the moon for her lesson, and then flip on the light and power up my computer to go to work.  Messages from the day before begin flooding into my email folder.  I see more photos have been sent.  Since Bob and I bought the Post Office, we’ve been receiving photographs from neighbors and former residents — images of when the Post Office once housed a store, images of the stream behind the building, images of old firetrucks, of old farms.  Today I see another image has come in.  I click on it.  It is the the very same building where we plan to put the cafe, taken back in the 1950s, and people were already sitting there at the lunch counter we hope to re-create, enjoying all that is glorious about our town.

This can be done.  This has been done.  The moon has seen it all before.  And she’ll see it again.

 

Folks, our farmers’ market closes this week, and our family will be unplugging for a short vacation.  Following that, I’ll be working at organizing all the thank you gifts for those of you who’ve become blog patrons this year (There’s still time to support the work.  You can learn more here.)  And then, we’ve much to do to get ready for our community turkey supper (you are welcome to attend!), from processing the turkeys to smoking them, to cooking the squash , potatoes and pies. Thus, the blog will be on hold until November 3rd.  I hope to see you at the West Fulton Turkey Supper (tickets are available here).  You can find me at the turkey carving table…