Held by Linden: Grief & the Medicine of Community, and a Tender Solstice Offering from My Heart ☀️
Today, within this sacred Noc Kupały {Summer Solstice} portal - a night of fire, water, and renewal, I feel called to share what these past weeks have held for my family and me. I found a small space for this, perhaps because I’ve managed to rest a little in between all that’s been happening. This is raw and tender, from my heart: a reminder that grief, too, is a threshold. In this moment of SUN worshipping, may we gather in ritual, in kinship, in love. May we remember that even in our heaviest times, there is an invitation to come together, to hold each other. May the fire purify and the water cleanse our spirits.
These past few weeks have been some of the most challenging we’ve ever faced. One of our little ones has been diagnosed with a condition we had never even heard of before. It’s rare and genetic, passed through the mother, and it only affects boys. Our little angel has a faulty immune system gene, which means his white blood cells don’t work properly. Because of this, his body can’t defend itself against bacteria and fungi. If a mother is a carrier, there’s a 50% chance that her sons will be affected and an equal chance that her daughters will become carriers. So if my sister is a carrier, that means our mother must be, too. The only cure is a bone marrow transplant, which would give our little one a whole new immune system, a new chance at life. There’s also a promising gene therapy option that doctors and scientists are working on, and we’re hopeful this could offer him even more hope for the future. At the moment, he’s on very strong medication to stabilise him, and he has already endured a couple of surgeries, so much pain, and so many tears. There’s been an overwhelming amount of information to process. I’ve been doing my best to educate myself, research everything I can, and ask many questions. I also think about my own son, who is thankfully very healthy and showing no signs of this inherited gene. But I still don’t know for certain if I’m a carrier of the gene mutation on my X chromosome, and I will most likely undergo testing in the future.
We’ve all been running on autopilot and survival mode, between hospital trips and caring for the youngest. I keep asking myself: How is my sister coping if I feel so broken and destabilised? How can I show up when I can barely find a moment to catch my breath? How do I come back to my centre on just a few hours of sleep, with my mind full of questions and fear? This has been our reality. Today, though, I woke up with a small sense of strength again, just enough to say to myself: We will get through this. And we will. Bless this beautiful angel who’s been through so much these past weeks.
I’ve sat with my thoughts and my discomfort, some of it very human, some of it not pretty at all. I keep reminding myself it’s normal to feel this way; something has happened that has turned our whole world upside down. Last week, I barely saw my son. I was waking up around 4 a.m. and coming home late, exhausted and heartbroken, but I knew what I needed to do: I had to show up. There was no time to sit in the garden, to harvest, or to simply be. One morning, I managed to step outside and say hello to the plants — they had changed so much since I last really looked at them. Some had wilted away, the lemon balm had started flowering. I burst into tears. I’ve always found comfort in being in the garden, but this time I felt such heaviness and exhaustion. So many thoughts flooded in: that I haven’t truly been with my own child, that the last scraps of my attention and energy have been kept just for him.
Grief comes in waves and with so many faces. I’ve found myself caught in the anger stage more than once, and then, of course, the guilt that follows. How can these thoughts even arise? And then, looking into my sister’s eyes and hearing her thank me for being there with her. One evening, I found a moment to sit in quiet ceremony. In that stillness, I heard the earth speak: I’m always here for you, in many shapes and forms. Star of Bethlehem has been a very close ally during this time, and so has Skullcap, for both myself and my sister. They’ve been helping us hold the shock, the grief, and the overwhelm as we navigate these uncertain days.
In the midst of this, I dreamt of Linden. I found myself surrounded by Linden trees, picking their heart-shaped leaves. I felt safe. Held. When I woke, life was moving too fast, so I left it alone. But Linden kept showing up for me. Just when I was nearing burnout, I decided to pause and spend a weekend at a community farm with my son. I had never noticed Linden before, or maybe they had been waiting for me to be ready. Close community members took me to a garden centre. A friend pointed out a row of Linden trees and said, Look how they’re shaped like shelters for the people. I told him about my dream, and he said, You’ll be happy here, there are Lindens all over our land. As soon as we arrived at the farm, I went to find them. It started raining, so I sat beneath their branches, took a few deep breaths - that was all I had in me, and let myself just be. I cried and asked for their help. I heard: Healing happens in community. We don’t heal alone, we heal together. And in that moment, the saying It takes a village to raise a child landed in my heart in a way it never had before.
I’ve felt a strong pull to write. To share. To pour some of this heavy grief onto “paper” so it has somewhere else to live. I’ve sat with whether to share something so personal. Writing eases the grief a little, and knowing that so many close friends and so many of you have reached out with prayers means the world. It reminds me that the medicine of community is everything. How can we carry this alone?
A tiny bit of inspiration has returned, a reminder that grief is a portal. That I can shape this despair into creation, into offerings, rather than drown in it. My sweet neighbour reminded me that to truly care for others, I must care for myself. Of course, we know this, but when something unexpected hits, the first few days, maybe weeks, are so disorienting. I’ve decided to postpone the summer solstice shop update until further notice, to be more present for my family and to rest when I can, but I’ll be restocking the shop in the coming days with a few favourite medicines that feel especially comforting in times like these, and a few new ones that were already typed into the shop before I paused.
Many have asked about Vibras Mist. You may remember when I said I wouldn’t craft this mist for a wider community anymore, but after reading so many beautiful emails, I was truly moved. I have a small batch made for my closest humans and myself, because I’ve needed this medicine so much these past few weeks. I’ve added a notification button so you’ll know when it’s back in stock. And as promised, I’ve lowered prices where I can, in hopes it helps a little.
Thank you for being here. For reading, praying, sending messages, and holding us in your thoughts. Apologies if I haven’t replied to you yet.
May we remember grief is not something to carry alone. May we keep tending to each other, and may healing find us all, together ❤️🩹
Summer Solstice blessings ☀️
In magick + love, always 🩷✨
Sheltering my tender heart. When grief feels too heavy to bear alone, Linden reminds me ~ and us all ~ that we’re not meant to carry sorrow by ourselves. A medicine for the collective heart ❤️🩹
