What did your grandmother’s hands know?

What Magik

Thousands and thousands of hands before mine,
rough from helping, rough from love.

Folk Magik is rooted in place, and so am I.

I live among the roses, the willow, the mud pies of those who do not yet know they are learning.

Come find me in the garden. The medicine is already growing there. I am kin to the salmon, the elk, the raven, the otter, the wide grey sea.

My hands rough from helping our more-than-human family, the way theirs once helped mine.

Where will you be, love?
You are so very welcome here.

What magik will we make, you and I,
in the small space between our sacred hands?