11/16/2025
The Wheel is turning again.
You can feel it in the cool bite of the mountain air and the way the hills settle into their winter colors. Up on my Gram’s land today, the world felt suspended i that sacred in-between time when autumn exhales and winter begins to gather itself.
There’s an ancient hum in this place, the kind of Celtic magic that lives in old stones, deep roots, and the echoes of those who came before us. My grandfather’s touches are still here, the weathered pump, the worn paths, the little structures he built with his hands. Time moves, but his presence lingers like a quiet blessing.
Walking the land, collecting what the earth was ready to give, I felt the shift, that slow, powerful turning toward the dark half of the year, when rest becomes ritual and stillness becomes wisdom.
The mountains watched.
The trees whispered.
Today wasn’t just gathering wood it was grounding, recalibrating, and stepping in rhythm with the turning wheel once again.
