| The garden is a sacred canvas that holds the earth’s rhythm and allows us to paint with the season’s growing things. I remember when I first felt that calling — that deep, magnetic pull to connect with the land. I was in my early teens, an age of discovery and rebellion. Drawn to a quiet corner of the garden, overhung with giant Morton Bay fig trees, it was a space where wild things grew untamed and where I imagined I could touch the very pulse of nature.
I gathered stones and sticks, arranging them in a circle in the shadows of the old tree, where I could be unseen, or so I thought. On my way home from school each day, I added flowers and aromatic herbs, gathered plants from the overhanging front yards of neighbouring houses. I added some candles from the votive candle box in my local Catholic church. I’d whisper secret words to invite the spirits to join me. It was simple and raw, but mine — an outdoor altar I created from instinct and reverence.
Strange symbols
My father, however, saw something else. He stumbled across my sacred little creation one day while I was at school. The sight of the candles, the strange symbols scratched into the dirt, and the careful arrangement of rocks must have shocked him. When I got home, he was waiting for me, his face revealing his horror. He thought it was something dangerous, something that needed to be stopped. He didn’t understand that this was my way of connecting with something greater than myself, ancient and beautiful.
He dismantled the altar, scattering the stones and tossing the flowers aside. I remember the ache in my chest when I saw what had happened — the sense of loss, the feeling that something precious had been taken from me. But in the quiet aftermath of that moment, I also felt a spark of determination. It was the first lesson I learned about the resilience of Witchcraft — that sacred spaces can be rebuilt, and that connection to the earth cannot be severed by fear or misunderstanding.
Sacred Corners
Now, decades later, I find myself once again creating outdoor altars, but with far more purpose and wisdom. My garden has become a sanctuary for the seasonal wheel, where each Sabbat has its own home, and each celebration has its own sacred corner. The altars are woven into the landscape — a sunlit space for Summer, adorned with flowers of the season and symbols aligned to the fire element; a shaded grove for Yule, with evergreen wreathed branches and herbs to welcome back the light.
I’ve learned to create spaces that reflect the natural cycles, choosing spots that resonate with the energies of each season. At Imbolc, I honour the stirring of new life in the garden — placing candles and small offerings of seeds in the corner that might first bloom. For Autumn, I chose the space in shadows near my studio, where I can decorate and add ribbons.
Each altar is becoming a part of the garden’s living rhythm, changing and evolving just as I do. I create ‘paths’ between them, marked by herbs and stones, like meandering shadows that turn through the year. It’s a journey of growth that began with a frightened teenager’s hidden altar and has now blossomed into a celebration of nature’s sacred cycles woven into the heart of my home.
Resilience
This practice is more than just a series of rituals; it’s a conversation with the earth, an act of gratitude, and an ongoing reminder that even when altars are dismantled, the sacred is never lost. It lives on in every stone, every flower, and every quiet moment spent in communion with the garden. The seasons come and go, but the magic remains, ever resilient, ever growing.
In every season, the garden offers a sanctuary for the soul. It is a place where one can find solace, peace, and a deep connection to the natural world. It is a reminder that amidst the ebb and flow of life, timeless magick resides within the earth, waiting to be discovered and cherished.
vinum sabbati,
Tim Ozpagan |
