Harvesting what grew. Releasing what is done.
Hi human,
There is something about September that makes me want to take inventory. Not the kind written on a spreadsheet. The kind where I look around at what has grown—inside me, around me, in my relationships, in the garden—and ask:
What is ready to harvest? What has finished its season? What am I grateful for? And what am I absolutely not carrying into winter?
On the eve of Mabon, I keep coming back to that word: harvest. Some of the seeds I planted this spring are now very literally feeding us. Others were seeds of intention, healing, friendship, adventure, practice, and becoming.
Not everything grew exactly how I imagined it would. But enough did.
The medicine of this season is not more. It is knowing what nourishes us—and what is ready to become compost.
Hells Canyon carried Hecate energy.
Labor Day weekend took me into Hells Canyon and the Seven Devils with Jason and Jed—into North America’s deepest river canyon, where the first snow of the season found us beneath a sky that felt almost Gothic.
The cliffs towered around us like pieces of ancient volcanic ocean floor lifted, broken, and folded into the body of North America. Everything held threshold energy: shadow and stone, weather moving in, the wild insisting that we pay attention.
I kept feeling Hecate there—the goddess of crossroads, torches, shadow, and fierce inner knowing. Not as something ominous, but as a reminder that I can stand at an edge without abandoning myself. The canyon asked for respect, presence, and trust. I came home carrying all three.
Desolation held me in sisterhood.
Then Desolation Wilderness with my girlfriends offered an entirely different medicine. The trail was autumn-kissed, with yellow leaves just beginning to turn beneath the granite walls—a quiet reminder that change does not have to arrive all at once to be beautiful.
We carried the essentials, crossed granite and water, laughed until our stomachs hurt, and reminded one another of the strength that appears when women gather without needing to perform.
There is a particular kind of love that grows on a trail—the kind built one honest step at a time. I came home tired, full, and more certain that friendship is its own form of medicine.
Autumn was already brushing the trail in gold, and I could feel the season asking us to notice what was changing before it was gone.
The desert answered in silence.
Then there was Virgin Valley—wide sky, long roads, ancient stone, and only my own voice to keep me company.
Solo travel asks different questions. There is nowhere to hide from your thoughts, but there is also no one else’s rhythm to follow. The desert stripped everything down to what was true. I remembered that I can trust myself, that solitude is not loneliness, and that sometimes the clearest answer arrives after the noise finally stops.
I left with less to prove and more room inside me.
The garden keeps honest time.
The seeds planted in early spring did not become a harvest overnight. They asked for water, patience, attention, and faith on the days when nothing seemed to be happening.
Now the garden is returning that care in color, nourishment, and abundance. It feels like a living reminder that quiet consistency counts. Some things grew wildly. Some barely grew at all. Both taught me something.
I am gathering the fruits of our labor with gratitude—making room for what sustained us and releasing the idea that every seed must become exactly what I pictured.
Celebrating The Mortar & Mage Healing Studio.
On September 1, the doors to The Mortar & Mage Healing Studio officially opened—and I am still letting the joy of that settle into my bones.
This space began as a vision, then became a plan, then a thousand small acts of courage and care. Watching people step through the doors and feel welcomed, held, and curious was its own kind of harvest.
To everyone who encouraged this dream, showed up, shared a kind word, or trusted the work: thank you. Your support helped turn an idea into a living, breathing place for healing and connection.
The studio is open. The hearth is lit. And this chapter has officially begun.
Explore SessionsChoosing what comes to the hearth.
As the light begins to soften and winter waits at the edge of the season, I am cleaning and clearing what no longer serves my highest good.
I want the coming months to hold what is honest and nourishing: yoga, Reiki, tarot, meditation, evening tea, quiet mornings, good food, movement, and time with the people I love. I am continuing my weekly Kundalini class, listening closely to what it is teaching me and to the future instructor quietly taking shape within me.
This is not hibernation as hiding. It is a conscious return to the hearth—resting with purpose and protecting space for positivity, practice, and what is still becoming.
A simple practice for the threshold
Harvest: Write down what has grown because you tended it. Name the work. Name the joy. Let yourself receive it.
Compost: Name what is complete, heavy, or no longer yours to carry. Tear the page, burn it safely, or return it to the earth.
Seed: Choose one small intention to keep warm beside your inner hearth this winter.
Then drink your tea before it gets cold.
Flourish from the Harvest
Chasta and Dannie Miller of F.E.E.D. Your Bliss are co-presenting an online gathering about whole and natural foods, harvest wisdom, preserving seasonal abundance, and carrying what nourishes us into winter.
Wednesday, October 21, 2026
6:00–7:30 PM MDT · Online
Happy Mabon.
May you recognize the abundance already in your hands. May you release what has finished its work. And may the things you choose to carry into winter keep your spirit warm.
With gratitude,
Chasta
The Mortar & Mage
