This gorgeous flower is called Akelei, in Norwegian (and also in Dutch), they're also known as columbines. They're a genus of perennial flowering plants and there are gorgeous natural variations all across the northern hemisphere, but you can find both natural and introduced flowers all over the world (except Antarctica). They are really cool as they posess both male and female organs and they are capable of self-pollination with and without pollinators. Yet, caution is adviced as parts of the plants are toxic to humans. It is why my Akelei grow quite protected where the cats or the kids cannot get too close. It doesn't protect it from me though, grabbing every chance to watch those gorgeous colours and petals! All throughout the season there were only leaves visible and very very slowly in the middle a stem would grow larger, eventually developing those enveloped petals you see on the picture. So this one came in quite late, nonetheless being a pleasant surprise in what I may call: a

As we move toward the Autumn Equinox, there is a shift in the air. The bright, high-energy expansion of summer slows down, the light changes, and many of us may find ourselves suspended in an uncomfortable middle ground. It’s that familiar, heavy sense of limbo—feeling deeply unsatisfied with where things are today, yet having no clear vision of where to head next. If you are feeling this seasonal gloom or notice that internal stagnation right now, I want to offer a gentle reminder: you are not failing, and you are not falling behind. Nature never leaps instantly from full bloom to winter rest. It pauses, cools, and slowly releases. When we transition between seasons, our minds often race ahead. We feel a sudden urge for radical clarity, new plans, and sharp direction. But when those instant answers don't arrive, the intellect can quickly turn inward, turning into self-criticism. We build mental cages out of our own expectations, judging ourselves for feeling stuck or for not having ev

As summer shifts into autumn here in Norway, the mornings and evenings have taken on a sharp, familiar chill. Though the days can still be warm, the birches are turning yellow, mist rises from the water, and the garden is slowly winding down for the season. One of the most rewarding things I’ve done this year was building a frog pond. It’s essentially a bucket filled with a mix of water from Lake Mjøsa, our well, and whatever falls from the sky, set into the ground and layered with stones and water plants. When I first started, it didn't look like much, and I quickly discovered the area was crawling with ants. But the pond had to be there, so we made it work. I added more stones as we went and planted strawberries (which had sprouted between my asparagus) and meadowsweet. Digging up the soil actually opened the way for even more wild plants to emerge. Throughout August, I let the growth surrounding the pond run wild on its own terms. I did try introducing three specific pond plants, bu

The summer warmth begins to wane, Where golden stalks once met the light, And swallows mark the silent plain Before the chill of gathering night. A shadow skims the quiet land, Where black wings circle in the air; Love takes us gently by the hand To tread the hills now glowing bare. For grief and grace lie intertwined, Like crimson vines upon the stone; The deepest love we leave behind Is measured in the tears we own. A crown is yielded to the moss, While quiet dreams begin to weave; We count the treasure in our loss, And love enough to mourn and grieve. Lene )O(

As I’m working on the final preparations for my promotional photoshoot later today, I’m reflecting back on a deeply transformative month. Pulling from Carr-Gomm's plant oracle this morning brought it all into focus: The Banes, Meadowsweet, and Reversed Flax. Together, they mirror the exact terrain I’ve been walking. On the 1st of August, we celebrated Lughnasadh at Siren. Just like the two years before, it was a quiet, calm celebration—a much-needed balm after a crazy Summer Solstice and a fiery, unpredictable July. In the cards, Meadowsweet acts as this exact medicine: the soothing, gentle grace that cools spiritual inflammation and restores peace after season-long friction. Yesterday, I went out to pick rye from the fields as they have begun harvesting all that gold. I use the rye as an offering back to the land, for small corn dollies, and for the Celtic Crosses we make during Imbolc in February. The ones I made this year will be burned during the Winter Solstice to symbolize the re

2026 has been a strange, beautiful, and deeply humbling year. If there is one thing this year has taught me, it is that control is often just a well-justified illusion. Where I thought I held all the answers, I was met with questions. Where I believed I was facing insurmountable obstacles, hidden blessings have quietly revealed themselves in hindsight. It has been a year of bringing things back home. Things I assumed were lost forever have shown themselves to merely be dormant, waiting for the space around them to become safe enough again. Recently, I found myself in a moment where an old ember suddenly flared into full flame. The music, the harp, the joy of touching people with unexpected, authentic tones—it all swept over me at once. The fire burned so brightly that my mind immediately did what it always does: try to force a plan. What do I do now? Which path should this take? How do I weave this into everything else? But instead of chasing the spark with full force, I paused. I disc