Hobbit

My mom visited me last night in a dream and apparently she wants me to get something off my chest.

It was strange to see her—her body died of carcinoid cancer after a long struggle—in 2015.

In my dream she was in the process of dying too, which was a feeling that was more sensed than explained. She was pacing around—something she couldn’t do the last week I saw her. Something was obviously affecting her.

“I don’t have a home,” she said.

Her voice held the pressure of pained emotion. She was on the verge of tears, but holding back so as to not cause a scene in the contextless room. This felt very much like my mom. She never liked to make a fuss, never wanted to bring attention to herself.

Her one-time husband—I don’t know what to call him anymore—was also in the dream room. Outside of the dream we don’t have much of a relationship. He is now remarried to another woman, which is his prerogative. Before they got married I heard stories of how she got angry if she saw family photos of my mom. Now she occupies the house that my mom raised three kids in. This house—also now rumored to smell like fucking concentrated Glade—was where my mom slammed cupboards and doors when she was angry. Righteously angry. God I loved my mom when she was angry. She was angry for good reasons. To this day, I really wish I did more dishes to make her life easier.

She loved planting shade-loving PERENNIAL plants. She introduced me to gardening. The only reason I know jack-in-the-pulpit, pagoda dogwood, maidenhair fern, and trillium is because of her.

I have no idea what’s planted around the house now, but more than likely they’re annuals—pansies, marigolds, and fucking geraniums in pots. Maybe some petunias and coleus—also in pots that get tossed in the compost in September when they’ve outlived their usefulness.

“I don’t have a home,” my mom said in a dream.

I woke up feeling disturbed. The characters in your dreams are blameless; they can’t be held responsible for their actions or non-actions. In this case, as an observer inside the dream, I had a sense of agency. I was doing something wrong, but it wasn’t clear what it was.

Owly has a place in her studio office where she keeps photos of her relatives. Their photos are all over the wall. She wakes up and talks to them. She calls them in for discussions. It’s like she holds court with them. They are her spirit council members. She is close with them. She maintains consistency.

Today I finally created a space for my mom on the top of a shelf behind me in my office basement. I placed the ink pen there that she gave me that belonged to my Great Grandfather Paul, who was from Odesa. And I put a bowl there with a bite-sized Nut Goodie, which was her favorite candy. I ate the first one, apologized, and gave her another one. Suddenly, the coconut Neapolitan candies made by Brach’s that she liked popped into my head. I made a mental promise to my mom—and resisted the urge to ask her how she planned to chew—I’ll get those next time. She reads my mind, so I didn’t have to say the words:

“You’re welcome here anytime.”

Owly

“I don’t have a home.”

Mama Hobbit needs a home.
May it be our Mirth House.

I think I just figured out why Hobbit and I have been abrasive with each other about the garden and the yard.

You see, I’m not a gardener. I have neither the skill nor the desire to learn the skill of being a green thumb, but I have the aesthetic eye to know what looks and feels right. We’ve owned the Mirth House for nearly 3 years now, and the only thing we have figured out about the yard is that I want my full sun irises to honor my friend (and ancestor) Julie.

But the rest of the yard/garden. . . I get it now. . . it needs Mama Hobbit!

We need to invite Mama Hobbit to the co-creation of the space.

After reading Hobbit’s story in this post, I looked into the spiritual meanings of pagoda dogwood, maidenhair fern, trillium, and jack-in-the-pulpit. Here’s what I learned:

Pagoda Dogwood:

This tree builds a new “pagoda” of sorts—a spiritual architecture where we can honor Mama Hobbit. We planted this last summer. Its tiered limbs reach out like open arms, soft and slow and kind, mirroring the way grief comes in layers, teaching gentle growth, ascending structure, and how to stretch without strain.

Maidenhair Fern:

Soft strength. Feminine grief. Emotional complexity. This fern thrives in stillness and water's edge—where emotions flow beneath the surface. This plant is a guide to aid in feeling without unraveling, to process the guilt, longing, and inability to fix the past.

Trillium:

The quiet forest priestess—trillium’s three petals, three leaves, always in sacred symmetry, holds the energy of divine balance: body, mind, spirit; maiden, mother, crone; birth, life, death. Trillium teaches patience, presence, and inner alignment. In dreams or on the path, it’s a sign to come back to center.

Jack-in-the-Pulpit:

A quirky woodland flower that serves as a spiritual guide disguised in green. With its hooded form and shifting gender, it whispers lessons on transformation, balance, and embracing what’s hidden beneath the surface as a way to access the courage to change.

These are Mama Hobbit’s plants.
This is her language.

So this summer, dearest Hobbit, we shall give your mother a home and build her a garden. A native sanctuary, shaded and soft. A place for jack-in-the-pulpit to rise up like a sermon. For trillium to cycle through its quiet wisdom. For maidenhair to weep on the forest floor. For pagoda dogwood to create an architecture for grief to transform into deeper love.

A place where your mother can return home. . . to you.

Because memory is powerful, but rooting something into the earth—that’s magick.
And that’s how we keep our beloveds close.

We water them.
We whisper to them.
We let them bloom.