Week 38 of the PBP.

There’s just something about the scaly, leopardy bark of the sycamore that I’ve always found irresistible. When I visited Portugal in 2011, one of the most memorable experiences of the trip was sitting beneath the giant spreading branches of a sycamore in the courtyard of a Templar monastery. It was almost as if the branches still held the chants of the monks rustling amongst its dry winter leaves.

Sycamore is of the deep Earth, rooted in the sturdy realm of Saturn. A sycamore gifted me a branch this past Samhain, and rarely have I felt nwyfre flow so freely in an impromptu tool. The branch is quieter now, but no less grounding.

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