Dandelion wine has been racked off, siphoned into old and very clean wine bottles, corked, and stored horizontally in a makeshift wine wrack in the basement.

She’ll probably be ready to drink by like Christmas.

I just tasted the dandelion wine.

It’s been sitting on the back of the counter in a gallon jar for weeks, fermentation lock bubbling away. I’m a little more than nervous about my winechild.

It might’ve gone bad. Tasted off, or turned to vinegar.

But she burns like alcohol, and she’s sweet like wine. She tastes like dandelions.

I hadn’t noticed how much I’d been holding my breath over this.

I notice that I’m feeling relieved and hopeful. I’m feeling like I have that much more to be careful with, as I get through to the end of bottling and aging and the rest of this. I’m also noticing a strange absence where there might be resentment about one more thing to watch over and worry for.

I think it’s because I happen to really like this.

And it’s just – some stuff in a jar on the back of the counter. It’s a small thing. The world isn’t going to fall apart if it goes south.

But the little taste I had made me happy, on some random Monday in June. And I think that makes it important.

There are wildflowers drying in my room.

Bundles of wildflowers, tied together with hemp chord, hanging from a length of twine I strung across the ceiling.

Buttercups and daisies, red and white clover, chickweed, deadnettle. Mugwort, also. This week I learned that mugwort is a very mild psychoactive and it grows all around my house. (My little sister told me that bible pages are thin enough for rolling a joint, which would be useful if I owned a bible.)

There’s homemade soap curing in my room.

The first batch came out crumbly and brittle and streaked with veins of lye and soda ash. I’ve read that some folks think rebatching is disgraceful and isn’t true soap making and I think that is silly. I took what I had and melted it down and mixed it with beeswax and oats and milk and honey. Came out fine and smells delicious.

There’s plantain salve tucked away in a drawer in my room.

Broadleaf plantain grows almost everywhere where humans live. It’s known to be astringent, bitter, and is believed to draw impurities from small cuts and bites and stings on the skin.

There’s mead fermenting in my room.

I took a taste when I racked off the solids the other day. It’s very clearly alcoholic, but there’s still a background taste of honey. I’m worried because it’s stopped bubbling – it’s stopped making carbon dioxide. I think this means it could start to go bad if it comes in contact with oxygen, unless I bottle it quickly. That’s a tomorrow thing.

There’s a half-done crocheted sweater in my room. There’s a sand candle burning on an old clay tile. There’s a guitar in the corner, and it isn’t covered in dust. There’s a bookshelf. There are strains of Aoife O’Donovan and Crooked Still and Driftwood humming in the background.

All of these things –

all around me. While I’m reading, gaming, writing, trying to sleep.

It’s all very grounding. It’s good to have something to show for my time.