juniper, hermit, petrichor
new moon medicine from the desert
“You’re a stranger to this place,” I hear them say. A bed made from decades of spent needles cushions my back. I look up through their labyrinthine branches, some self-pruned and now dead; others still green and grasping onto the gold of late afternoon sun.
“Yes, but I want to get to know you. Whatever you’d like to share; I’m listening.”
This is my fifth attempt at connaissance, but yet again, I hear no answer from this elder Alligator Juniper tree. In the past, as someone who can often drop into the language of plants, I might have mistaken this as a fault of my own— a shortcoming of my intuition. Shouldn’t I learn something? Isn’t that the mark of connection?
But in the absence of response, this tree is teaching me something else. More subtle, with less reassurance.
The word intuition stems from the Latin verb tueor, meaning “to look at, behold, watch, or gaze.” The word tutor shares the same root.
In an intuitive space, we thus acknowledge that we do not know; that we seek tutelage. Our guides— the land around us, our wider selves, our ancestors— become our tutors. To intuit, we listen and behold.
But what if we don’t hear or see anything? What does it take to dwell in the idleness? To notice the discomfort of not knowing, and rather than move on or do something else, we keep noticing?
This is Juniper’s lesson. As someone eager to jump in deep, gobble knowledge down, or want something profound, it’s a hard lesson to stomach. But here I am learning—listening is a slow process. After all, in understanding intuition as a form of relating, we can’t demand that another always be so ready to share.
Especially since, like Juniper tells me, I am a stranger to this land. This land of red jasper, cholla cactus, and mesquite. Of far horizon and creeks that only flow with the rain. The land of the Mimbres and Apache, now settled by my son’s paternal family, so I find myself here.1
As it turns out, this is also the land of the Hermit. The title of this archetype stems from the Greek eremites, meaning "person of the desert.” And as I become more intimate with this land, I am learning that the Hermit not only embarks on a journey for solitude and wisdom; but like the Juniper teaches, the Hermit walks headfirst into the the liminal space of not knowing.
In order to deeply seek, we must accept that we don’t know— for in that uncertainty, we make space for the glimmer of what’s beyond ourselves. Though before that glimmer comes, we might wait with bated breath. Hermit says, keep breathing through the darkness. This lantern illuminates just what’s here in front of us, one step at a time.
This land, home to the Juniper and the Hermit, informs this theme. The desert— a place rife with uncertainty. There’s an expanse of land all around, which is seemingly infertile and lacking. But out of this expanse of dusty unknown, the Juniper sprouts, trusting, driving those roots so deep underground that eventually, they find the gift of water hidden from plain sight.
Out of nothing, something. We lean into the uncomfortable uncertainty of dust and drought. What a gift it can be to go so deeply into what’s here, before any sense of what’s to come?
You might have been so certain it was water you needed the most, but it turns out— when it rains in the desert, the true gift is petrichor. The hypnotic scent of the earth’s microbiome waking up, reminding you of a part of yourself that had gone dormant. The smell of remembrance— guttural and ephemeral— that reminds you why you’re here. Petrichor comes on its own accord, only after many moons without rain; only after, painstakingly, waiting.
It turns out, this is the year of the Hermit in terms of tarot’s numerology. With this archetype, you might not know what you’re doing or feel far enough along. You might question, “Why am I not there yet?” or “What is this rut?”
In these moments of urgency or unknown— what does it take to just hang out? In idleness, rather than grabbing your phone, what if you listen to your heartbeat? Instead of tuning into what everyone else is saying or doing— what is it like to be you, in this body, in this place, right now?
It can be profound— the simplicity of going so whole-heartedly into what’s here before impulsively moving onto something else.
Let your body, the land, the stars in the sky be your tutor. “Look, behold, watch, gaze.” And rather than studying that night sky for every planet or constellation you know, how does it feel to let that sparkling dark fully wash over you? To let it teach you, unhindered?
Many of us know that intuition can bring the most precious of gifts. And first, all it takes is listening.
new moon, new medicine
These lessons from Juniper and the Hermit— of leaning into the idle unknown— align with today’s new moon in Aquarius, especially as Saturn rules both Juniper and, traditionally, Aquarius. This sign can be so prone to certainty and wanting to know everything (of which I’m intimately familiar with my Sun, Venus, Mercury, and Saturn in Aquarius), so the liminality of trusting and listening to idleness can be potent medicine for helping us to drop out of the mind and into an intuitive, collaborative space. Juniper has helped teach me these lessons, and I’ve worked with this plant ally so we may carry their wisdom with us in the form of these two oils.
These Juniper needles I used to infuse these oils, harvested from the Gila mountains here in New Mexico, are honestly the most potently fragrant plant material I’ve worked with. I used the same 1:2 ratio that I do with other conifer oils for my ‘Soul Oil’ line, and the result was SO aromatic that I was inspired to make a perfume— Juniper soliflore, to which I also added Juniper resin to add body and potency. I did end up diluting the Juniper Soul (juniper-infused jojoba) to a 1:3 ratio to stay in line with my fellow sensitives who want to lather it all over! Might I mention, Juniper needles are high in Vitamin C, which extracts in this process— skin nutrition alongside plant ally connection, anyone?
You can find both of these oils now in my apothecary shop, and the individual listings are linked under the photos of each oil above. Another update on the apothecary front— in spirit of upcoming Lover’s day, I did list a handful of Sensuality Ritual Kits, which include my Empress elixir, Rose Soul oil, a written somatic-based sensual ritual card, all wrapped up in paper from a recycled Heirloom Roses magazine. These are limited edition and won’t be restocked once they sell out (and it looks like there are 3 left as of now).
Wishing you many moments of listening in, on this dark moon near midwinter. I send my Imbolc blessings as well. Here’s a poem, if you’re interested, in honoring this seasonal turning point as the quickening begins.
With starry eyes and lantern in hand,
Jordann
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As an update— I am here in New Mexico for the winter, and I will return to my main home of the Catskills/”Hudson” Valley this Spring.
Beautiful as always! I am also spending winter away from the northeast, in the blooming desert of cahuilla land.