A few years ago, I went to look at a little house on an old quarry road. Even before entering the house I loved the place immediately; there were tall nettles all around that lead to a quiet stream, lilacs in all directions, and purple self-heal flowers dotting the yard. I loved all the stone on the land the most, bluestone everywhere, including the front stoop that was made up of two big steps of bluestone. But when I opened the front door, the first thing that I saw was the woodstove, seated in a place of honor directly across from the entrance, welcoming everyone into the home. It felt like the central spindle of the house; the crux of the home. The woodstove also rested on a slab of bluestone, grounded. This is it, I told myself.
That night, I went home and had a dream about the house. In the dream I had painted a large red snake on the wall behind the woodstove, which is actually the small stairway leading up to the second floor. The snake in the painting was also traveling up the stairs, looking like it had emerged from the hearth. When I woke from the dream, I wrote in my journal that the hearth-snake felt magical, but I wasn’t sure why. I placed an offer on the house that morning.
A few months later I was painting the walls and floors of this old quarry road house, getting ready to move in. I had just received the keys to the house earlier that morning, it was my first day being in my new home. It was late-summer and the front door was open to the screened-in porch to keep the air flow moving. I had been standing in the kitchen, drinking water, taking a quick break, when I heard a slight rustling sound outside. I looked out to the stone front stoop and there were two red snakes entwined like ribbons, mating. Their yellow heads looked as if they were floating in the air. The hearth-snake was very real. And very alive. I backed away behind the screen door and sat down on the hearthstone that held the woodstove and watched the snakes from this place.
When the snakes were done with their spiral dance, one moved quickly off into the grass toward the mugwort patch and the other sat on the stoop for a moment before winding its way under the stone stoop of the house. I felt like I had just seen something that was supposed to be a secret. Not only is it a wild thing to see snakes mate; these snakes were gleaming, venomous copperheads, usually very elusive snakes. The land spirits had made themselves known and I immediately understood that I was a guest in this house. All day I felt electrified by this sighting. That night before leaving the house to let the paint dry, I left some dried flowers that I had grown by the stoop as an offering. I wished I had more to give. I came better prepared the next day.
That first winter in the house, I dreamed of snakes often. I started deep research into snake lore and myth. I learned that my Polish ancestors believed that the spirit of the house would often take the shape of a snake. Snakes embodied the spirit of the house hearth, the center of life and death of the home. So offerings would be made to ensure good health and happiness for every being in the house. Each night, a bowl of ritual milk would be left out by the hearth for the house snake. This ritual act would feed the hearth-spirit and maintain the balance of the home. Even though the hearth-snake was often invisible (children had better luck seeing them), the milk was left each night. Feeding the unseen, feeding the hearth, feeding the spirit of the home. I began to do the same. I left offerings at my hearth, on the bluestone slab each night: milk, honey, bread, cake, song, story, poem. These nourishing ingredients that keep me hearty all season, all offered back. Each winter, I imagine the snakes hibernating, dreaming in their den under piles of bluestone in the woods, receiving the milky dream offerings from my stone portal to theirs.
