Bog Hag Fashion Tips
You are in her hovel licking a spoon of honeyed herbs—some dangling root (osha?) stuck in your teeth. The Hag is holding court again by the fire in her singed bent cane rocker with homeknit socks that could use a darning. Her hair mows out from her skull in a range between frizz and frazz. She has on an embroidered vest so patched it could not even be of its original cloth. A gauze skirt of some extrordinary cloth (once linen, rubbed thin and thick with stains) barely covers her furred knees. Somewhere there is a scarf, a hat, a cat, but it is hard to see between the sheer variety of her patterns. Her eyes wink out of the gloom and mess.
"Wait, I’m supposed to take tips from you?"
You are laughing.
"Keep it up, wart, I’m not above a curse or two," she snorts. "If I felt like you had it handled I wouldn’t say anything at all. But look at yourself, still trussed up in lingere at your age. Underwire. Under what? Please! And what is with the synthetics?"
You look down and see the classic shim shine on your shirt. You thought it was silk. You were wrong.
"Well its hard to find natural fibers anymore."
"Bullshit," says the Hag. "This is the way. You are becoming, so fully become. If you wanna take notes it will save you time, money and dignity. Ahem..."
She settles in with a long look and a cup of some homebrew.
"Are you listening? Good. Take notes.
First, keep your coochie cool. You can’t breathe when your vagina can’t breathe so stop stuffing it with polyester and nylon and other synthetic crap. Come to think of it, stop stuffing it with tampons and spermicide and big pharma suppositories and the horror show of modernity. Let your coochie COOL.
Be cool, man. Like Baubo, the woman who lifts her skirts and makes Demeter laugh amid her grief.
Um excuse me, Hag. I can't be that free.
Ok then, cotton. Natural fibers. No thongs or strings or crack climbers. You need ye olde granny panties ASAP! And if you are still flowing with the moon, relax, find ways to let that blood back to the earth—rags are the classic, sea sponges work too, mindful of the flow. This is easier in community, I’ll grant you."
"Yes, I miss the women," you say, a little wreath of sadness round your heart .
"Well that may be something evident in part two but we are still on fashion tips so here goes. Skirts. I know, I know! This is not a throwback. Think of the pragmatics. Need to pee, just lift and pour. Not only this but it gives a direct line of energy between your root and the earth. Ground in, gather as you float above the ground, full range of motion. Again Absolutely no synthetics! Drape yourself over the earth. Seat yourself in the sacred center. Rest and reward.
Cover your head. Also sounds like a cast back to yore but absolutely not. There is too much interference out there for your baby bog brain to hold—so kerchief like a babushka, or O’Keefe’s broad brimmed hat, these didn’t come from nowhere they are rooted in the ancient Bog Hag exchange. Less reverence than protection but try it you will see.
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Boots. Hear me out. Boots for every single day. You never know when the roadside camas will come calling, or when you feel the urge to climb a tree and get a better look at the sunset. Or when you need to outrun something or someone. Don’t mess around with petrol products, go for the tried and true: leather tongues to wag, hobnails to click, handmade if you can swing it and go all in on the right to repair. Lace up, zippers break, leather laces like your ancestors.
If boots are too rigid, which I get, moccasins—look at the ancient ones, all those they pulled from the earth. That was some footwear, right there! A thousand years, two, preserved. What did your ancestors wear? Find something that lets you feel the earth, that is of the earth, that will last for lifetimes and wear that.
(Even in the city Boggy?) City, pity. You will want to wander the fens and trails and muddy woodlands in them first. IF they can hold up out there you may stand a chance in your modern age.
Wool. Wool is for winter. Wool is the base layer for everything. Wool and, if you want to be deluxe, silk for insulation, but there is no finer fiber for warmth in the wet than wool. Look at the Huldremose woman, layered in wool as she slumbers in the bog. Huldre means hidden, did you know this? The Huldrefolk are kin to me, and they will recognize you in our common skin of wool. Now for the heat, linen. And linen and linen. Cotton is good, but it is new and much abused. Get some good old world linen and make bronze and iron age shapes to last a lifetime. Breathe in these.
("What about a t-shirt, a flannel and some old skirt?")
Well sure, kid. That’s what I’m wearing right now. But why make it so simple? What ever loving fun is that? Thrill of the hunt, acquisition, ideals…isn’t that what the world has become?
("What about wear what your ancestors wore?")
"Then we are in a conundrum, yes? Because you would have harvested, retted, dried, broken, skulched and spun the field flax—or nettles-- into thread, then woven on a loom, then cut and hand sewn your garments. 400 hours of labor for a single stretch of cloth (1), not to mention the cost of land and seed, the cost of finger and eye. So to dress as the Bog Hag of olde would have been expensive, intensive. One garment set at a time, two later on: for good, for everyday. Patched and padded, stained and skulled (that word again, skuld). Is it any wonder the Nornir, the Three are spinners, weavers, plyers of thread?"
("Can we never go back. We yearn for the matter.")
"What matters now…" the Hag breathes a deep sigh, a sigh of a being who has tumbled through ages and seen so many things, "…the matter is madder, rooted, dark red and seething in the pot, I think.
To Become Bog Hag is to Embrace What Is
Do not fight your time
Do not get sodden with the logistics of weaving from flax a skirt. Love the tools of these days—elastic is a gorgeous Boggy invention. As is that waterproof coat you wear. Umbrellas. Insulation. I could go on.
Instead of stucking in purity, perhaps you could choose one thing to bring forward from the past. One thing to re-member. Maybe for someone this is nalbinding. Maybe weaving. Spinning. Knitting. Building a fire. Harvesting herbs with a song. Making an offering before you eat. Taking something and giving something in return. Pressing your hands to the earth at sunrise. Digging each autumn for roots in the dirt. Maybe for someone this is poetry, the sagas of the ages
Maybe for you this is story.
All is all and too much to bear. Give thanks for your time and let something of the past live through you
To dress like me—and you already do, in those moments where you feel most at ease, most at home, in clothing that is breathable and lasts, that will compost into nothing at its end, or will wrap your generations over and over again—to dress in becoming, live true.
That is the Bog Hag way.
Now, for your hair…"
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(by this and every effort may the balance be regained)
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All photos are in the common domain from Wikipedia Commons and linked to license where applicable.
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