Brigid’s Ritual, Part 7

I prepare the two circles in the woods for Summer Solstice. Colorful mats and matching candles adorn the altars in the four quarters. The north altar also displays ritual tools –a bottle of salt water, a blessing bowl, antlers, a knife, incense, and a hammer. I pull the rake down the path to the smaller Druid circle. In the center I place a flat stone altar next to a rock –just big enough to sit on –a perfect place to meditate. I set paper and pen, a candle, incense, and salt water in a bowl on the flat stone. The area is now tidy and ready for tonight’s pilgrimages. My partner and I, and a friend of ours, will each walk alone tonight from the main circle to this Druid circle, to meditate on what needs to be recycled in our lives.

Today we celebrate the power of the sun on his longest day –and his death, as he begins his underworld journey. His bright force will move to the earth for a bountiful harvest. It’s a good time to recycle, to send bad habits or unhealthy coping mechanisms with the sun god so he can turn our obstacles into bits of nourishment and helpful things in our lives. We will write down our hindrances on a piece of paper and burn it. Fire transforms the problem list into more constructive life choices.

After an early dinner we make our way to the woods. The hot late afternoon sun, muted by oak leaves, offers glimpses and flashes of waning light as we arrive at our cathedral of pines. This place holds power and calm. We pass through a gate to the big circle, call the quarters, and invite specific solar gods to join us.

When it’s my turn, I set off for the Druid circle. Once I’m seated, grounded with sprinkles of salt water and the smell of incense, I pick up the pen and paper. At the top I write, “maga madness.” Can I recycle an entire movement? Well, it won’t hurt to try, I tell myself. It’s the lingering poisonous effects of Christian nationalism I want to process –that doomed feeling, the sense that lies and malice are invincible. The sound of my pulse when I hear of another pregnant woman turned away from a red state emergency room, bleeding and in pain. The heart palpitations when a maga politician writes legislation calling for executions of women who get abortions. The heart sinking cruelty is not the only reason I write “maga madness.” If I live in fear of fundamentalist theocrats to the point of hurting my heart I won’t have the energy to resist –to produce harvest in the world. I want to be present to employ the underground banned book network, to volunteer at the voting polls in November, to talk to people about the threat of Project 2025, to be kind and loving and professional in a world of simping cult members in Trump caps. Harvest also includes the personal –feeding and caring for crow friends and companion dogs, taking care of my marriage and friendships, loving my home –weeding my gardens, nurturing the new cherry tree, dogwood, and Japanese maples. I can’t let Christian fascists cast shadows on my physical and mental health. So yes. The maga movement is getting recycled. With glee. Suddenly I feel lighter. And I know the constitution will persevere. The religious zealots will not gain power, and the Comstock Act will never again darken the law of the land.

Later, after we have all taken turns, we sit around a small fire and burn our lists. May we create a path for healthy living in interesting times. May we extend healing hands to one another. We end the night with toasts, boasts, tales of beloved dead, and hopes for the future. What joy on this summer night –to celebrate the season, to be pagans, to love earth and her cycles –all part of our resistance to bad actors, corrupt politicians, and lying narcissists. Life is beautiful. You see? –I’m transformed! The sun god is busy already.

Laurel Owen, June 2024