A bright morning after The Harvest Moon I walk the fresh path through Our woods --and enter Between a Pine and an Oak Next to the north altar --a door To a Druid circle-- North, East, South, and West marked with Friendly rocks from other sacred places, Other lives --mine, and his-- My familiar is dying And the new circle is a present Before he leaves this plane-- As we pause I ask for One more blessing-- My creature eyes me quizzically, With intelligent patience-- A being who smells intentions, disease, Happiness-- My fuss and worry A mysterious scent-- His devotion boundless --immediate-- From his cage, a six month old puppy Rescued me --his choice clear-- To a wise partner, stepping On my heels when I'm astray-- I want to capture his canine love Within the four quarters-- And yet, at long last, I grasp His teaching --to live fully Committed --this hallowed moment A gift for us both-- To simply cherish our magic Bond, once more-- And to hold him when he dies-- Until next time When we meet And love again.
For Harvest celebration this year we enjoy a feast. I make a pesto sauce from my magnificent basil plant, then toss it with pasta, butter, and cherry tomatoes from the garden in a cast iron skillet. Delicious. To reap a literal yield and prepare a dinner from its fruits is not only satisfying –but also traditional for this holiday.
After the meal we sit out in the yard surrounded by thriving flora, including giant lotus plants, elephant ears, and Japanese maples. It’s a hot August evening. The heat index settles down into the 90’s. From our camp chairs, several paces from the small fire, we call quarters and invite a few chosen gods and goddesses.
The metaphorical aspect of Harvest commences, toasts to each other’s accomplishments –gains we realized this year. We speak of scoring points in our businesses –better working conditions, improving financial peace of mind. We acknowledge creative and personal harvests, and our long term relationship, still growing after twenty two years. We raise mugs to our rescue canine companions, who revel in a loving routine with us. All three are elderly now, and we honor them as often as we toast. Dogs are angels on earth for a short time.
To end up, I offer up a hearty salute to the harvest of hope shared by sane Americans coast to coast. The ideal leaders appeared on the national stage the moment we desperately needed them. And now, at long last, we imagine our freedoms restored and democracy living to celebrate a 250th birthday. A joyful, capable, and eloquent woman of color and a genuinely likable midwestern white man have brought us home. We look to victory in November. Most of us don’t want control freak politicians in our bedrooms, doctor’s offices, and libraries. We don’t want cruel laws against women, non-Christians, and LGBTQ people. And now our voices scream out a stadiums and hangars across the country: We Will Not Go Back!
How wonderful, as we sit in our lovely yard around a sacred fire pit, to feel hope, to toast the real possibility of a future free of dour authoritarian puritans at the helm.
We close our circle, still from the comfort of our camp chairs. Sometimes it’s too hot to move much. We rally, though, and venture on to our screened-in porch. The hummingbirds zoom and dive around feeders, the crows come calling for peanuts, and our dogs post up –on duty –carefully watching. To be sure, a fight looms ahead, to vanquish zealots at the ballot box in November, then face off with election deniers and potentially violent cult members. But today our Harvest gives us strength, grounding, and –yes –happiness, both personal and beyond.
A kitchen of potions, dried herbs Hanging from rafters, and good coffee -- My landing place this morning in the spirit world -- Ariel, my friend and guide, and I Sit at the table before dawn As I impart the news between sips -- Our excitement shared At a ground swell of bold winning aspiration catching fire --a sense We collectively, resoundingly Will defeat the menace of religious fanatics and Their corrupted puppets -- Ariel smiles with my joy, And leads me away from our table -- We fly as crows West, to a lighthouse, A warm light and an open window Beckon -- I shift into the small room full Of books on shelves -- I'm drawn to an open tome on the table And lay my hand on a page -- The words tell a story -- Forbidden literature and wisdom, Characters portrayed In secret --shared in someone's cottage Between friends, book to hand with trust given -- Where nationalism thrives in gloom and imposes a blinding fog —banned Books offer a lighted path To dissent and survival -- So we tell our stories of outlawed sensuality Or ancient lore To arrive at dawn, at democracy, Freedom of bodies, minds, lifetimes Lived and set free in the pages of books and beyond -- Outside the pre-dawn stillness -- The expectation of a bird's first song, The sound and smell of salty waves below, The circling beam of the lighthouse, now over land Now over sea -- A comfort at this moment -- The lighthouse, my lodestar As I speak and write Hopefulness in my world.
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.
Dried herbs hang from rafters In the small kitchen, Ariel and I sip coffee before dawn, Already the brightening sky turns Black night to purple through the windows, I smile as my good news spills out: The spell broke, I tell her, a solid crack-- Twelve citizens in my world Decided thirty four times The monster is guilty, The simple truth frees us to hope again for lives unburdened By the illusion of invincible malice Control through fear and threats Power over weaker minds --all taking a hit-- Ariel takes my hand as I follow her outside Past our bench facing sunrise And we fly as crows to the bon fire At the center, I land on my feet as the man Tossing wood on the flames shifts To a bear and envelopes me In warmth and fur, my heart rests easy In this refuge Of friends and dwellings-- All four corners magical --not mundane, In the distance rolling thunder beckons A refreshing spring rain.
As a child I remember waking up every May Day to a fully decorated may pole. Draped in ribbons, evergreen branches, and cut flowers, it leaned against the fireplace in the living room, a bright invitation to Spring. Mom loved to brag about how she and Goody Gibb –her witch friend –delighted in snatching plant material in the thick of the night, sometimes right out of people’s yards.
Since then I have, likewise, marked May Eve every year, although I always fell short of my mother’s stealthy looting of greenery and blooms in the wee hours. In various pagan circles over the years, we celebrated with may poles. I insisted on it. Once I talked a bunch of convicts at a high security federal prison to dance on May Day around a pole. They knew me from my monthly visits as a chaplain, and liked me –but the leader explained to me that dancing out in the yard would not work for them. Once inside the chapel, in private, they enjoyed it. The medium and low security prisoners had less at stake in terms of reputations, and avidly celebrated the May Day dance outside. A Catholic chaplain even joined in the festivities one spring –we needed an even number of dancers and he obliged. We all laughed about that for a year. May Eve has always been a sweet extroverted holiday with nothing but good memories.
Today my partner and I tie aspiration to a may pole, each ribbon or branch a wish. First we set up the quarter altars with candles and colorful placemats. In the east the theme is yellow, for the clear air of sunrise. Fiery reds and oranges grace the south altar. The western quarter pleases the eye and slows the heart rate with the blue candle and green mat –the colors of water. At the north, brown and dark green colors remind us of the element earth. In the center of the circle, instead of a fire, we secure a may pole. Just to the side of the north altar, we drape various bright ribbons –yellows, reds, greens –on a tree limb, along with peony, iris, and spice bush blooms from our own Rosemund Haven, the name of our property and home.
We take turns tying a ribbon or a flower to the pole, and with it a fond hope. Sometimes it’s a blessing for a person or an animal. Tonight we wish my mother a continued long life. She’s our only living parent now, and the May Eve celebrant extraordinaire. At age 87 she still has the 5 foot pine branch from her Goody Gibb days, and decorates it every year to this day. We both fasten ribbons for our recently dead fathers with hopes of good fortune on their next adventures.
With a shiny red ribbon I send out an expectation for the return of reproductive rights for women in the US. The anti-abortion laws across the red states now have victims. As they get turned away from emergency rooms, women are bleeding out in parking lots, having miscarriages in waiting room bathrooms or at home, and fleeing their states. It’s horrifying. We both wish for an election outcome this year that does not include Trump or Christian nationalists. As I tie the final fragrant bloom to the top of the pole, I ask for the strength to stay and fight for our home in this backward red state –for our woods with magic circles, our garden, our elderly dogs, our many trees and water plants and perennials. We would hate to leave this place, Rosemund Haven.
The new may pole will stand on our front porch, where we listen to frogs at night, watch birds at the feeders during the day, and enjoy thunderstorms from the safety of its roof and screen. Such a comforting place to read or drink tea and talk. And now our beautiful testament to life and love –our may pole –will remind us of sanity and optimism as we face the coming months. I bring you a branch of May.
A warm spring day suddenly cools by ten degrees, The air is electric --like an incoming storm, Shadows grow long in our woods In the dusk-dark of the solar eclipse A red fox trots by, my spine tingles At the moment of alignment, the dance Of planets and stars, mathematical equations-- The musical cadence of gravity, Our earth twirling in space And occasionally, predictably, lining up With other spinning rocks --reassuring and thrilling-- The spectacle moves people to look up in wonder In step for a moment with one another-- Dancers losing themselves In the rhythm of our circling in the multiverse, Time seems to pause as we relish Our partial measure of the patters before us-- And bow to the mystery beyond.
My partner and I sit on our bench in the woods. We inhale the early green smell of spring and relish the mysterious in-between moment –when day meets night at dusk-dark, and when day and night are equal. It’s the spring equinox. Before us the crossroads mark the start of two diverging paths, each ending at a ritual circle. We hug each other and take separate paths. Mine leads around a pine tree, and drops me at the north entrance of my Druid circle. A limestone, almost my height, marks the spot. I linger here at the portal, in a time outside of time, a place of balance. Just for a few minutes the harmony inherent in equal day and night washes over me. Chaos gets put off for now. In time, I ring a small bell, step into the circle, and approach the eastern stone.
The element of air presides in the east, representing clear thoughts, new beginnings, morning, and springtime. The ability to see through falsehood, to honor truth –this I aspire to. Sifting through the sheer volume of information today includes rejection of disinformation and hyperbole –and the talent to decipher. May rational thinking inform me.
Next I arrive at the south quarter. Here the power of fire, of summer, and midday rule. Bravery leaps to mind —standing up to bullies, resisting Christian nationalism. The commitment I make here is to love life fiercely enough to fight for it.
As I move to the west, the sun has almost set. The limestones in the four quarters appear luminous in the half-dark. The power of the west ebbs and flows with water. It symbolizes the undercurrents in life. Emotions under the surface go unseen and ignored at our peril. Let my feelings and intuition not be enemies, but reminders of delight, that instant pang when a song brings a memory to the fore. May the inner voice warn me of danger, and let me not be afraid –even if the lights go out– knowing darkness is temporary.
Finally I come to the north, the quarter of our cherished home in the multiverse –planet earth herself. I stand, grateful for this earthly sacred life. Climate change and wars of aggression across the globe threaten us all. May I walk mindfully and with purpose as a guardian of our treasure. May we all learn to hold dear our continents, oceans –and all life forms in the mix. Inspired by a sense of balance, as the equinox points to, may we build a kinder, more rational world together.
And now the door leading back into the world stands in front of me, the prospect of everyday life. Renewed and calm, aware of the challenge ahead, I step out. My partner and I meet at the bench, a creation from his metal shop. Regal, with its Celtic design work and tall back, it’s surprisingly comfortable. We talk until the dark envelopes us. Our herding rescue dog barks nervously, reminding us of schedules and routines. We walk back up to the house to put him at ease.
Earlier today my anxiety mirrored that of my dog. A video featured a white Christian nationalist named Nick Fuentes. He told his followers that when the nationalists take power, magic and ritual practitioners will be put to death. He said we’re worse than Jews and immigrants. Now, as I channel clear thinking, it’s easy to dismiss Fuentes as a maladjusted incel and fanatic. But my intuition warns me not to ignore such people. Front and center of the mass psychosis called Trumpism lurks a religious fervor devoid of rationality or true spiritual depth. The adherents think Trump is a Christ-like savior. Again, easy to dismiss. Trump has scores of felony indictments, is liable for sexual assault and fraud, and tells lies like most of us breathe. He’s a criminal, a confidence man. Unbelievably, the republican party is now full of cult members. Trump loyalists, swept up in this madness, currently dominate red state legislatures. In their bid to enforce minority rule, they attack voting rights and enact cruel laws against women and LGBTQ people. The connection between extremists and republicans is sealed. Indeed, Nick Fuentes dined with Trump on Thanksgiving in 2022. No, pagans won’t face execution. Not now. But if Trump is elected, the lights of democracy will go out. Freedom will diminish, and all manner of persecutions may well unfold.
I shake off the horror of religious nationalists and authoritarian charlatans –and smile. It’s card night with the neighbors. I have a bet with one of them. He says Trump will win. I say no. Americans will vote the power-hungry zealots and their poisonous leader back to obscurity. People like Nick Fuentes can shout all they want into the void, as is their right. Their opinions won’t threaten anyone –they won’t matter. My neighbor and I know our bet is a joke. We both want me to win. The loser has to buy two pizzas for a card game. I already told him I’ll take two cheese and tomato with fresh basil.
I’m sad, Ariel, my world —-my country—- is in trouble. Words in the spirit world tumble out in a non-linear way, Projected —-not spoken. She squeezes my hand. Small, dark, and ancient, Ariel is a constant presence Next to me when we fly as crows—- Or sit as women near the bon fire On a hill facing east. She points to the sunlight surging across the horizon—- And hope arrives in yellow and orange, filling me with Warmth, expanding beyond me to encompass the world. Fertile earth presents the first flowering of the Vernal season —-clusters of purple crocuses And white spring beauties. It smells of moss, of green things to come. The dawning of the day brings assurance of the passing Of time, cycles. Malice, religious fanaticism, and ignorance Can’t be disposed of by a thought or by The passing seasons. However, by drawing my senses to the new day Ariel has grounded me in my own motivation and belief: The creative spark at the beginning of everything Is as beautiful as dawn on the eve of spring tide—- And at the end of all things The color of love Is warm —-like the sun.
Also called Imbolc or Candlemas, Brigid is my favorite holiday. It honors Brigid, Celtic Goddess of smith craft, fire, and poetry. She was my first patron. Our ritual involves a pilgrimage to a well, and pledges –but first things first. We adorn quarter altars in the four directions, light candles, and clear the area with salt water (earth and water) and incense (fire and air). A short walk through the woods away from the main circle, the Druid circle awaits –itself cleared and readied with a cauldron in the center. Candles twinkle as the sun sets. We call in the quarter powers, invite Brigid to join us, and now it’s my turn to begin the journey to the well by myself. The path winds over past the iron bench at the crossroads. I see the face of the Green Man, barely visible in the dusk dark, engraved in a rock. Here the path takes a sharp turn behind a pine tree. The Druid circle opens up before me as I enter from the north. Oak trees and shortleaf pines surround the circle, and large limestones gleam white as they mark the quarters. I sit on a rock at the center, facing the cauldron, which is now a well with floating candles dancing amidst fresh picked purple crocuses. Vanilla incense fills the air, the candles flicker happily on the water. It’s a moment I look forward to all year –when I can sit here in the woods, in this magic spot, and talk to Brigid. To begin, we review last year’s pledges, then I speak about vows for the coming year. It’s an intimate and honest evaluation, and a reset for the months ahead.
I explain that I intend to stand balanced, aware, and active in 2024, in the face of the most significant election of my lifetime. Americans will decide whether we want democracy or Christian nationalism. I share about some of the actions I may take –an underground banned book network, providing transportation for any woman who needs to get abortion care in Kansas, working the polls on election day. I ask Brigid for strength to keep my wits and not succumb to fear or despair.
In the past politics would not take center stage in the expression or observance of my spiritual path. During the course of my life I have engaged with witches, Wiccans, Asatru, Odinists, and Druids. Like Protestant denominations, we have conservative and liberal factions. I was always versatile. In San Fransisco I avoided the far left new-age pagans because they had no rules or commitment to a particular course. But I loved my witches’ coven where we sang together in rituals, practiced kitchen magic over pots of stew, and provided a structure for study, advancement, and initiation. It was here I began volunteering in prisons as a visiting chaplain. I created Wiccan rituals for young women behind bars. It was joyful and eye-opening. As the prison experience grew to include men and higher security units in the federal system I moved into conducting Asatru and Odinist rituals. Some of these men were gang members with white nationalist beliefs. I shared spiritual and emotional tools and got along well with everyone. Gang members should be allowed to observe their religious holidays just as anyone else. The white power movement never interested me, and nobody spoke about blowing up buildings or shooting anyone. My role as a chaplain was to genuinely show up for human beings, not judge the uniforms and numbers. Politics –even nationalist politics– didn’t matter. Politics was not my focus — neither theirs nor mine. By then I had moved to Tennessee and joined a local Asatru group. The current and former military members and conservatives in that group didn’t bother me. Indeed, from west coast witches to free-world Asatru to Odinists in prisons, I made friends across the spectrum and we all learned a lot. This was over 20 years ago. I have long since retired from prison work and the politics of the country now render ideology impossible to ignore.
Here in 2024 normal times are like a fog horn, forlorn and unseen in the distance. I live in Arkansas now. I’m a Druid, a polytheist, and a witch. My partner and I enjoy our private rituals and celebrations. We used to visit with the Asatru group for Summer Solstice, but not anymore. I can’t find the motivation to break bread with the Maga cult members who believe convicted January 6 insurrectionists are hostages in their jail cells. Nationalists are mainstream Republicans now, no longer on the fringes of society. Republicans are no longer conservative. True conservatives want to conserve the constitution and have locked arms with people on the left who believe in democracy. Right and left have no meaning anymore in the face of the fascist threat. The world has changed profoundly since my experience in prisons.
I tell Brigid I want to embark on a writing project for the year. I want to combine a Druid sensibility and practice with action and write about it in the coming months leading up to the election and beyond. In the before-times, this melding of the spiritual and the political was rare. Now it feels necessary. How can I, a polytheist who believes in feminine and masculine divine, turn a blind eye to women bleeding out in emergency rooms across red states? Women and their doctors don’t have control anymore –only the Christian nationalist legislators can decide abortion access. In Republican states where abortion is illegal, most have no exceptions for rape or incest. In Idaho not even the mother’s life matters. In these red states with no exceptions, almost 65,000 pregnancies from rape have occurred since Roe fell –26,000 in Texas alone. Travel restrictions for pregnant women have sprung up in Texas municipalities. Bounty hunter laws reward snitches who tell on doctors and women who end pregnancies. Some of these red state legislators are looking at tracking women’s periods, and investigating miscarriages. A few have asked for citizen medical records from providers outside the state. In Missouri legislation is on the table to apply the death penalty to women who get abortions. It’s a nightmare.
Speaking of the death penalty, Alabama recently executed a prisoner via nitrogen hypoxia. Death by nitrogen gas. The American Veterinary Medical Association deemed nitrogen hypoxia too inhumane for animal euthanasia. Yet there he was, a Maga on TV, touting a successful new way to kill convicts and promising a bright future for the death penalty across red America. He left out that the nitrogen hypoxia experiment lasted 22 minutes. It was tortuous. I don’t think he cared.
One of the most stunning achievements of doublethink (see 1984, by George Orwell) is ascribing the term pro-life to fundamentalist Christians. Executions and forced births are anything but pro-life. Christian nationalists care about power and control. That’s it. Two plus two does not equal five, and we were never eternally at war with either Oceania or Eurasia.
I want to write and shout for democracy, truth, and genuine spirituality, which should inspire us to seek love, beauty, and happiness for sentient beings –including planet earth herself.
My tears now blur the lights in Brigid’s well. The malice and cruelty I have spoken about breaks my heart. I continue with my pledges, and end with hope of comfort and justice for victims of barbarity, corruption, violence, and lies.
I vow to return in 2025 before Brigid’s well with a year of writing about each of the eight Druid holidays, the world of spirits, and the truth about rising autocratic theocracy and the struggle against it.
I leave the well, touching the bright standing stone at the exit. Darkness is now complete. My partner waits at the bench at the crossroads. I sit next to him for a few minutes in companionable silence. Then he walks off to the well and I find myself alone in the big circle, lighter and more clear. I’m determined to meet these next few seasons with poise, and to write about my small contributions to the unfolding events ahead.
A neuroscientist I follow on social media suggests we look forward to small things every day to raise dopamine levels. I look forward to morning coffee and meditation, and my visits to the spirit grove. What do you look forward to, friends, and what will you do for democracy?
