Brigid’s Ritual, Part 11
I used to suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, SAD for short. Between the Autumn Equinox and All Hallow’s Eve, anxiety and depression took over. The prospect of upcoming holidays full of twinkling lights, family gatherings, presents, joy, and bonding –I dreaded the loneliness and cried.
One Yuletide I ended up at my doctor’s office, barely functional. Wisely, she checked my Vitamin D level and found it abysmally low. Now, with 2000 IU of Vitamin D3 each day I no longer deal with SAD.
This year, however, as we contemplated the balance of night and day –the Autumnal Equinox, sadness closed in on us. My familiar, Ari the dog, died two days before the ritual. Two weeks before, right about the time we got Ari’s terminal diagnosis –at the Harvest Moon, we found out our magic circles in the woods were smack in the middle of an old wagon trail from another century. Not our property. Someone with landlocked acreage needed an easement. The surveyor delivered the bad news the same day the veterinarian pronounced the word lymphoma.
It’s a bad day for a Druid when your familiar is dying and your sacred ritual space has been surveyed for a road.
I persevered by creating two new circles, just like we had before, with a path in between –this time within our property lines. The action of clearing leaves and pine needles amongst the oaks and giant conifers helped heal me. I actively, physically, addressed the loss, determined to create a spiritual home in the woods. Ari walked down with me to the new area, dedicated to him, the day before he died. A blessing.
This became the model for our Equinox. What rational and beneficial actions aid in the face of tragedy and adversity?
At dawn, the moment of the Equinox, my partner and I lit candles in the North, East, South, and West. We welcomed the four quarters, then called upon our favorite gods and goddesses. A cauldron sat in the middle of the circle with three candles inside, burning brightly. We took turns writing three things on a piece of paper. First, a problem –personal or worldly– to grapple with. Second, the best possible outcome we could imagine. Finally, and most importantly, we wrote the sane behavior we might employ to move us through the grief or uphill climb at hand. Then we burned the paper. The transforming power of fire set our intentions out in the multiverse. A measure of hope. A pebble tossed in a lake to make waves.
For my turn I wrote, “Christian nationalism rising.” Indeed, US democracy is in danger. A dark movement, maga, has taken control of the conservative party. Wealthy backers believe women should not get to choose when –or with whom –they start families. Many of these fascists believe women should not vote. A number of them state that homosexuals and heretics should be executed. Maga politicians, from the presidential candidate down to insurrectionists in congress, engage in lying beyond belief or disbelief. The mission is to obfuscate, confuse, and control. The uneducated and fearful cling to the lies, desperate to matter, to be part of a significant movement. Revolution. Tearing down the government. Best case scenario? –Vote all maga republicans back to the woodwork with the other fringies nobody pays any mind to. They are a minority, after all. And what would be my levelheaded actions to thwart this descent into theocracy? I’ll write postcards to independent voters. I will work the polls for the election. A banned book network is in the planning stages as we watch Arkansas’ banned book law make its way through the courts. My bumpersticker provides a website for abortion access out of state, and it identifies me as a safe space for people needing reproductive care. And I continue to write this series, Brigid’s Ritual, to impress on all readers the urgency of this moment.
It felt as healthy as Vitamin D3 to burn that piece of paper. To choose not to give into despair.
We ended the ritual by walking the path through our woods to the smaller Druid circle. The candles flickered in the morning light from the four quarters, welcoming us. Ari’s collar and harness at the north altar gave substance and focus for our grief. We allowed each other privacy and all the time needed. I cried, “My boy, my boy. I love you.” And I smelled his fur.
Facing hard truths, burning our intentions into action, and crying –thoughtful ritual –fortified our strength against the dark days ahead. The nights will be long, the election fraught with endless smoke screens and possible violence. Our democracy is not safe yet. Ari, a born herder and master control freak, would have loved knowing he was a muse as we celebrated another season. We reached for our humanity, our wiser choices –and our magic. I can feel him stepping on my heels –guiding me to a better path –even now.
Laurel Owen, October 2024
