Tuesday, December 25, 2012

35 Harvest bangle

35 Harvest bangle
Saturday July 28, 2012:
"I am a child again,
dexterously I plat and weave,
my head bowed beneath the beating sun.
Around me, the tall grasses dance,
as with nimble fingers sure and swift,
I fashion my ring of harvest hopes.
Lamas Blessings"
As we walk across the field, my companion says she thinks there ought to be
five seasons. She says there's green summer and yellow summer. What with
all the rain this year, it's going to be hard to find the yellow summer.
But the tall grasses are golden and dancing in the breeze. The day is hot.
WE sit on the ground, hidden from other walkers on the heath.
This is the wake of Lugh the Sun King who dies with the waning year, the
Corn King who sacrifices himself when the grain is reaped. We stand now
between hope and fear, in the time of waiting. In the fields the grain is
ripe but not yet harvested. We have worked hard to bring many things to
fruition, but the rewards are not yet certain. Now the Mother becomes
Reaper, who feeds on life so that new life may grow. Light is still strong
but diminishes, the days shorten, and summer will pass. We gather to turn
the Wheel, knowing that to harvest we may have to sacrifice and warmth and
light must pass into winter. (Starhawk).
And through the long grass Corn goddess comes striding, her hair corn twists
upon her head, her skin brown as dark honey, and her arms full of the grain
just harvested
"And what do you hope to harvest?" she asks.
My harvest is about intention, about deciding to do and doing, about
abstinence and really meaning abstinence. Instead of gathering, I am letting
go, that's my harvest.
I weave the grasses together into a thick bangle.
"Less is more", I say to myself as the grass plat grows thick beneath my
rapidly working fingers.
"Abstinence is my harvest.
My face set with concentration, I see my younger self with her daisy chains,
her woven grasses, and her tangled twigs, head bent beneath the hot sun. I
see her serenity and call that peace to myself. Each piece of dried grass is
tipped with seeds. The seeds will bring forth new life next spring. For now
the sun goes into the grain, the grain goes into the bread, the sun carried
in the bread, sustains us during winter.
If abstinence is my harvest what is my sacrifice? I sacrifice unconscious
eating; I sacrifice deliberate eating, and bingeing. I sacrifice not doing,
inertia, not stepping through the door.
The soft rose petals flutter from my outstretched palm. Soon the ground
around us is scattered with their fluttering silken softness and they dance
on the breeze against the shivering dried grasses.
"We all come from the goddess, and to her we shall return.
Like a drop of rain flowing to the ocean.
Hoof and horn, hoof and horn,
All that dies shall be reborn.
Corn and grain, corn and grain,
all that falls shall rise again."
We dance amongst the scattered rose petals. The sun retreats behind the
clouds and our trampled grassy space grows cool.
Amongst the south facing hedges, the first blackberries are out. I gather
them carefully. Tangy yet fragrant their flavour bursts into my warm mouth.
I can taste the sun in their juice.
The sun is dying. The year turns on and the night's will draw in. Soon it
will be cold again. I shiver and wonder when my fire quest will end or if
there is more to do?
"Goddess, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the
courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference." I
say against the rhythm of the train as it draws out of the station.

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