Rain, Tired of Rain and Tired

Coming up the road
this rainy morning, a shaft
of smoke curls upward.

Making fire in the steady rain, Bryan coming in soaked, drying his shirt by the kitchen fire.

The constant rain forcing one to submit to a gentleness, a simple movement and the sense of being present. What else can you do, it is raining again.

The Art of making Sacred Space, creating a devotional focus.

How constant was the rain and also the curl of smoke from the central fire, burning and waiting.

Gathering herbs for tea, I noticed that it was barely raining.

Mint, Chamomile, Lemon Balm, Dill: some were to be hot some cooled.

The sky lightened and clouds almost lifted.

The center fire pit had a double mown ring with bands of wild wildflowers and weeds, and at the center the 5 circle firepit with smoldering logs and embers deep below. Gates are cut though the flower bands so you can pass through the concentric rings of grass. Needed more wood, more dry combustibles. I found a stick and bark and egg cartons in the studio. Bark curls and sticks burn and egg cartons flame. Having brought out more nice dry firewood, we built a spiraling tower of logs, some hand cut and some just carried.

Drinking tea and marveling at the weather we gathered.
Elizabeth, Hudson, Bryan, me and then Susan sitting inside with cherries and cookies.

The axis of Imbolc and Lughnasa, Bridget and Lugh and the light spot in the dark and the dark spot in the light.

The blinded eye and lightening and here comes the Thunder. Harvesting and preparing for winter.
Lugh and his foster mother Tliatu. Lugh like Mercury, Odin like Mercury for the Romans, and Epona and the fairs and clearing the land and horses and the County Fair and taking a chance.

Pie contests and harvest festivals and fruit and rain.
Are we ready and is it time?
Is it going to rain?

Gathering the waters, the offerings, cups and corn. Gathering ourselves.
Hudson falling on the slick deck. Awkward fussiness. Who’s on first and rushing towards where?

Being in the present and what happens when we are elsewhere in our minds.

Gonging out the broken skull, gonging silently and then finally to honor the gods who give meaning to life.

Processing to the circle, Elizabeth playing banjo.
Finding space. Where are we supposed to be?

Bryan scattering to the Earth all around the circle and to the center.
Feeling the earth. Energy rising from the earth through my feet, legs, hips, belly, heart, head and also from the sky down. Squatting like a frog on the earth, wiggly boy at my side, cracking ice and fidgeting.

Small offerings to the fire, our center- glow within us; the well, deep and full and strong- flow within us; and the tree, larger than it used to be- grow within us.

And then Mananan opening the gates and where were all our offerings? Bryan using what was at hand, corn silk or small grasses-do we have enough? My bundles of bark and sage carefully prepared could be used for welcome or thanks but not both; were we ready?

Outsiders offering offered and I remembered special outsiders offerings still in the fridge,

would they accept what we had here?

Suddenly time to honor the ancestors.

Yesterday we had spoken at great length as to who are our ancestors- not just deceased relatives-our grandparents and great grandparents- but any person who was alive and is now dead and who influenced us especially. Kissing the boy’s head, I thought about great artists and writers and those who I have studied and wished I could have known and also those of our line who have gone before.

Bryan made offerings to the Spirits of Nature- thinking about the grasses and turtles and rocks and pets and all those animals and plants and fungi thriving in this dampness, the dampness itself.

Then to the gods and goddesses (like Thor I say to Hudson) and thinking about Mercury and Lugh and Bridget and KwanYin and Odin and Zeus and Thunder and Rain.

And then the season, this season of county fairs and chance and horses and harvest and storms and being here.

The rushing stream was louder than us all, louder than all the sacrifices, than all the words, than all the thoughts, louder than the boy being silly or disinterested, louder than us.

Offering Gratitude for just being here for being present in this place now, letting go of toxicity and of what I don’t need, letting go of the past and future and racing in between both.
Flowers in flames as our sacrifices were swallowed by the fire and by the water.
Final sacrifice of last year’s dried vervain, strait like a slender tree.

All the while the stream roaring.

Our omens:
From the Ancestors: Thuriz or thorn or hammer- protection or stance of defense-either being protected by or protecting our ancestors.
From the Spirits of Nature & Place: Daguz or day, High Noon, the vantage point, seeing it all and as if from a new angle.
From the Gods & Goddesses: Uruz or the primordial ox, the urge to create, the unstoppable movement forward
For the Season: Eihwaz or the horse- the relationship or partnership between horse and rider, the County Fair!

The waters of life in the green jug hallowed with only the voice and the damp air and poured into blue cups. Were we ready for these waters?
Almost sweet tasting, the waters are always needed and always good. We had full glasses and the boy did his fake gulping. Sigh.

Thanks to all, the individual silks and husks from the corn, some for each of the season’s spirits.

All the offerings used and the rite over. Already said the boy? Let the feasting begin.

And before I could parade and dance to Elizabeth’s banjo out of the circle and back home, Bryan already had a chicken leg in his hand. The sun was almost out. The boy was sweet again like the waters.

We were here now.