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I've put some things off over the weekend for fear of disturbing my injured shoulder, but I start this morning with a shower. It feels so good to have the sling off, I leave it off for awhile. I am careful. I am respectful. I know I'm broken. It's OK. My body will heal and I will learn how to use its new configuration. It's time to begin.
The sun feels good on my skin. My first clumsy attempt to kick the shovel into the soil next to a grass start doesn't go deep enough; I adjust my angle and stomp again. The blade sinks in with a satisfying scrape. The teeming smell of mycorrhizae fills my nostrils as I dig the fingers of my left hand into the disturbed dirt, hunting for suckers. I've already worked my way through most of the mats, but the grass still has tendrils throughout my intended garden, some broken, some still conveying the alert to their neighbors: she is coming. We are dying.
The time of resting has ended,
the time of planting has come.
I take my fields from the unmarked lands,
measuring my world out in their midst
and in the midst as well of those who dwell there,
those who dwell beyond the borders.
The deep and ancient forests still exist here as ghosts. They will return as living beings again someday. I see the promises often, growing impudently between stones and weaving through the framework of my greenhouse, where it's hard to reach them. But for now, the elders allow me to live here. My attempt to worship past my allotted space was met at first with humor, then the flickering starts of my intent were stomped emphatically into pieces. I may visit, meditate, take and give sustenance in small bits and bites but structured worship is for the space I am allowed, my home territory. Very well.
I will make an offering, then,
to assuage the Outsiders
to appease them and please them
and win from them their grudging consent
for me to form my mountain world,
my home, my culture, my people, our fields,
next to the great surrounding sea.
I dig my fingers into the soil. My lower back screams. Sweat drips down my sides. The enjoyable sunlight intensifies, and my skin burns. I continue. The Elders, the Others are much on my mind as I reclaim this patch of soil from the weeds. We modern folk don't often think about the wild things that had this space before us. It is so rare to even touch a place that has not already been altered into a human shape. This garden, as wild with grasses as it is, was a garden before. I find the evidence as I turn the soil: plastic markers, pretty stones, oyster shells, horrible swaths of weed barriers whose last shreds are stuck to the clinging grass roots even after a thorough working-over. Cultivated previously or not, though, this grass made its home here and it was here before me, preparing the soil for the forest's return. I evict it forcibly with thoughts in my head of berries, herbs, flowers, a green and gentle carpet of thyme. Its shape will soften. This patch of land was useful before - the tall grasses and spiny thistles provided shelter for many animals. It will be useful again, but in a way that benefits myself, as well. So we alter our landscape.
To those beyond the border
whether gods or goddesses
whether spirits or dead
to those who were before us
and dwell in the darkness of our world's shadow:
I come to you with offering
to buy from you a world.
I straighten my back at length, gaze at the churned mess I've made. I've done well for a one-armed farmer, but grass still peeks up in several places. I have other obligations to see to today. The greenhouse and the livestock also need my attention. The intent I have sunk into this patch of land will have to do for today. Added to other days'-worth of intent, perhaps the dream I am incubating of cool green thickets and soft mounds of tiny leaves with a little stone path through it all will be allowed to become a reality. If the Others are content enough with my offering to merely tease me, anyway.
My Beltane ritual this year focused on an aspect of the celebration that I had not previously been exposed to. The night of April 30th is the mirror of Samhain, when the veil between the worlds is thin and we petition the Outsiders for success in the coming growing season. The bannock is split, the lots are cast, the marked portion is offered to beings old and wild enough to require extra warding between the randomly-picked supplicant and their grove. In the old days, lives like Lindow Man's were sacrificed to the bog in a bid to protect a country from invasion. There is a weight to April 30 that I only learned about this year. Most Beltane writings focus on the joyous fertility rites, which is fair enough. It's the fun part and who doesn't like fun? But we call the big wild spirits "Outsiders," even though we have made ourselves the outsiders. We are raised in a world that we are masters of. We are not accustomed to being reminded we are another struggling animal. We have mostly lost that levity. Whether we are less or more for it is in the eye of the beholder, but I find myself aware again.
Yes, the Others have been very much on my mind ever since learning the ritual of the bannock bread.
The sun feels good on my skin. My first clumsy attempt to kick the shovel into the soil next to a grass start doesn't go deep enough; I adjust my angle and stomp again. The blade sinks in with a satisfying scrape. The teeming smell of mycorrhizae fills my nostrils as I dig the fingers of my left hand into the disturbed dirt, hunting for suckers. I've already worked my way through most of the mats, but the grass still has tendrils throughout my intended garden, some broken, some still conveying the alert to their neighbors: she is coming. We are dying.
The time of resting has ended,
the time of planting has come.
I take my fields from the unmarked lands,
measuring my world out in their midst
and in the midst as well of those who dwell there,
those who dwell beyond the borders.
The deep and ancient forests still exist here as ghosts. They will return as living beings again someday. I see the promises often, growing impudently between stones and weaving through the framework of my greenhouse, where it's hard to reach them. But for now, the elders allow me to live here. My attempt to worship past my allotted space was met at first with humor, then the flickering starts of my intent were stomped emphatically into pieces. I may visit, meditate, take and give sustenance in small bits and bites but structured worship is for the space I am allowed, my home territory. Very well.
I will make an offering, then,
to assuage the Outsiders
to appease them and please them
and win from them their grudging consent
for me to form my mountain world,
my home, my culture, my people, our fields,
next to the great surrounding sea.
I dig my fingers into the soil. My lower back screams. Sweat drips down my sides. The enjoyable sunlight intensifies, and my skin burns. I continue. The Elders, the Others are much on my mind as I reclaim this patch of soil from the weeds. We modern folk don't often think about the wild things that had this space before us. It is so rare to even touch a place that has not already been altered into a human shape. This garden, as wild with grasses as it is, was a garden before. I find the evidence as I turn the soil: plastic markers, pretty stones, oyster shells, horrible swaths of weed barriers whose last shreds are stuck to the clinging grass roots even after a thorough working-over. Cultivated previously or not, though, this grass made its home here and it was here before me, preparing the soil for the forest's return. I evict it forcibly with thoughts in my head of berries, herbs, flowers, a green and gentle carpet of thyme. Its shape will soften. This patch of land was useful before - the tall grasses and spiny thistles provided shelter for many animals. It will be useful again, but in a way that benefits myself, as well. So we alter our landscape.
To those beyond the border
whether gods or goddesses
whether spirits or dead
to those who were before us
and dwell in the darkness of our world's shadow:
I come to you with offering
to buy from you a world.
I straighten my back at length, gaze at the churned mess I've made. I've done well for a one-armed farmer, but grass still peeks up in several places. I have other obligations to see to today. The greenhouse and the livestock also need my attention. The intent I have sunk into this patch of land will have to do for today. Added to other days'-worth of intent, perhaps the dream I am incubating of cool green thickets and soft mounds of tiny leaves with a little stone path through it all will be allowed to become a reality. If the Others are content enough with my offering to merely tease me, anyway.
My Beltane ritual this year focused on an aspect of the celebration that I had not previously been exposed to. The night of April 30th is the mirror of Samhain, when the veil between the worlds is thin and we petition the Outsiders for success in the coming growing season. The bannock is split, the lots are cast, the marked portion is offered to beings old and wild enough to require extra warding between the randomly-picked supplicant and their grove. In the old days, lives like Lindow Man's were sacrificed to the bog in a bid to protect a country from invasion. There is a weight to April 30 that I only learned about this year. Most Beltane writings focus on the joyous fertility rites, which is fair enough. It's the fun part and who doesn't like fun? But we call the big wild spirits "Outsiders," even though we have made ourselves the outsiders. We are raised in a world that we are masters of. We are not accustomed to being reminded we are another struggling animal. We have mostly lost that levity. Whether we are less or more for it is in the eye of the beholder, but I find myself aware again.
Yes, the Others have been very much on my mind ever since learning the ritual of the bannock bread.
