So much has happened to me this year, the year I turned sixty. It has been a year of marvels and changes, perhaps even transformation. Now that I have more years behind me than ahead of me (as I told by friend yesterday), I find myself thinking of things I used to do and relishing new ways of doing things I’ve done for so long.
Today’s Lammas ritual at Mother Grove Temple was certainly indicative of all that. The other members of our clergy team created a beautiful rite full of poetry and song. We arrived in time to set up a pretty altar—all gold and wheat and fat loaves of bread.
I only had two jobs. Create corn dollies with the participants and lead the group in circle dance. I love dancing and circle dancing is terribly egalitarian—almost everyone can hold hands and move in a circle. And today we had drummers, which always makes it better.
We had circled up and called the quarters. Angela had done Temple Talk and Star had pitched for donations. There were dark clouds above and thunder, so I interrupted the schedule for a bit of housekeeping—in case the rain set in on us, it was important to get the drums and the bread undercover as quickly as possible. I had no sooner uttered those words when the event happened and we all grabbed drums, bread and altar and dashed for the pavilion.
The next thing in the ritual was poetry of the season and we sat at picnic benches and heard those pretty words. One was from my friend Pat Monaghan, a beautiful poem that always makes me cry.
Here it is—
The Old Song of the Tribes
The sky draws its curtain
across the season. Any day
Now it will snow, curtaining
The footprints in the soft Earth
We made today, but any day in this life
Or another, if I meet you, the Earth’s
Pull will be upon us, the mark of the forest
Will be on us, indelible handprints, birthmarks.
We will know each other in city or forest,
Despite continents and oceans, we will know
Each other as much, as little as
We know ourselves, as much as we know
What the mind is, what the body can be. Amidst
All the changing, our souls will remain
True to each other. The rest can be mist.
Patricia Monaghan
Poetry concluded and then it was time for corn dollies. I suggested we do those during the post-ritual feasting and that we move on to the dancing. We circled up for the Irish Stomp Dance, and we began it slowly and sensuously. With the drummers holding us in space, we spun faster and faster, and transitioned into a Spiral dance. The rain was still pelting down but the thunder and lightning had stopped.
I invited any who wanted to go out with me into the rain and those who preferred dry to damp could continue Spiraling while we got soaked. The drummers then took up chanting and when the Maenads returned to shelter, drenched to the skin, I grabbed a loaf from the altar and held it aloft. As we chanted “Hoof and Horn” in the most powerful and life-filled way I have ever experienced, I broke bites from the loaf and danced from person to person, feeding my beloved community as they chanted and drummed, drummed and chanted.
It was my gift as a priestess and my act of service to the Divines I honor and community I have worked so hard to weave into something like a piece. I spun in a world of spirit made manifest. Spun and danced as an act of deepest and wildest prayer.
And that’s what a priestess does.
Blessed Lammas and happy Lughnasadh to you all.
Let the wind wild you and the waters of sky and stream move you to ecstasy.
It is our birthright, our duty and our delight.
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