It must be Lammas-tide.
The long, slow gathered breath of of summer's beginning is over; the wave crests, and the outbreath is beginning.
This is not the summer I thought I would be having.
I had thought that this summer would be a lot like last summer: lots of writing, lots of hiking, lots of "quality Quaker time."
Instead, it's been lots of gardening, lots of canning and preserving food, and unexpected Pagan time: Peter and I were lucky enough to have surprise guests this past weekend, so we celebrated a pick-up Lammas out by our raised bed gardens.
|The Pick-up Lammas ritual begins|
We brought a share of the bounty out to the woods for the land spirits to share. The next day, everything but a few cherry tomatoes had disappeared. (A good omen, surely.)
So it has been a satisfying summer. And--despite the disappointing berry crop this year--a fruitful one.
But I'm not living much in my words. I'm not writing very much. I'm making pickles, getting dirt between my toes, or reclining in the shade of a favorite tree, its leaves rustling in the great outbreath of summer.