The Circle of the Year

Samhain - 31.10
Alban Arthan - 20-22.12
Imbolc - 01.02
Alban Eilir - 19-21.03
Beltane - 01.05

Samhain

It is time. The sacred tide of Samhain slowly arriving to knock on our door. The dark veil of the winter covering our hearts. Slumbering daylight dozing our minds. For endless rest.

The great Goddess is now sailing towards us over the seas from the West. The wind in her sails the ancient breath of the sea gods. She is coming to us in the shape of the Cailleach, the old hag who is filled with wisdom from a long and rich life of magic. She is mother earth who was born, has grown, ripened and is now dying after yet another fruitful year. We receive her with our warm hearts wide open, to cherish her and listen to the wise words she whispers in our ears. Not more than a breath. A spell embalmed by a wisp of mist leaving her crooked mouth. Her words are both seeds and fruit that she harvested for us this past year. Which seeds do we take with us to plant into the dark earth? Which fruit is rotting and needs to be softly laid onto the ground to grow a new layer of humus? Which fruit is unripe and wants to be cherished close to the heart?

As the night falls, we surrender to not knowing, not acting. We lie down on a bed of damp moss. Evergreen pines are sheltering us. Their low-hanging thick branches spread like swan wings over our tired souls. Small earth creatures start to rise up from the soil and cross our body. Tiny crawling spirits cleaning away inessentialities. Silver gossamer is woven around our arms, legs, belly, head and eyes as we sink deeper into surrender. Mushrooms grow between our toes and fingers and roots crawl into our hair. Soft moonlight trickles through the trees, like tears from the stars. Infinity brushing our hearts. Time is endless. Rest is forever.

And then, when the moon is fullest and darkest and fullest again, when she is shattering her light over this silver cocoon held by the roots of the earth. Then, the sidhe gather around us. To dance, in mesmerizing whirlwinds of light and shadow. To sing the purest melodies, golden threads filled with secrets and stories and answers that we thought would never come. 

We smile. The blessing of Samhain.

Alban Arthan

The great bear of the north is fast asleep. Deep down in his cave, all is still. There is no now, wasn’t, won’t be – nothing. Time is emtpy, life is sleeping. The lice in his fur have all forgotten about the day. No-one remembers, no-one knows there ever was. 

Yet. Imperceivably, life is quietly brewing, deep down in his cells. Where the light of summer has left a vague memory. Not a scar, but a warm imprint, maybe. A promise of being ready. When.
The deepening of the night has come to a halt. The darkest dark can go no further. Time is forced to bend, back into the loop. For even he has to surrender to her endless cycle, of growth and decay. 

The cycle: not a prison, but a promise. When we are free falling, lost under a dark curtain of despair. The black night weighing us down. We can count on her curves. And trust the imprint in our cells. All that is holding us back, the past whispering to us – of pains, and fears, of warnings, false reassurings. All that wants to be shed now for us to be able to listen. To hear the light when its first tones start tingling in our ears.

Blow it to the winds. Let it drop to the soil with the endless rain. Spit it into the great blazing fire. It is no longer needed, it is no longer you. Let the cracks in your skin grow bigger. For soon the day will breathe again, and we will no longer be gasping for air. It is time to let the light return, and leave the dark behind.

There! The feeblest ray of light stirs in the dark. Did you see it? We almost missed it. Only seconds ... wait a minute … is that the day getting stronger? Is that the night going to sleep? It is, it is, my friend. It all starts with a hint of a sigh, the day’s longing, because it knows its time is coming. Bless the dark. Bless the light.
Blessed Alban Arthan.

Imbolc

No longer are we walking in the dark. On rare mornings, sunrise melts through the swollen grey and catches us by surprise. The earth wakes up, Cernunnos stirs from his sleep. A long yawn, a frosted exhalation of elegant mist, tumbling over the fields, gathering all the fog that has clouded our hearts. Stronger and stronger the sun grows, until the cotton strings evaporate before our eyes. Our mists want dissolving, our skins want shedding. What once felt so comfortable has grown too tight for us now. And yet we are no more than just being.

When the melting water gushes down rivers and waterfalls choke with eagerness, hold on to that still pool of winter. Not fiercely clinging onto branches for fear of being washed away. Let go, surrender to the wildening waters, discover the pure joy of its playfulness. Our inner stillness remains undisturbed.

A bold woodpecker mocks in the distance. Cheeky chitterings dance around our ears. The birds want to play. Specks of light cheer up the forest floor. Like quartz crystals, or tiny squeals of joy. Snowdrops winking at you. Did you forget? The tearful twigs and buds, the mouldy roots – did you think it was forever? Before long these wooded lungs will be buzzing with pollen, and thick green leaves will sway in the winds … snowdrops only a prelude to the luscious symphony of spring. Like the lustful outburst of a new moon. The sensual thrill that so easily flows into desire and back. Any time now, we can fall in love again. And kiss the stars, who are about to drown in sunlight.

Imbolc, we are ready.

Alban Eilir

An island just off the shore, no more than a large granite rock and high cliffs dotted with the whitest seagulls you have ever seen. A tiny world in itself that never, under any weather conditions, seems to really find its peace, what with the endless piercing cries of the gulls and the wicked flapping of their winged friends. For a few days a year, dusk and dawn are lit up by a wild feast. From afar rays of light are seen, shooting off between dark grey clouds against soft pastel strokes in the sky. That’s where you’ll find them. A ravishing dance, a wild waltz of growing and diminishing powers. Contestants alternatingly towering over eachother, a matter of life and death, with all the elemental turmoil that comes with it: low but brightly piercing rays of sunlight, fierce hail storms and uprooting drizzle-filled winds. 

Until suddenly, for the briefest of moments, all comes to a quiet halt. The conjuring dance freezes. Dance partners stop in their tracks, turn around and stare into eachother’s eyes. They know about this moment, of perfect balance. Tentatively at first, but greedily soon after, Day embraces Night, Light envelops Dark, Sun lights Moon and blissful contentedness sinks down into their breast. ‘Surrender,’ it is whispered, ‘Day is mine again’. The glass-like voice of Light beams into Dark. Instantly defeated she retreats to Night. Surrender only being temporarily, she knows. ‘Sooner we meet again’, she hisses to Light. But he is smiling, the stupified smile of blissful victory, lovingly wrapped around Day. My time has come, he thinks, and it will be bright, joyful, filled with laughter. All born from this very moment, this quiet balance, these peaceful hours.

A young blackbird boldly tries to stretch the day with his twilight song. Nobody wants to ruin its youthful eagerness. And besides, there is no stopping them now. Day, Light, Sun … they’re on a roll. 

Alban Eilir, Light of the Earth, we’re done looking back.
Let’s move on.

Beltane

Freedom! We run and run, breaths lost, hair loose. Over tender meadows full of eager grass, luminous valleys of fresh green blood. Abundant juicy life emerges where land was thought dead. A barren body has found its true fertility. We play and dance, and throw ourselves squealing with laughter into the arms of the beckoning unknown. No dangerous note can be heard in the enchanting song of the blackbird, luring us deeper and deeper into the woods. Or do you discern anything but joy in the cuckoo’s teasing peek-a-boo? No! This is not the time for reason nor consequences. Fall, head over heels! Taste, nay devour! Suck in the bewildering perfume of spring until you drop down drunk. Aaaah, drunk with bubbling bellies of excitement.

Darkness. All evening, they have been waiting patiently. A circle of men around an immense pile of fire wood. They watched the women prepare, the evening fall, the blackbirds grow silent, the stars rise and the owls hoot over the grassy curves around them. Until this very moment, right before midnight, the tension grown into a sharp silence. A line of torches dances up the hill top as a band of women carries the remnants of Samhain’s devastating fire into the circle. Each of them halting before a man. Then, without so much as a glance exchanged, torches are handed over, places swapped, women sink down and men step forward. Holding their torches high up in the air as a long potent cry leaves their chest – then, they light Bel’s fire.
A humming sound travels around the circle as anxious flames are licking their way up towards the top. But the men aren’t watching this heated play. They each rush down the hill into five directions – the five gates to the five corners of this land. And before long, the surrounding hills cast the blackest of shadows as they light up with numerous fires. As far as the eye can see, Bel’s treasure is carried across the old pathways, from man to man and mound to mound, until it reaches the furthest cliffs of this land. Deeper into the night, the central fire is calling. Men and women flood the sacred circle to join Cernunnos’ grand spectacle: a wild feast of burning loins and bursting hearts. The blazing fire feeding their mounting hunger to a ravishing heat. A great ball of fertility.

Eruption! And a subsiding energy pumping the last tension out of your chest, until you are utterly numb, dazed with nectar and bliss. This is Beltane. Fuck yes.