We're just a few weeks away from Beltane. I know that I say this about each of the Eight Pagan Holidays, but Beltane is really my favorite. It's one of the most "pagan" of the Pagan Holidays. For me, it's all about loving early Summer, and lying down in the fields and having sex to encourage everything to grow, be fertile, lay eggs, make babies, . . . GO!
Lately, my own life, especially at work, is going flat out, full of Beltane energy, more abundant than seems possible.
And, so, I do what I always do: I keep my daily practice. I ground. I say the Ha Prayer. I go to my astral temple. I light candles and incense and I remind myself that it's all real, it's all metaphor, there's always more. I record and work with my dreams. I do reiki on my morning cup of coffee, and my afternoon tea, and on the Stoli that I drink at sunset on the porch. I dig in the dirt and handle seeds and keep soil moist and stand, like the angel in the Talmud with the blade of grass, and whisper, "Grow. Grow." I'm always so delighted and surprised when something that I've planted grows. This Spring, in particular, I'm delighting in the 3 Japanese Maples that Landscape Guy and I planted last fall.
And, when I sit at my desk at work, I remind myself of all the women who, from time immemorial, played the glass bead game of the law with the joy and delight that can only come from shuffling precedent, and good prose. and logic, and thought. I open my mind and touch those (to me) silvery blue and green threads and ride them through to the end of my own motion, brief, answer, petition.
In a very few weeks, I'll weave flower crowns and dance with my sisters and, a tradition with us on Beltane, drink pink champagne. And I will be glad to have work in these hard times and grateful for some well-timed wins and hopeful that, come late summer, the harvest will be bountiful.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."