Holy Mother, has there ever been a more perfect Litha day? Here in the nation's capital, it's sunny and hot, but not too muggy, and there's a lovely gentle breeze doing the most loving dance with all the leaves. The fae are still lingering from last night, just as the magic of good company still lingers on my porch. The daisies, day lilies, thyme, and basil are all abloom and my deck is a constant visiting place for robins, morning doves, blue jays, cardinals, hairy woodpeckers, and an occasional chipmunk. What a change from Yule, when my wonderful circle of amazing women couldn't get together due to a freakishly large blizzard, I couldn't even open the door to get out and feed the birds, and all the plants were buried under feet and feet of snow.
Litha is, when we live our lives in tune with the seasons, the time to appreciate how well our lives are going. What we planted at Ostara and Beltane should now be in bloom, and, of course, I don't mean "just" our herbs and flowers. If we've planted a regular daily practice, it is beginning to flower. If we've planted good works, kindness, and love, we'll be reaping those fruits.
If we're not happy with what we've got, there's still time for a mid-course correction between now and, say, Mabon, Samhein, Yule. As the days diminish, what needs to diminish in your life? As the nights grow long, what part of the mystery do you need to cultivate? What do you want to water? What should wither away in the late-Summer heat? How will you accept responsibility?
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 . . . ."