Lammas, Touching The Subject Of Faith

Little Summer Poem Touching the Subject of Faith

Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun's brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can't hear

anything, I can't see anything --
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker --
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing --
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet --
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.

~ Mary Oliver ~

(West Wind)

Goddess only knows how many times I've blogged this poem, but it's the perfect Lammas poem. The final time that I blog it will be when I die -- it's one of three poems specified in my will to be read at my death.

Lammas is the feast of the first harvests. In February, we were starving and all our discipline went towards not eating our seed corn. Now, for every seed we saved, there are four tomatoes, three ears of corn, and, apparently, hundreds of zucchinis. (I love you, R., and I love your zucchinis.) Lammas is about how, if you persist, even when, especially when, things seem dark and horrible, things get better. The flip side of Lammas is about how, even when the sun shines brightly all day long in cloudless blue skies, even when there's gazspacho and pesto coming out the wazoo, even when you've eaten so many blackberries that your tongue is stained, you should put away as much as you can for February. My mother used to can food from her garden and August, for me, is inextricably bound up in steamy clouds of tomato juice and blackberry jelly and peaches, in the sudden "pop" that a Mason jar lid makes when the seal, that will protect the food from bacteria until you open the jar in winter, forms, in the feel of hundreds of skinned tomatoes and peaches passing through your hands in order to nourish your family. No. I didn't appreciate or enjoy it at the time -- it kept me from reading -- but that's what August means to me now, even though I haven't canned a thing in years and years and years. But tomorrow morning, I'll harvest herbs and hang them up to dry.

May your Lammas be a time of feasting, of enjoying whatever bounty your life has led you to create. May you have a true Lammas dream this evening and may you wake up tomorrow crystal clear about what it is that you need to put aside for the coming Hunger Moon. Let the immeasurable come. Let the unknowable touch the buckle of your spine. Let the wind turn in the trees, and the mystery hidden in the dirt swing through the air. How could you look at anything in this world and tremble, and grip you hands over your heart? What should you fear? One morning in the leafy green ocean the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body is sure to be there. It's something to remember during the deep, dark Februaries of the soul.

Lammas Tomorrow

Tomorrow is Lammas, the first of the harvest Sabbats. Here's one of my favorite poems for this time of year, involving the sacrifice of the green man.

John Barleycorn by Robert Burns

There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.

They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy;
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

John Barleycorn survives today in an interesting way.

The Downward Slope Of The Year

If you count the time as I do, we're three mere months, ninety short days, from the end of the year. What did you promise to yourself last year, when the days were growing shorter?

In my amazing circle of women, we've come such a long way, since we initiated four stellar, brilliant, aggressive women into our circle last Samhein. We've done such enchanting magic and we've grown so much closer together. Some of us have taken our health in hand. Some of us have new jobs. Some of us have moved husbands and children into new homes. Some of us have written tv scripts. Some of us have brewed herb tea. Some of us have heeded the messages that Tarot kept sending to us. Some of us have done yoga. Some of us have done Reiki on pets. Some of us have planted herbs. Some of us have held signs at marches, mere feet from the Capitol. Some of us have gone to about a bazillion doctors' appointments. Some of us are batting 1,000 at SCOTUS. Some of us can communicate in words and handsigns w/ grandchildren. Some of us have negotiated leases that involved borrowed bongs. Some of us have hosted national bridge tournaments and purchased new sofas. Some of us are on the verge of quitting jobs, collecting our bonuses, and buying new homes in which we will write great new novels. Some of us are in deep relationship. Some of us have refinished our basements, locci of our underworlds. Some of us wear Jimmy Choo, some of us wear Hermes, and some of us are turning away clients who can't afford us. Some of us shop at Balducci all the time. Some of us are plotting new ways to carve pumpkins. Some of us are celebrating new rain barrels. Some of us have crushed our enemies before us and heard the lamentation of their men.

The Goddess has blessed me in so many unexpected and unearned ways. She has, more than anything, surrounded me with this college of priestesses, with this circle of women that I never in my whole life did anything to deserve. May she do so for you. May she surround you with a circle of brilliant women, with a college of priestesses, with a spiral of flaming female spirits.

What will you do with the last ninety days between now and the end of the year? What is it that you must complete before Samhein? What will it hurt you to have unfinished when you come to scooping out the seeds and gook from inside the jack-o-lanterns this fall? What is the very best use to which you can put these final ninety days?