The wheel spins and I spin with it; a hundred seasons in each day, the dew, the rain, the heat, the drought, the cooling, the dark, the silence.
At Samhain, the dead are near, their voices can be heard in whispers and at the back of my mind, I can see my hands working the work of my Ouma in the garden, or stitching like the Fates, as they weave the warp and the weft of things to come. Ghosts and demons have joined the wild hunt, and I leave offerings of food at the door so they will be sated. There is wine and whiskey for the gods and I bake pumpkin and cinnamon treats.
The winter solstice comes like the cracking of a scourge. The land begins to freeze with frost and the ice, cold, glitter of the fae. Things are dead or dormant and roots are deep, holding on through the cold and dark to come out again with spring. It is a time of reflection, of pulling back, of hot tea and coffee and rusks and books. I bake and make treats of ginger and spice to keep the body and soul warm.
At the Spring Equinox the land is burgeoning with shoots of green and the first spring flowers. The rain may come, or it may not. Maybe their will be drought, but maybe the toads will come. Night and day or in perfect balance and the sun stands equal to her sister, the moon. It is a time of sweet love, and jasmine, of chocolate and cookies and kisses. Persephone has risen from the underworld and offerings of sweets, and sweet rose are left on the altar.
The Summer solstice is hot and full of life, fruits are ripening on the trees and the sun is scorching. There is passion and strength in the golden rays of the sun, beating down on me as I gather herbs and flowers for summer wine and cooking. The spirits of the land are fed rain and water, and the candles burn as high and bright as the sun. The darkness will come, but not today.
The Autumn equinox is red and gold, filled with nostalgia and sorrow. Demeter’s tears are as red and brown as leaves. This is harvest and a time for gathering in wheat and grains for the baking of breads. My heart is as still as the cool air. The liminal space is a reminder of how things change, and of letting go. I sip wine and read poems of crows and jackals, as they call in the coming of the winter.
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