Issue 19 - Lughnasadh 2014
AS people who see the Wheel of the Year as a mandala for our practice, the coming of Lunghnasadh, while the laughter and magic of our Midsummer celebrations are still ringing in our ears, is an accepted and honoured fact.
Just this morning, I walked out to greet the dawn and, seeing the mist rising from the meadow garden, smelled the deep earthy scent of autumn.
This week, in my own family, we celebrated my daughter-in-law's 40th birthday.
It's moments since I held the man who is now her husband in my arms and worried whether this tiny baby was thriving.
There is no cure for time.
As I write this, their 12-year old son is shouting into a headset and is, evidently, communicating with people called Cathal, Tyler and Ethan in some distant cyberspace, in a frantic mission to get all four staffs before they get eaten by zombies.
Not so long time ago, such a thing would have been called magic. As Dáinn points out, the perspective of magic is relative.
Is there anything which demonstrates that, more that the internet, for those of us who grew up in an era when using public phone-boxes was commonplace and we put coins in and pressed button "A" to get through when the call was answered?
Time changes so much and changes it faster as we become more proficient in science and technology. It's easy to become stunned, scared, even, by the advancing, onward marching seasons, years, phases in life.
There are so many influences telling us we need to worry about this, particularly for us women. Time, it tells us, will rob us of our looks, our ability to be loved, our usefulness, our ability to keep up, keep running, keep ahead of the possie.
Mostly, this is a message delivered through the media, at the service of corporate interests who want us to buy everything from face-creams to fad diets. But we have a gentler way of approaching time. Through the seasons, through the beauty of hedges covered in the lace of elderflower, dew-dropping cobwebs, or frosty spines on the whins.
In this small slice of time, my grandson hasn't been killed by those virtual zombies.
Neither have we.
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