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May Day is on her way—in fact, as this post goes live, I’ll
be in the hills of PA at camp bringing in the day with fellow congregants.
This is the first big get-together for those of us who are
just visitors to the site, the some-time pilgrims. Of course, there are folks who live at the
sanctuary year round, serving the organization with hard work, both sweat and detail and are sworn to poverty. They alone witness
the white sleep, the deep mud, and the green rebirth, the dry leaves, the storms
and rushing waters of the Everything She Touches She Changes Creek, the focal site of the camp. The wards of the church live with the privileges and hardships of
the place, which are entangled.
Some of the pilgrims to the place are old. Some are young.
The kids are all right! They have cool shoes that light up and neat costumes to wear and know all about Harry the Young Wizard or Gimli the Dwarf as well as Spiderman and Black Panther and Ponies. Sometimes they have two mommies or two daddies or just a single weary parent, trying to keep up with them. The small ones will cry, grumble and yell inside the bunk house after the old and decrepit are already in bed, wrapped in sleeping bags on futons and concentrating on their muscle aches, or curled up tight hoping to warm their feet. Eventually, all the fresh air and camp excitement, the chill of the night and exhaustion from running through the long grass (kites, sparklers, noisy drones) overcomes them, and the small “replacements” will also pass into unconsciousness.
The kids are all right! They have cool shoes that light up and neat costumes to wear and know all about Harry the Young Wizard or Gimli the Dwarf as well as Spiderman and Black Panther and Ponies. Sometimes they have two mommies or two daddies or just a single weary parent, trying to keep up with them. The small ones will cry, grumble and yell inside the bunk house after the old and decrepit are already in bed, wrapped in sleeping bags on futons and concentrating on their muscle aches, or curled up tight hoping to warm their feet. Eventually, all the fresh air and camp excitement, the chill of the night and exhaustion from running through the long grass (kites, sparklers, noisy drones) overcomes them, and the small “replacements” will also pass into unconsciousness.
At night there will always be motion here and there, or a
ritual which requires fires, flowers, smokes, and rum. Flames bloom and crackle at new-created
campsites, headlamps jiggle through the dark, potty doors bang, bats twitter
in the twilight. At night there is some wandering, romance for those so inclined, long
philosophical discussions in a tent under party lights with cold cups of coffee
or other, more Dionysian beverages at hand.
You may take a long lonely walk through the hilltop labyrinth and then watch the sky. There are also 2 a.m. trips to the outhouse through the dew laden grass made by the elders. These latter are hoping not to trip and fall, but they are also known for pausing in order to gratefully survey the dark-dark night sky and rejoice at the sight of blazing stars that have been invisible in their light polluted home towns for decades.
You may take a long lonely walk through the hilltop labyrinth and then watch the sky. There are also 2 a.m. trips to the outhouse through the dew laden grass made by the elders. These latter are hoping not to trip and fall, but they are also known for pausing in order to gratefully survey the dark-dark night sky and rejoice at the sight of blazing stars that have been invisible in their light polluted home towns for decades.
In the morning the women braid wreaths from tubs of
donated flowers. Maidens and children will wear them too, as well as the May
Queen. Already the ribbons and flowers have been plaited into the great
wreath, the one which will be ceremonially raised to the top of the pole. A little sympathetic magic never hurt anyone, especially on behalf of our poor beleaguered planet.
The
dance, an ancient practice from another continent, will take place in the afternoon,
when, usually, to our great delight, the chary spring sun comes through clouds and warms
us. Shirts and shoes will come off in the humid meadow and the celebrants
will enact the rite of pole and wreath, and the young men will struggle (laughter,
jokes) with the rising. At last the dance of under-over-under-over will begin,
braiding the bright ribbons. Everyone in
that circle will soon be sweating and breathless, dizzy from
glancing up at the pole, at the swaying wreath and ribbons.
Around us this year, the trees will be barely leafed, and the blue sky will come and go through low clouds. Drumming will provoke showers. Elders will look on, visiting, and congratulating one another because they are still witnesses to life—Winter has “spared them over for another year.”
~Juliet Waldron
Click the link below for:
All my novels; all formats
Around us this year, the trees will be barely leafed, and the blue sky will come and go through low clouds. Drumming will provoke showers. Elders will look on, visiting, and congratulating one another because they are still witnesses to life—Winter has “spared them over for another year.”
~Juliet Waldron
Click the link below for:
All my novels; all formats
"The Holy Land is Everywhere"--Black Elk
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