Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
That Other Holiday
It happens every year. Really, you'd think that by now I'd know better.
I'm driving home from Sunrise brunch on the morning of Midwinter's Day: fully sated, both physically and emotionally. After nearly a Moon's worth of preparation, Yule is finally here.
The night before, from the city's highest hill, we sang down the Sun, and lighted the New Fire during the year's last Sunset.
Then home again, and the little household rituals; after, out to the coven's firelight hearth-side rite. Afterward, the feast, the dances, the carols by the fire.
All night, we keep the Yule-fire burning.
Then up before dawn and out to the bridge from which we've sung up the Sun out of the river valley on Midwinter's Morning every year for nearly 40 years.
And finally, finally, off to brunch: the food, the friendship, the laughing conversation.
So I'm driving homewards, filled with a sense of consummation, looking forward to a restful nap. After a month of work and worry, finally it's time to sit back and enjoy the stillness, the well-earned Yule-frith, the peace of Yule.
Then I notice the cowans scuttling frantically, and inevitably, every year, I find myself thinking: What are all these people still running around for?
It's always a second or two before I remember.
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