In all my years of paganing—did you realize that “pagan” is a verb?—I've never seen a larger.
The bonfire, I swear, was the size of a small house.
Two years' worth of deadfalls—entire trees—went into its making. Flames how high: 50 feet? 100? A roar on it like an express train.
Primal. Exhilarating.
Terrifying.
Anita's long-awaited rite of Croning has gone as it should. As the afterparty unfolds in the stone circle, I see through the trees, in the field beside the woods—incredibly—a mountain of fire. I run towards it.
People are singing to it, the song that you sing to sacred Fire.
Red flower, Thunder flower,
flower of the Sun.
An element, one of four? No.
Surely, we are in the Presence of a god.
In this summer of wildfire, I cannot think of anyone besides our host that I would trust with a bonfire of this size.
Just downslope stands a water main, with an actual fire hose connected to it. When the fire begins to spread to the surrounding grass, he carefully contains it.
It looks like fun, directing so much power. I want to offer to help.
Where does play end, and worship begin?