Celebrating the Sun God (14)

I have said for years I wanted to begin observing the eight main pagan holidays. And for years I have mostly given them a nod, maybe lit a candle, said a few words. I liked the idea of them, what little I knew, of the marking of the year, in their ties to the earth, to the seasons, to the turning of our world. But I didn’t do them justice. A year or two ago I realized if I wanted to make them "real" holidays, I needed to take off work. I wrestled with that before I managed to scoff my way past my initial dismay. "You've got to be kidding me," I said to myself. "You can't take off eight days in the whole damn year?" My laugh was harsh, unkind. Maybe that's why it took me so long to get here, to be ready to truly observe them. Maybe I had to move past that meanness.

Yesterday was the summer solstice. Last week I googled "summer solstice" and “ritual,” picked and chose a few tidbits, ideas for my altar, smatterings of lore. One site suggested tying fresh herbs in a bit of cloth, putting in your challenges, burying it in the earth to release them. They called for yellow candles. I found one on an early morning run to Ralph's for goat milk. Honeysuckle. Yellow, for the sun god. How perfect, I thought. It is my goal to embrace the heat this summer, so it seemed right to be honoring the god of the sun. I picked three stems of pennyroyal from my vegetable garden, pinched three sprigs of lavender from my desert plot, and three fresh green tips of the basil my Tante Helga brought me from its spot outside the gate, protecting our home. I layered them in a neat pile in sets of threes, basil-pennyroyal-lavender, wrapped them in a scrap of maroon cloth I had tucked in my arts box and tied the little bundle with a matching ribbon leftover from my birthday. Then I wrinkled it up and inhaled. It smelled sharp, pungent, like the damp earth I would bury it in. I imagined all my old anger, fear, shame, regret, self-loathing, tied up in the scented cloth. The cotton was soft against my nose.

It was an echo of the early morning hours. I had looked it up last week, knew the sun's transit into Cancer happened here at 4:29am. I had no plans to be awake for it, would do what I would do later in the day. The stray tomcat woke me, though, his croaky chorus only feet away from me outside the screen door. I greeted him, shushed him, rolled over on my stomach. My thoughts drifted in that hazy, dreamy place between sleep and wakefulness. I remembered something I was ashamed of doing years ago. I remembered it was the solstice, a time for the shedding of things, thought of letting it go. I already can't reach back to describe what happened even though it was only yesterday morning. It had the soft edges and floating nature of a dream, but I was awake and engaged. I felt things leaving my body, clearing out old pockets, old energy I insist on holding. I imagined it returning to the earth, turning into good things like tulips and sunflowers and fuyu persimmon trees. I lay still for a long time, drifting in and out, but I have no doubt it was real.

In the late morning I gathered the rest of the things to make my altar in our courtyard. I let the wire birds from Mami and the reindeer candle holder from Colleen remain in their places on the table, let them begin the collection. I picked a vivid red hibiscus, a stem of the magenta bougainvillea, some tecoma and a sunflower.

I had the raven join us and the restored red wooden angel with her metal horse. I added a cucumber and tomatoes from our garden and a peach from Trader Joe's. They said to eat fruit after the ritual for the sweetness of summer. I crinkled the cloth bag now and then, breathed it in, remembered the magic of those dawn hours. In the afternoon I lit the yellow candle. I shook my rattles. I dug a small hole with my spade and buried the bag of fresh herbs in the moist earth among the new little blue flowers and the marigolds. I patted the dirt down over it. I said goodbye, gave thanks. I moved a smooth brown river rock above its spot. I had dirt on my fingers, under my nails. I let the yellow candle burn. I could see it flickering through the screen door when I turned over in the night. I ate the peach this morning standing over the kitchen sink. It was sweet, juicy, perfect. I ate the tomatoes in my salad late this afternoon. I am alive with the fruit of the sun.