I am a lover of the steady Earth and of Her waters
"Let the light be brilliant" She says, "for those who will cherish color." From "Verses at Powis" by Robin Williamson
Mabon is traditionally the 2nd Harvest Festival of three (Lammas in August, and Samhain in October being the other two) and falls on the day of the autumnal Equinox. A time to give thanks for the bounty of the harvest, to give thanks and celebrate all that nourishes us. The Day of Balance, a time to consider what we have harvested this year, to give thanks for all of that harvest, the bright Blessings and the dark Blessings from which we learned wisdom, patience, or compassion. On this auspicious day of Balance, when day and night are the same duration, may we experience the grace of Balance within our lives, and in the greater life of our common humanity.
Apple trees in Avalon, the "Isle of Apples" (the Chalice Well garden) 2011
When I lived in the country in New York, I remember a Mabon with hot cider and new apples, and honey mead that was opened for the occasion.
I also remember an Equinox when I lived in New York City in the late 80's, and was invited to be part of a performance organized at a small theatre in the East Village. She asked me to do some kind of ritual for the occasion. I couldn't think of anything, and felt quite intimidated with the prospect of creating a ritual for an audience of New York sophisticates.
I was visiting a friend upstate at the time, and I happened to be standing near an apple tree by the road. I can still see the green grass under the tree, and a brilliant circle of ripe, freshly fallen red apples, lying in the grass around the tree. I picked up all the good ones, and took them back to the City with me.
When I gave my short performance, I took out that basket of apples, and said something to the effect that "This is Gaia, ever generous, ever giving us what we need." And then I invited those present to come and take the apples. I was amazed to see that the audience took every one of them and ate them right there!
As I sit writing, the sun rises over the Catalina mountains that surround Tucson, where I live now. Many years and miles away from that theatre in Manhattan. I look up to orange, magenta, violet, mauve, and a continually changing pale, cerulean sky, the canvas for this magnificent painting the sky makes, created anew twice daily. I'm grateful indeed for this moment of Beauty, and grateful for the stories of my life. Especially, today, those that are about Mabons.
This is one of my favorite songs, Robin Williamson's love song to Mother Earth. Seems a good time to share it again............
It's that time again, the Autumnal Equinox. "Equinox" means "equal night", and it is indeed both a very, very ancient Pagan Holy Day, and an auspicious celestial event! On this day of Balance, I am wishing as always that humanity come into a realization of the importance of being in Balance with our planet.
And I wish joy, apples, bread, and of course, beer, to all on this, the Second Harvest Celebration. I felt like sharing, speaking of beer, something about the mythology of John Barleycorn, "Little Sir John", and the cutting of the sheaves. Once upon a time, the world was much, much more alive and animated and mythologized than it is today, in our mechanical, soul less society. Corn Dollies were made, the land was thanked, and of course, John Barleycorn's sacrifice was honored.
John Barleycorn Must Die is a traditional English song - records of its origins go back as far as the 1300s, and it is probably much older than that. Over time, many variations have arisen, and the Scottish poet Robert Burns wrote his own famous version of the story of John Barleycorn. In the 70's, John Renbourne, Traffic, and Steel Eye Span popularized the song, along with many other folk artists of the time. John Barleycorn is a very ancient, prime myth indeed - the Great King who is sacrificed, dies and is reborn in the spring as the wheel of the year's agricultural cycle turns.In many pre-Christian cultures, this motif is found as the Sumarian God Dumuzi, the Shepherd husband of the Goddess Inanna who goes into the underworld for part of the year, and returns to her in the Spring. The same idea of the dying and reborn King is found with the Egyptian Osiris, who is reborn in his son, the Sun God Horus.
John Barleycorn is the personification of the grain, and the life of the grain from planting to harvest, transformation into beer, and then sowing. After Barleycorn’s first death he is buried, and laid within the ground. In midsummer he grows a “long golden beard” and “becomes a man”. The songs of John Barleycorn go on on to describe threshing and harvesting. Barleycorn is bailed and taken to the barn. And then the grain is parceled out. Some is taken to the miller to make flour for bread. And some is saved and brewed in a vat to make ale. And some is planted, so that the whole cycle can begin again. It is likely that versions of John Barleycorn songs go back to pre-Christian times, the accompaniment of harvest rituals at Lughnasash, in August, or Mabon, the Autumnal Equinox.
Some of these rituals survive to this day in modified form, most famously the sacrifice of the wicker man. These rituals tell the story of the death and eventual rebirth of the god of the grain."*
It might be noted that John Barleycorn is, in particular, also a God of Ecstasy - because he provides celebration and ecstasy as the barley becomes the source of beer and the beloved malt whiskey of the Highlands. He shared a style not unlike the more Mediteranean temperment of Bacchus, the Roman God of wine. The malting and fermentation of the grains that form his body is also a part of his "life cycle" and divinity. Perhaps one of the most famous "ecstatic" manifestations of the Wicker Man, his rituals of sacrifice, rebirth, and celebration is Burning Man, the "harvest" festival that happens in Nevada every fall.
It's interesting that in Robert Burn's poem, there are "three kings", similar to the kings from the east in the Nativity story. Early Christians who came to the British Isles (and elsewhere) often absorbed native pagan mythologies and traditional rituals into Christian theology, and the evolution of the Story of Christ is full of such imagery in order to help the natives accept Christianity. Certainly John Barleycorn shares with the Christ Story the ancient theme of the death and rebirth of the sacrificed agricultural King.
I am a great admirer of the wisdom traditions of Gnostic and esoteric Christianity, but I also believe it is necessary to separate the spiritual teachings of Christianity from the mingling (and literalization) of earlier mythologies in the development of the Church.
For example, I believe the metaphor used to describe Jesus as the "Lamb of God" directly relates to Biblical (and Roman) practices prevalent in his lifetime of sacrifice of lambs and goats to Yahwah (or, for Romans, their pantheon). The later development of the doctrine that Christ "died for our sins", may have some of its origins in the important, and quite ancient, Semitic Scapegoat Rituals. But observing recently a Catholic "Communion" ritual ("This is my Body, This is my Blood") I was impressed by the many layers of mythologies and archaic cultures inherent in that ceremony, still important to so many people today. And one of those threads may very well originate in theprime agricultural myth of the dying and reborn God, a long tradition from which John Barleycorn is yet another God who dies now at Harvest, and arises re-born every spring.
John Barleycorn by Robert Burns
There was three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead.
But the cheerful Spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all. The sultry suns of Summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.
The sober Autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. His coulour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. They've taen a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim, They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe, And still, as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro.
They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones; But a Miller us'd him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones. And they hae taen his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise, For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise. 'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy: 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland!
And last, and so appropriate for the Harvest Time of Mabon, Steve Winwood of Traffic's version of John Barleycorn Must Die. I love to hear this ancient song sung thus, it brings back to me something I don't see in contemporary music much any more, which is the use of music to tell stories, and through poetry, to continue the teachings of myth, which was traditionally the role of the Bard.https://youtu.be/t8878chOvfI
I've posted this before..............and like a loop, it returns to my mind at this full moon Equinox, so beautiful, this Day of Balance which was also, in olden times, Mabon, the Second Harvest Festival.
You who will come with me
I will consider it Beauty
I will consider it
Beauty, beauty
,,,,,,Robin Williamson
Every morning when I rise with the sun to water my garden, I find myself talking to all the people that live there. The tall sunflowers, making seeds beloved by finches and sparrows. The desert tortoise, Augustus, who has decided to live here and occasionally makes his mysterious appearance. My cats of course. The green scarab beetles getting drunk on tree sap. The bees, having a drink at the bird bath. The heavy pomogranates pulling the tree down now, the cosmos flowers as tall as I am now. The woodpecker loudly telling me that I need to fill the bird feeder, butterflies and funny looking caterpillars eating holes in leaves. The morning is not so hot now, and it is tender, reminding me of some song I can't quite remember, but a Song that is infinitely sweet, with a touch of bitter sweet, like Irish music, which always seems to remember the transience of things.
As a child, the garden was full of people. Now, as an old woman, I seem to have returned to that happy experience. I try, in my very little eco-system, to create Good Relationship with all My Relations that honor me by living there. Even the ones that chew up my flowers.
"To the native Irish, the literal
representation of the country was less important than its poetic
dimension. In traditional Bardic
culture, the terrain was studied, discussed, and referenced: every place had its legend and its own
identity....what endured was the mythic landscape."
R.F. Foster
There was a time when humans thought of themselves as part of the Circle of the majestic cycles of the planet, and as part of the great family of life - when they negotiated with the animals and the elementals, when they listened to the voices of the trees and the medicine plants, when they thanked the buffalo or the reindeer or the seals for their sacrifice, when, I believe, they celebrated the harvests and the auspicious days as part of the great Song, their voices adding to the chorus. ("Chante: to sing"). We can re-member ("to join") this en-chanted paradigm, and learn to speak to each mythic landscape again. I feel Robin Williamson's beautiful poem so fully captures that vision.
I share it again and again because I love it, the Bard, because I want this Voice to not be forgotten. And Oh! As the moon shines down in its fullness on this day of quinox, I wish all, all, all it's fullness and abundance and promise.
Found at the Chalice Well in Glastonbury, UK.
You that create the diversity of the forms:
Open to my words You that divide it and multiply it Hear my sounds
Ancient associates and fellow wanderers You that move the heart in fur and scale I join with you
You that sing bright and subtle Making shapes that my throat cannot tell You that harden the horn And make quick the eye
You that run the fast fox and the zigzag fly You sizeless makers of the mole And of the whale: aid me and I will aid you
You that lift the blossom and the green branch You who make symmetries more true Who dance in slower time
Who watch the patterns
You rough coated Who eat water
Who stretch deep and high With your green blood My red blood
let it be mingled
Aid me and I will aid you
Silbury Hill, Wiltshire, UK
I call upon you
You who are unconfined Who have no shape Who are not seen
But only in your action I will call upon you
You who have no depth But choose direction
Who bring what is willed That you blow love upon the summers of my loved ones That you blow summers upon those loves of my love Aid me and I will aid you
I make a pact with you
You who are the liquid Of the waters And the spark of the flame:
I call upon you
You who make fertile the soft earth And guard the growth of the growing things I make peace with you
You who are the blueness of the blue sky And the wrath of the storm I take the cup with you
Earth shakers
And with you the sharp and the hollow hills I make reverence to you
Round wakefulness
We call the Earth
I make wide eyes to you
You who are awake
Every created thing both solid and sleepy Or airy light, I weave colors 'round you
You who will come with me I will consider it Beauty
The Equinox approaches, the bright and darkening liminal day of Balance. I thought this morning of this poem by the wonderful Scottish Bard Robin Williamson, as I also remembered so many sweet memories of Fall back east, moonlight in Vermont, fallen apples in rural New York, drinking mead with friends as we celebrated Mabon. One of my first ritual performances was an event devoted to the Great Mother, organized by my friend Farusha, in New York City. It took place in a "black box" theatre in the East Village, but what I brought to share with the audience was a basket of apples I found lying in the green grass around an apple tree in upstate, rural New York. To see those fallen apples was the utter truth of the great Generosity of Gaia, of our Mother Earth, always given. After I finished my performance I told the story of the apples I gathered, and offered them. I expected very few of that sophisticated urban audience would take any - to my great surprise, they took every one, and ate them right there in the theatre. There was a time when humans thought of themselves as part of the Community of life - when they negotiated with the animals and the elementals, when they listened to the voices of the trees and the medicine plants, when they thanked the buffalo for their sacrifice, when they joined in the great Song of life, a part of the chorus. We urgently must reclaim this en-chanted paradigm, and I feel Robin Williamson's beautiful poem so fully captures that vision. With great gratitude, may the Day of Balance bring Balance into all our lives.
You that create the diversity of the forms:
Open to my words You that divide it and multiply it Hear my sounds
Ancient associates and fellow wanderers You that move the heart in fur and scale I join with you
You that sing bright and subtle Making shapes that my throat cannot tell You that harden the horn And make quick the eye
You that run the fast fox and the zigzag fly You sizeless makers of the mole And of the whale: aid me and I will aid you
You that lift the blossom and the green branch You who make symmetries more true Who dance in slower time
Who watch the patterns
You rough coated Who eat water
Who stretch deep and high With your green blood My red blood
let it be mingled
Aid me and I will aid you
I call upon you
You who are unconfined Who have no shape Who are not seen
But only in your action I will call upon you
You who have no depth But choose direction
Who bring what is willed That you blow love upon the summers of my loved ones That you blow summers upon those loves of my love Aid me and I will aid you
I make a pact with you
You who are the liquid Of the waters And the spark of the flame:
I call upon you
You who make fertile the soft earth And guard the growth of the growing things I make peace with you
You who are the blueness of the blue sky And the wrath of the storm I take the cup with you
Earth shakers
And with you the sharp and the hollow hills I make reverence to you
Round wakefulness
We call the Earth
I make wide eyes to you
You who are awake
Every created thing both solid and sleepy Or airy light, I weave colors 'round you
You who will come with me I will consider it Beauty
Open to my words You that divide it and multiply it Hear my sounds
Ancient associates and fellow wanderers You that move the heart in fur and scale I join with you
You that sing bright and subtle Making shapes that my throat cannot tell You that harden the horn And make quick the eye
You that run the fast fox and the zigzag fly You sizeless makers of the mole And of the whale aid me and I will aid you
I make a blood pact with you
You that lift the blossom and the green branch You who make symmetries more true Who dance in slower time
Who watch the patterns
You rough coated Who eat water
Who stretch deep and high With your green blood My red blood
let it be mingled
Aid me and I will aid you
I call upon you
You who are unconfined Who have no shape Who are not seen
But only in your action I will call upon you
You who have no depth But choose direction
Who bring what is willed That you blow love upon the summers of my loved ones That you blow summers upon those loves of my love Aid me and I will aid you
I make a pact with you
You who are the liquid Of the waters And the spark of the flame:
I call upon you
You who make fertile the soft earth And guard the growth of the growing things I make peace with you
You who are the blueness of the blue sky And the wrath of the storm I take the cup with you
Earth shakers
And with you the sharp and the hollow hills I make reverence to you
Round wakefulness
We call the Earth
I make wide eyes to you
You who are awake
Every created thing both solid and sleepy Or airy light, I weave colors 'round you
You who will come with me I will consider it Beauty
When I gave my short performance, I took out that basket of apples, and said something to the effect that "This is Gaia, ever generous, ever giving us what we need." And then I invited those present to come and take the apples. I was amazed to see that the audience took every one of them and ate them right there!
