As we break into July I’m reminded that the ancient Celts always felt that they had two homes: the “inside house,” and the “outside house.”
In the winter months the hearth became their sun, and the family gathered around it to live well.
But from May-November, they didn’t need the false sun of the hearth, and their world (literally) revolved around the burning star that provides us life and light. The “outside house” was all creation, every living thing not within four walls.
They called this “outside home” the “house of light.”
In July they would sit in the house of light, outside, to learn: how to grow, how to use the light offered you free of charge, how to rise early, and how to retire as the sun retired.
We’d do well in these days to find ways to imagine our lives being between two houses, I think…and being able to learn what is taught in July.
In July the Celts found themselves under the Holly Moon. The holly tree was lifted up in this time of the year not because it was in particular bloom, but because it was basically unchanged. The fortitude of the holly tree no matter the season was the reason it was elevated in this month: it’s ever green leaves and ever red berries were seen as mythically strong.
The holly tree was also seen to embody the masculine and feminine all in one. The prickly leaves were seen as masculine, and the ripe berries like the feminine womb, a symbol of coexistence and marriage (and fertility, to be honest).
In the ancient lore, the Holly King ruled from the summer solstice to the winter solstice, only to be overtaken by the Oak King from the winter solstice to the summer solstice. Both equally strong and wise, but both specializing in something unique.
The Holly King was everlasting and unchanging, a testament to fortitude.
The Oak King was wise and powerful, a testament to discernment.
As the Celts were slowly Christianized (or rather, adopted some Christian ideas), the holly tree came to be seen as a special symbol for Jesus: the prickly leaves for his crown, the red berries for his blood. And the fact that it never changed was even more-so a symbol for them (and us?).
There is a prayer they used to say at this time of year using holly berries (though any berry can suffice if it is red). Find a flowing body of water and three berries.
Toss the first berry in and say a prayer of gratitude.
Toss the second berry in and ask for divine wisdom.
Toss the third berry in and pray for someone who needs it.
The Holly Moon is one of unchanging fortitude. A good feeling for July.
On the Summer Solstice the ancient Celts would give thanks for our star.
They’d build fires on the tops of the hills, believing these fires would further fuel the sun. They’d bring their babies close to the fire as a blessing, and they’d dance and sing and daring couples would hold hands and leap over the flame for good luck.
Midsummer was a day of indulgence with shared feasts and partying and plays and dramatic re-enactments of all kinds. As the sun indulged the Earth on this day, so the people took the minute here as summer was half gone (summer on the Celtic wheel is May-July) to bask in the House of Light, as they called the summer fields and hills.
Tonight is a very appropriate night to light a bonfire, enjoy some food outside, and give thanks for our star without which none of us could live.
Today is World Oceans Day, a day to honor the great incubator of life, the first amniotic fluid of creation: The Seas.
The ancient Celts held the sea in high reverence. Like anything powerful, the sea provided for the people and was also dangerous. It was a road to distant lands as well as a graveyard, a reminder that the wilds of creation are to be respected and not taken for granted.
With our modern minds we may imagine that the seas of this world are ours for dominating and using as we please, but with every strengthening hurricane and with every new exploration into the deepest parts of our oceans we are reminded that the oceans still have a temper and hold a temptation for adventure.
Let us not abuse it nor forget it.
I’ve stood at the base of huge mountains, and I’ve flown over quite a bit of amazing land, and yet it is still the ocean’s siren song that enlivens the most awe in me.
Green and brackish, blue and calm, full of terrors and wonders and teeming with living things yet undiscovered, the oceans of our round rocket ship spinning in this universe are a reminder for me that, even though we may flex our mortal muscles, stronger forces exist and must be honored and respected.
If you’re one who endears themselves to such rituals, the ancients used to thank the Mer-people in these mid-summer months. Mer-folk were known to protect humans as well as correct humans in their courses and, while I certainly don’t believe in such a thing, I understand how the ancients would.
After-all, with so many mysteries beneath the waves, why wouldn’t someone imagine that there might be a whole undiscovered universe of inhabitants who gazed up at the blue sky like we gaze at the briny blue depths, a reflection of what we know…just a little different, you know?
Regardless of what you believe, I hope we can all agree on one thing: the mother of all life, the Oceans, the Seas, deserves not only our thanks and awe, but also our protection.
For the ancient Celts, June was a time of herb collecting. Used in medicine, dyes, cooking, cosmetics, and floor coverings (they would cover their floors with the herbs for a fragrant and hygienic carpeting), herbs were considered a healing gift.
At this time of year they’d incorporate herbs into most every dish, creating lilac teas and treating fish both steamed and pan fried with plenty of dill, parsley, and chives.
As they headed toward the Solstice and St.John the Baptist’s feast day, using all of the given daylight was paramount. Waste nothing, especially daylight, and do those things appropriate with the season.
For June this meant herb gathering, freshening things up, and preserving the harvest for cooking and healing in the year to come.
In May the Celts would turn their sights toward the land and the seeds to be buried in hope and prayer.
They’d pull out their ploughs and pray these instruments be sturdy to do the good work ahead of them, keeping their promise to help produce life-giving food for the land.
Here’s a modern Blessing of the Plough adapted from an ancient blessing (and also happens to be a nice one for those prepping for Holy Trinity Sunday):
Blessed be, God of all creation. Give softness to the land. Give us skill to work the land. This plough is sign to us of Your blessing. Give us softness of heart. Give us skill to serve You. Blessed be God–Creator, Christ, and Spirit, Three of Glory, Three of Light, Three of Life. Blessed be the Bright Three forever. God speed the plough. God speed the plough.
-prayer from Llewellyn’s The Celtic Wheel of the Year
The Celts would, in mid-May, honor the warrior queen Maeve of Connacht. She was often depicted dressed in red with a pet bird perched on one shoulder, and a pet squirrel on the other.
She was known for having three criteria in the men she would consider for marriage: they couldn’t be stingy, they couldn’t be jealous, and they couldn’t have any fear.
She was half lore and half reality, like all interesting people, and her name came from the pre-Christian Celtic goddess, Sovereignty, who was said to be the one who would approve a royal’s right to rule. Should a royal be overthrown, it was because Sovereignty had deemed them unworthy (stingy, jealous, or afraid).
“If civilization is ever going to be anything but a grandiose pratfall, anything more than a can of deodorizer in the shithouse of existence, the people are going to have to concern themselves with magic and poetry.”
For the ancient Celtic Christians, May was the first month of summer. It may feel strange to think of the rhythm of the year in this way, mostly because we’ve been conditioned by society to see May as still part of “spring,” but for those Celts who paid attention to how things look and feel, rather than acquiescing to what others told them to feel, they knew that the change of May meant the beginning of summer.
Their wheel for the year was:
November-December-January: Winter (the cold would set in, ground would freeze, and things took a dormant nature…which is why in the middle of December you’d celebrate the undying light of Christ, reminding yourself that the sun/Son always shines)
February-March-April: Spring (things start to break through the ground, thaws happen, tulips push up and animals stir and mate…which is why Easter is the capstone to the season, the eternal “emergence”)
May-June-July: Summer (heat sets in, you start to do all things out-of-doors, you plant and tend, and the midpoint is the celebration of John the Baptizer/Summer Solstice where you remember that St. John the Baptizer said, “I must decrease so that Christ may increase”…and the sun starts setting a little earlier each day)
August-September-October: Autumn (you celebrate the waning heat, you harvest, you prep and store, and prepare for the winter, with the capstone of the season being All Hallow’s Eve where you give thanks for the harvest and the faithfully departed, knowing winter is coming where nature reminds us that all things die)
This cycle was the year life, but imbued into all of this was the sense of death and regeneration. It was an Easter life.
In our modern days where we’re so tossed back and forth between this event and that event, seeing so much of it all as isolated incidences that rock our boats, we forget the golden thread, the rhythm, or as the ancient Celts would call it, the “heartbeat of the Divine” running through it all.
If we tilt at every windmill, we never stand up straight. The ancient Celts understood this, and so they were able to weather most any storm knowing what season it was.
Now? Now is the start of summer. The season of “out-of-doors.” Take advantage, live into the newness around you, and breathe deeply into the now.
Reluctant Xtian 