“A world without weapons, without McMansions in sprawling suburbs, without mountains of unnecessary packaging, without giant mechanized monofarms, without energy-hogging big-box stores, without electronic billboards, without endless piles of throw-away junk, without the overconsumption of consumer goods no one really needs is not an impoverished world.

I disagree with those environmentalists who say we are going to have to make do with less. In fact, we are going to make do with more: more beauty, more community, more fulfillment, more art, more music, and material objects that are fewer in number but superior in utility and aesthetics. . . “

-Charles Einstein-

Tonight as we enter the midway of the month, I’m remembering that in November the ancient Celts found themselves under the Reed Moon.

Each month has a moon, usually named after a tree, corresponding to the attribute that the month brought to the wheel of the year. Now, while reeds are not technically “trees,” November was illumined by the reed moon because reeds, when wound together, created tough blankets that would be used for both floor and roof, for both basket and rope.

They are tough as trees when braided.

Reeds were emblematic of how November was a weaving of worlds, ushered in by Samhain and All Saints, the ancestors and the babies creating a tapestry of existence that was most clearly felt as the shadows lengthened and the hearth blazed. For the ancient Celts life existed far into the past and far into the future, and the cycle of life was always rolling. Reeds reminded them of this: woven together to be one whole, and when wind blew over the open reed they believed they could hear the howling voices of the ancestors calling to them from the other side of the veil.

These, of course, became wind chimes and porch pipes.

The Reed Moon inspires us, with its long night-shine life, to remember those who have gone before, the ache in our bones a reminder of their unseen, but ever-felt, presence.

Lost One Soul

I lost my soul in a fit of temper
I threw it at somebody’s head
and slammed out
without a second thought

Then I dumped it in a wastebin
along with a love I said I was finished with

I sandpapered my spirit
with a million
bitter barbs
and sent it into orbit
and substituted
guilt instead

My soul went cold
with memories of old friends and kin
who never expected
to be neglected,
and resolutions
I’d eluded

Then one day
I went to feed it
and it was gone

and now I hear it howling

in the wind outside
in the nights
in the hills
and I get the chills inside
and hide
in something that’s not important

and it’s four in the morning
before I can get warm enough
to weep enough
to fall asleep

-Sandy McIntosh-

The ancient Celts found October to rest under the Ivy Moon. Now half past the month, the harvest is pretty much done and everything is starting to wear its nakedness.

But they called this Autumn moon Ivy Moon because ivy has a difficult time dying, and can live on even after the host plant has died. Ivy, for them, was a reminder that everything goes on in some form or fashion: life, death, rebirth.

It’s the way of things.

Ivy is strong, evergreen, resilient. Though the Earth is wearing their nakedness in these days, Ivy reminds us that the wheel is turning, not dying. It is spinning, not stopping.

Life renews itself.

Everything has an origin story. Even a few of them mixed together.

For the ancient Celts, Samhain was full of fire rituals intended to both purify land and scare off any trickster faeries and protect the farm from curses.

If you went out into the night on Samhain you’d tie a carved turnip on a string, aglow with a piece of charcoal inside. These glowing faces, called Jack-o’-lanterns referred to an old Christian tale about a blacksmith named Old Jack (sometimes called Stingy Jack) who, because he was so evil, was barred from both heaven and hell.

Instead his purgation was to roam the back roads on Hallowe’en night with nothing but a turnip lamp to light his shadowy way.

When Samhain was brought to the so-called New World (spoiler alert: not “new” at all), pumpkins were much more common than turnips, and so Irish settlers used those for lanterns instead.

Books litter the bed,
leaves the lawn. It
lightly rains. Fall has
come: unpatterned, in
the shedding leaves.

The maples ripen. Apples
come home crisp in bags.
This pear tastes good.
It rains lightly on the
random leaf patterns.

The nimbus is spread
above our island. Rain
lightly patters on un-
shed leaves. The books
of fall litter the bed.

-James Schuyler

The ancient Celts had a strong inclination that the rhythms of nature were echoed in the rhythms of the human body. Winter was for silence and rest, Spring for energy and growth, Summer for blazing work and toil, and Autumn for winding down and letting go.

They understood that living in a way that was in alignment with these rhythms led to a balanced way of being in this world.

At every new moon they also saw that the cycle of life both as continued and began again at the same time, giving support for this idea that time is circular, not linear, and that every moment is both a continuation of a past step and the opportunity for newness.

Let those with ears to hear, hear.

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.

For the ancient Celts, June was the month where they honored the mighty oak tree. In June this towering tree reaches its zenith in beauty, and was a reminder for the Celts that doing two things at once in this life is necessary: we must plant deep roots while also reaching for the highest heights.

Their ancient priests, Druids, were colloquially known as “oak knowers,” believing that of all of the trees, the oak tree was the wisest. The Celtic word for oak was Duir (again, also where they got the word Druid), which meant “endure” and “truth.”

The oak tree, brightened by the Oak Moon, was both strong and enduring, like truth.

June is a month to deepen your roots and reach for those heights.

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.