On one of these early August days, I’m reminded that now is the midpoint for the “Summer half of the year” for the ancient Celts, that time between May and November in their (and our) calendar wheel.

For the Winter midpoint of the year the Celts have the festival of Imbolc, or what we in the States call “Groundhogs Day.” It’s a feminine festival, with Imbolc meaning “still in the womb” (and, coincidentally they looked to burrowed animals in those ancient Celtic religions as nature’s alarm clock to wake from winter). For the summer, and specifically August 1st and the days just after, the Celts had “Lughnasadh (loo-nuh-suh)” in honor of Lugh, an ancient deity akin to Rome’s Mercury. I’m not sure their’s a modern American equivalent, except for maybe our flexible notion of “summer vacation.” The idea is similar.

Lugh, the ancient deity, was known as a “jack of all trades, master of none,” and the time is seen as more of a masculine festival in Celtic tradition. He was called a physician, a mystic, a smith, a trickster, and a bard. He did a bit of everything, and so the festival gives a bit of a nod to everything. Just as Imbolc marked the time when the world was emerging from the womb and celebrated was around the hearth, Lugh is an outdoor celebration that marks the days of “last hurrah” and a descent into the harvest, the colder times, the “beginning of the end” as we might say.

To honor the festival they’d reap the first ears of wheat, oats, and barley, and dig the first potatoes. They’d wean the young lambs so that the mothers would mate in order to continue the cycle in the expectant spring. First plump fruits would be picked from the gardens, and it was understood in all of this that the Earth was keeping its harvest promise.

They’d settle bets and business deals, race horses, and everyone would compete in team games for the “glory of today,” because the hard harvest work was about to begin in haste and the night was slowly taking over the sun’s brilliance.

This rhythm and pull between the womb of creation and the “last hurrah” before an ending is still our rhythm, both as humans in society, and as embodied beings.

In early August my ancient Celtic ancestors would celebrate the third great festival of the year, Lughnasadh, or “the assembly of Lugh,” the Celtic sun god.

August 1st marks the beginning of Autumn for the Celts, and so this was essentially a festival to give thanks for the harvest that will be collected over the coming months.

Yes, it was giving thanks for something that hadn’t happened yet…sometimes you have to bank on hope, right?

This festival became Christianized in the Middle Ages, commonly called “Feast of First Fruits.”

In these days the ancient Celts would ween the new lambs so that the parents would mate again, giving more lambs in the Spring. They’d begin harvesting, especially the now ripe gooseberries and billberries.

They’d also make something called a Lammas Loaf (a derivation off of the festival name), a loaf of bread baked and shared off of the first wheat harvested from the fields. They’d often make the bread into different shapes, like wheat stalks, owls, or “John Barleycorn” shapes (sometimes known as The Wicker Man), a legendary figure that often stands for the harvest god/sun god.

Since Lughnasadh falls directly opposite of Imbolc on the Celtic wheel, and Imbolc (“in the womb”) was seen as primarily feminine, Lughnasadh was seen as a very masculine festival, with games and outdoor competitions, kind of like a precursor to our State Fairs here in the United States, with rides and feats of strength.

At its heart, Lughnasadh is a reminder that everything dies and is reborn. “Unless a grain of wheat dies,” the Christ says, “it remains a single grain…”

So we give thanks in the right season, banking on hope.

In the heat of waning July days, the ancient Celts would ready themselves for the August festivals and the beginning of the harvest.

They would take these final days to spend intentional time resonating with the world around them, relaxing in the earth and seeking out sacred spots to bless and in which to be blessed.

You might say this ancient practice is a precursor to our ideas of “vacation” these days. Summer rest is not something we invented, Beloved, but inherited through the long echoes of phenomenological rhythms that pulse throughout the looping threads of time.

Celtic author Mara Freeman notes three ways to honor the earth in these last July days that fall on the cusp of transition.

First, you can give thanks. Find a quiet spot in nature, breath deeply, listen carefully, and be grateful for what is around you. She notes that “a sacred site does not have to be famous or located in a distant country. It can also be a quiet, secret place you have found in the woods or, if you live in the city, a favorite old tree in a local park.” (from Kindling the Celtic Spirit)

Secondly, do some clean up. Whether it is in your backyard, along a well-hiked stream, your local park, or even just bush pruning around the house, caring for nature is an act of sacrifice to the very Earth who will, in the coming months, sacrifice fruit for us. Pruning, by the way, is necessary for many plants, and should be done with the plant in mind, and should not primarily be about how your yard looks from the street.

Finally, take a pilgrimage. Journey to a place where the Earth has been damaged or is in danger of being defiled, calling attention to it. Whether it is the pipeline in the Dakotas, over-fishing off the coasts, or even unwelcome infringement on a natural prairie in your little pocket of creation, walking there, seeing what is happening with your own eyes, and calling attention to it is an act of power and grace. Or, as one theologian puts it, “an actively mobilized process of bearing witness to woundedness and to the mysterious possibilities of the sacred.”

In these acts, the whole Earth becomes an altar upon which our attention, our love, and our gratitude is sacrificed. These acts have rippled throughout the cosmos from our ancient parents until today.

How will you add to the wave?

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.

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 worth 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 a 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 on in these mid-summer months. Mer-folk were known to protect 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 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.

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).

Today the ancient Celts would celebrate the festival of Beltaine, welcoming May as a month where the increasingly hot sun (the “tene” part of the word above) would warm the greenery enough to produce harvest. The “bel” portion of the word is a mystery, as it could stand for an ancient Celtic sun-god, Belanos, or could just be a form of the ancient word for “brilliant”

At dusk, having let their own hearth fires die out (which they only let happen once a year), the whole clan would ascend a nearby hill to get as close to the setting sun as possible. They’d set up huge poles and dance around them with flowers in their hair. They’d drink, and feast, and sing. They’d create flower garlands to adorn their doors or trees near their houses.

They’d create huge fires which they believed would help warm the sun, and they’d jump over the fires as a way of emboldening themselves for summer work, and if you were planning to be married soon, you’d do it three times for good measure. The elderly would circle the flames reciting prayers, and mothers would carry newly born infants near the coals as a way to ensure they’d be protected in childhood.

Fire, for them, purified the air of disease, and they believed that a bit of the hair from the same dog could be the cure, as they hoped setting these fires now would protect the unborn harvest from lightening strikes or other natural fires in the hot days.

As the fires smoldered each family would take a coal home to start their new hearth fire, and the rest was scattered throughout the crops for good luck.

If you stayed up all night on May-day, those who observed the sun rise would swear it danced for joy three times upon the horizon before jumping up in summer glory.