The times we live in are filled with challenges, with glories and with grief. War blasts its horn in many lands and violence stands as the answer to everything. Or so it seems. The beloved Blue Ball of the Earth is burning and flooding and parched, toxic and scarred in so many ways and places. Our own species seems bent on self-destruction—our leaders focused on short-term deals and blind to long-range visions.
Here in the southern highlands, gardeners are picking fat cucumbers and giving away armloads of summer squash. Though there is a corn crisis in the great flatlands of middle America, here the corn is strong and sweet, coming even now into the tailgate markets of so many neighborhoods. The soft fruits are being brought in and processed into jams, wines, pies and tinctures.
My community is preparing to celebrate one of the Cross-quarter days. This one falls between the Summer Solstice and the Autumnal Equinox. Standing in front of the East altar at Mother Grove today, I pressed my fingertips into the bright kernels of wheat. I was pondering the Mysteries of the Great Mother, of harvest and renewal.
And very conscious of the window air conditioner that was cooling the small space, making it bearable in these late summer days.
I would like to write more about the ears of “corn” and the ears of corn. I want to explore the place of tribe in a world that uses the word as a metaphor for ignorance and violence. I so want to share with you my journey, as I lead this first flight of Mother Grove priestesses down the winding path to ordination.
But it’s too hot. The fan makes this room bearable but my mind isn’t thinking about lofty and earth thoughts.
I only want a tall glass of cold water.