The First Harvest
It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moon’s unclouded light
Today is Lughnasad or Lammas, beautiful first bounty harvest of golden sheaves and early fruits, celebrating the Lady of the Fields and the Lord of the Barley. The first fruits of the years labors coming to term, passing into our hands. The first of three gatherings of kin and clan to rehash the year, to give thanks in large cheer for what has passed and to talk of what is still to come.
Today is a quiet but good day. Like in early summer, I have gone over the heads of my normal financiers and solved all my problems with the bank. With my work for school done as much as it can be on my side, I set it aside. I take delight in what I've managed to do during all of these months. For what I can look back on as accomplished. For the ability to give myself an outlet, for my ability to not stop fighting for what I believe and love, for making and defending healthy boundaries.
Loaves are baking, even if they are not mine. The smell of raising flour and the soft imagination of drizzled honey and the memory of waving fields of gold. The warm scent of apple cider and of sticking clothing not gone yet. Of the catch and call of the scythe, saying thanks for what will sustain, giving blessing to what will stay to refurbish. I find myself nervous of the night, but longing for the hands of my group, even for a few short hours. There are faces I have missed dearly and updates to hear all around, moments to find out if this is the first of the last.
It is the beginning of the end in this season.
The festival of regrets and farewells, of harvest and beginning preservations.
I feel quietly full of joy and awe and weight and thanksgiving, and love, oh, love, such love for all of you, for them, for this world, for my life.
I hae been blythe wi’ comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu’ gath’rin gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw,
Tho’ three times doubl’d fairly,
That happy night was worth them a’,
Amang the rigs o’ barley.
Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs.
- The Rigs O' Barley; Robert Burns
When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moon’s unclouded light
Today is Lughnasad or Lammas, beautiful first bounty harvest of golden sheaves and early fruits, celebrating the Lady of the Fields and the Lord of the Barley. The first fruits of the years labors coming to term, passing into our hands. The first of three gatherings of kin and clan to rehash the year, to give thanks in large cheer for what has passed and to talk of what is still to come.
Today is a quiet but good day. Like in early summer, I have gone over the heads of my normal financiers and solved all my problems with the bank. With my work for school done as much as it can be on my side, I set it aside. I take delight in what I've managed to do during all of these months. For what I can look back on as accomplished. For the ability to give myself an outlet, for my ability to not stop fighting for what I believe and love, for making and defending healthy boundaries.
Loaves are baking, even if they are not mine. The smell of raising flour and the soft imagination of drizzled honey and the memory of waving fields of gold. The warm scent of apple cider and of sticking clothing not gone yet. Of the catch and call of the scythe, saying thanks for what will sustain, giving blessing to what will stay to refurbish. I find myself nervous of the night, but longing for the hands of my group, even for a few short hours. There are faces I have missed dearly and updates to hear all around, moments to find out if this is the first of the last.
It is the beginning of the end in this season.
The festival of regrets and farewells, of harvest and beginning preservations.
I feel quietly full of joy and awe and weight and thanksgiving, and love, oh, love, such love for all of you, for them, for this world, for my life.
I hae been blythe wi’ comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu’ gath’rin gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw,
Tho’ three times doubl’d fairly,
That happy night was worth them a’,
Amang the rigs o’ barley.
Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs.
- The Rigs O' Barley; Robert Burns