Wants

Consider the proverb:

 

Anmherffaith pob eisieu.
All is imperfect.

 

I think this is best contemplated as a pair with this one:

 

Gwell anghen na chywilydd
Better want than shame.

Autumn melancholy: A Triplet

Consider this example of a bardic triplet from Welsh poetry:

 

Y ddeilen a drevyd Gwynt --
Gwae hi o'i thynged --
Hên hi! Eleni y ganed!

 

The wind winged leaf --
So sad its fate --
But! This year was it born!

 

So: it is officially autumn (as amusing as an official start proclaimed by humanity might be!) and our thoughts shift. The last of the harvest is being gathered, the colours are almost finished changing, and soon the trees will be bare.

 

After the firey glory of summer and the excitement of the richest days of harvest it can be hard to look at autumn without at least a twinge of melancholy. We know, of course, that this little death has riches of its own, that winter has a sere beauty for those who can embrace it, and that in any case spring will come again and bring another burst of life and growth, and the promise of yet another season of riches not long after.

 

And with it another glorious leaf not unlike this one.

 

Why, then, should we mourn when a leaf falls, to be lofted on a frosty autumn wind?

 

There are lessons here for more than just a literal autumn of course. And so today's meditation:

What is your leaf? What do you mourn? Without denying the sad aspects of it, how else might it be seen?

 

Balance and Alban Elfed - not the lesson we think

It sometimes seems as though at this time of year everyone is talking about balance - moreso than at Alban Eilir for some reason, despite all.

 

Most meditate on how to achieve balance and keep it. Others...not so much (Grins)

 

It seems natural to ponder balance at the equinox, to think of how this tipping point between the preeminance of Night and Day might serve as a metaphor for life.

 

But in the end, much of this discussion misses an important point abput what the seasons have to teach us.

 

To illustrate, imagine a gyroscope. Get it spinning fast, and set it on the pinpoint tip of its stand, or on a thread. It will stand there, and even keep its balance when you move it. But is it still? Or is it moving?

 

It's moving of course. Some will point you to the fact the gyroscope is spinning. But I want to focus on something else: the way it wobbles.

 

As the gyroscope spins, it tips and orbits. And yet - it doesn't fall.

 

Take it a step further and try this experiment:

 

Find a place to stand, somewhere safe with no furniture around and a soft base. Put your arms out to the side. Slowly raise one foot - and stand for as long as you can. Close your eyes - focus on what your body is doing.

 

From time to time, you may find yourself perfectly still, but mostly you will find yourself wobbling. Even when still, with your awareness focused you will see that in fact you're not still - in fact your muscles are working constantly, pulling, pushing as they keep you upright.

 

More: take a walk in the glorious autumn weather, pay special attention to each step. Notice how with each step you teeter for one moment at the point of balance, then you swing forward and catch yourself on the other foot...then rock forward again to another moment of balance.

 

Being out of balance is fundamental to motion. What matters is not keeping balance - that's stasis, not life - what matters is the return to center, the constant orbit around a point of certainty.

 

We need that anchor, it keeps us whole.

 

But if we make the anchor everything at every time then we stand frozen and immobile.

 

So cultivate that center, certainly, but don't struggle to stay there. Instead, embrace the motion.

 

This is the lesson of the Alban: The perfect balance we imagine is a thing of stasis and immobility. The promise of perfect balance is an illusion. The truth is that Living balance is a fleeting moment in a continuum of motion.

A Meditation on Alban Elfed

Alban Elfed – the autumnal equinox – is important to me of course.  Though I don’t follow the modern tradition of identifying Mabon with the equinox per se – nevertheless with Alban Elfed approaching, and with it Calan Gaeaf not long after, my thoughts turn to Mabon the huntsman, not least because with the turning of the year and the slow end of summer it’s natural to seek out this god and his eternal youth, and his place between worlds.

I first came on Mabon (intellectually) early on, in my exploration of what there was of the ancient tales of my homeland. Mabon ap Modron figures of course in the 12^th Century tale Kilhwch and Olwen, found in its most complete form in the Red Book of Hergest and preserved for us as one of the twelve (sometimes thirteen)  romances included with the Mabinogi.

Read spiritually, Kilhwch and Olwen isn’t one tale, but three (apt!)  interwoven in interesting ways.  But one of the most interesting is the dual path to Mabon ap Modron.

Another beginning

I confess: I really don’t know how to explain this pattern of mine.

It’s been two years now since my last words here. It’s not that I’ve been gone from the path, but more that my heart has been in hibernation.

The truth is, I don’t know what causes my drawing away. I know that – in some respect – this is depression. I’ve suffered from depression for many years, and sometimes it’s just harder than others. It doesn’t help that I’m in a country where mental health resources are hard to find, and harder for a foreigner to access than even a native.

But some of it is…I don’t know. Something else.

I continue to think about the gods, about my path. I continue to read and to study. I look at the stars. I touch the earth and rejoice. I give thanks to spirits of place when they aid me. I tell stories to my children.

But then the cycle turns again and it seems as though I just wake.

Like there are other things my spirit needs to be doing, and deep down I know the gods will understand.

And then things happen. I meet some new people. I stumble on things. I have a dream.

And then suddenly I need to come back. I need to return to the path and take a few more steps along it.

And somehow, it always seems to come around now: in the fall, in the days before the equinox.

In the days that lead to Calan Gaeaf.

Is it that the gods want me back? Is it that I want them.

Is it both?

I don’t really know, but after so many years away from my precious soil I’m grateful for one thing:

A place where I can go home.

But what of the stars?

Courtesy of NASA - a photo of Jupiter taken by
New Horizons

Like many of us who follow the pagan path, the sky is very important to me.

My first clear memory of awareness of the sky is from when I was five years old.  Our family had moved to the far north of Canada – literally in the tundra – and it was winter.  My father knew the science teacher at the local high school, and had been invited to join a star-viewing party during which some pretty amazing aurorae were expected.  There were several impressive telescopes, the sky was as clear as crystal, the aurorae were as amazing as advertised, and I was hooked.

Dancing with the gods

Barajima Hachiman o-mikoshi with offerings
(photo taken at the invitation of the Kannushi)

I love summer here.

The heat and humidity I could do without, but I can’t help but love summer – because summer is the season of gods.

There are festivals all year round of course, and some of the most important are in the depths of winter, but in July and August every year is a concentration of Shinto religious celebrations like nothing else.