Hooray, Hooray, for the First of May

One of the things that I have always loved about the Wheel of the Year; the cycle of eight holidays that are celebrated in the Craft, is that they are anchored to real events. You can look out of your window and see the Winter Solstice happen. Likewise the Summer Solstice, Spring and Autumn Equinoxes. They are not the anniversary of a supposed historical event, or the day when ‘our people traditionally do the thing’ but rather the reverent observation of the patterns of movement in the Universe around us.

The tricky bit happens because of two guys: Julian, and Gregory. Julian invented this calendar system, and it was predominant in Western Europe when the ancient holidays marked on the Wheel of the Year entered into a broader syncretic cultural context. The first of May, for example, was actually just about always right in between Spring Equinox and Summer Solstice. Same with the first of February, August, and November being just about exactly poised between equinoxes and solstices.

Gregory, however, screwed that all up. He made a new calendar and moved things four or five days away from where they previously were.

In my opinion, clinging to the human-invented date of 1 May as the day to celebrate when the actual halfway day is 4 or 5 May is an elevation of a defunct human calendar over the divine movement of the Universe around us.

In the year 2020 of what is called the Common Era, the halfway day between Spring Equinox and Summer Solstice is 4 May, not 1 May. That is the day that I will celebrate; the day when it is really happening outside my front door.

Mother Knows Best

The view from Betty’s front window

I am a medium. I haven’t always known this about myself, but as I have gotten older it has become more and more apparent. When I was about 27, near my first Saturn return, through a complicated and very interesting series of events I met a man named Mischa Duvan, who was at the time the senior and only shaman of the Ulchi Tribe in Siberia. He told me that I would work with the dying and the dead later in life, but that I should not attempt to at my age.

That was nearly half a lifetime ago, so as I approach my second Saturn return, I can’t be surprised that I see and get messages from dead folks more often. It usually happens when I’m doing something else, like giving a Tarot reading or having a deep magical counseling session. It’s not something I initiate, but once it starts, it tortures me until I understand and pass on the message I’m being given. That torture takes the form of a crushing and unexplainable sadness that I must assume is the easiest of my buttons for someone on the other side of the Veil to push.

The last time it happened was on the 19th anniversary of our mother’s death on October 26, 2019. I had been feeling that nagging, causeless sorrow for a few weeks, but it had not risen to the point where I would notice it above the general noise of my fear-prone mind. I and my fiancé were very busy assisting his mother with the sale of her home of 45 years and her transition into a retirement community so I was quite distracted. The winning offer came in on that anniversary day, so the three of us went out to dinner to celebrate. It was such a great load off all our minds and erased so much uncertainty that we were all feeing good. Future mum-in-law has some mobility issues, so I dropped her and her son off at the front door and went to park the car. The instant I was alone, the weight of sadness that descended was absolutely crippling. I remembered that it was our mother’s death anniversary and the penny dropped. She wanted me to know something. I made it into the restaurant and back with other people, I could hold it at bay for a while.

After dinner and returning to her soon-to-no-longer-be home, I excused myself and retired to the basement semi-suite that we use when visiting. I made it to the bottom of the stairs before collapsing in sobs. My man put his mum to bed and came downstairs to find me there. He was of course tremendously concerned and asked what he could do. I told him to stay with me, since his presence is like a control rod in the reactor of my stability-challenged spirit. He logged on to his computer and I curled up on the couch and started playing solitaire on my phone. A few minutes later, a seemingly random thought crossed my mind: ‘I wish I could go home.’ In my idiolect, ‘home’ means our mother’s hometown of Cleethorpes, England. We spent summers there growing up, and I always feel closest to her when I visit.

I had no sooner thought the thought when a surge of energy when through me from head to foot like a bolt of lightning and I saw a picture of my aunt Betty in her home in Cleethorpes. I gasped, dropped the phone, and clamped my hands over my face and started to shake violently.

My man asked if he should phone an ambulance. As soon as I could speak again, I said no. I told him that Mom wants me to go to Cleethorpes. He answered “tell everyone I said hi.” That’s someone you marry.

Mom has never come through to me in all the years since she died, so I took it seriously. I had gotten the message, so within a few minutes the cloud of sorrow was gone without a trace and I went back to as normal as I get and started looking for ways to make a trip back home.

The right opportunity arose and I was able to tack on a short trip to the UK to the end of a business trip to the East coast. I saw most of the family, met a new cousin, and looked in on our eldest god daughter and her partner in Glasgow. I headed home, feeling a little bit foolish, honestly. No huge drama. No big revelations. No spectral appearances. Just a lot of great fish and chips and some much needed family time.

Then COVID-19 happened. Borders started to close. Our wedding plans are thrown into uncertainty. My late-eighties aunt is in lockdown, and like me, many of my closest relations are old enough to be in the at-risk category. I got an e-mail from Betty’s eldest daughter this morning sharing that she is fine, though quite bored being in lockdown, since she has run out of tasks to do around the house.

When the severity of the consequences of the situation became clear, I got on my knees in front of my ancestor altar and prayed to our mother and thanked her for telling me to go while I had the chance. Mother knows best.

Roasted Garlic Soup

This recipe is a little complicated for my tastes, but the results are worth it. If you want a lower carbohydrate version, reduce the number of potatoes or omit them.

Roasted Garlic Soup

4 heads of garlic, roasted

1 medium onion, diced

1 tablespoon cooking oil

6-8 fingerling potatoes

1/2 teaspoon salt

Pepper to taste

6 cups chicken or vegetable stock

2 large bay leaves

1 cup heavy cream

1 lemon, juiced

3 eggs

Begin by roasting your garlic. This step can be done well ahead of time, which can make the rest of the process feel a little less labour intensive. If you don’t know how to roast garlic, here is a tutorial on the YouTube How To Roast Garlic

Peel and dice your onion. Place your cooking oil in a large soup pot and sauté the onion until it is transparent. Usually about 3-4 minutes.

Add the stock, potatoes, salt, pepper, and bay leaves. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer until the potatoes are fork-tender.

Remove the bay leaves and set them aside for future stock-making.

In a small bowl, beat the eggs and lemon juice together. The egg should be thoroughly blended. Ladle two cups of the hot broth into a measuring cup for easy pouring. While continuously stirring the egg and lemon blend, very slowly add the hot broth to temper the egg. Slowly, or you wind up with scrambled egg soup. When the mixture is steaming, the eggs are tempered and will not congeal into solids.

Add the heavy cream and roasted garlic. Lick your fingers - you can, you know. You’re a grown up.

Puree the soup with an immersion blender. Add the lemon and egg mixture and voila! A new way to eat roasted garlic!