This is the solstice, the still point
of the sun, its cusp and midnight,
the year’s threshold
and unlocking, where the past
lets go of and becomes the future;
the place of caught breath, the door
of a vanished house left ajar.
~ Margaret Atwood ~
The sun gilds the edges of the leaves, casts shadows on the lawn. The apples on the tree shiver in the afternoon heat, blushing red. Unripe, they hang heavy. One bite to tell your future. Cut them open to bleed their magic on the lawn.
In the noon heat, the day seems lazy. Work is suspended to cater to the call of the blue sky and the golden wheat and the crimson faces of poppies, nodding their heads in the slightest breeze. Whisper your problems into their black seeds, and they will listen. Yes, yes, how right you are, that’s the way of things, they seem to say. Sprinkle the seeds on foraged summer greens, or eat three from the palm of your hand, and they will give you the answers you seek. But take care, for they are summer’s child and not so acquiescent as they might seem.
In the afternoon heat, we hang painted glass and kaleidoscopic crystals in the windows. They dress the room in shifting rainbows: colour magic. Purple for divination. Blue to calm the mind. Red for passion and pink for love. They cast transient butterflies and dreams on the wall. Dreams of deepest longing, romance, and hope. And just for today, if you watch carefully, if you have the eyes to see, they will show you your passion – and your purpose.
At last, we stand outside beneath a painted sky to watch the light fade. We hold up a candle, we burn our fires of oak and ash, to comfort the waning sun in his most fiery death. In the smoke we create a door to the Otherworld, through which he will enter. It is a promise to return. It is a celebration of his gifts. Watch the wisps of flame and you might just glimpse your future. Cast away with riotous joy what you will leave behind.
