The fire sparked in the fire-dish, set under the oaks near the stone wall. Birds chorused and a curious toad peaked around the tree.
We called, spoken first:
Fertile one, bright one, Lord of the Green, we call you!
Rutting stag and twining vine, the roaring Lord of the Mountains
the Noble One of the hilltops.
We call you, fertile heat! We call you, radiant Lord!
Crowned with green, you are the Tree on the Plain between life and death
Sacred ancestor of all.
We bid you welcome to our grove – welcome, welcome and thrice be welcome.
Arms flung wide to the sun, I sang then:
Fàilte ort féin, a ghrian na’n tràth,
‘S tu siùbhal ard nan speur;
Do cheummaibh treun air scéith nan ard,
‘S tu màthair àigh nan reul.
Tu laighe sìos an cuan na dìth,
Gun dìobhaill is gun scàth;
Thu ‘g éirigh suas air stuagh na sìth,
Ma rioghan óg ina bhlàth. (Carmina Gadelica)
We offered the sounding of the basins, singing over the Tibetan bell. The birds responded in an astounding chorus. We offered a jar of sun-incense, fresh herbs from the herb-harvest, and a sun-wheel woven of honeysuckle, adorned as we sang to the sun. As it burned, we kept singing and Aine’s fire flared up. She peaked her bright face from the cloud — an answer, a joy.
Greetings to you, sun of the season
And you walking high in the heavens
Your steps strong on the wings of the heights
And you the glorious mother of stars.
It is you lying down in the harbor of danger
Without bedevilment and without dread;
It is you rising up on the peaked wave of peace (Aedh Rua translation)
The omens said she was pleased, but Bile felt neglected, and so I offered a giant stick — and I do mean giant — of sage, which pleased him.
Midsummer is song and drumbeat, scented smoke, the flames lit by Aine herself, who drove the breeze and pushed aside the clouds.
A joyous holiday, although I do have to balance it out with more work with Bile. I work with Aine a lot, and Bile very little. Time to remedy that!