Sweetness and Sorrow
Dear Friends,
I hope this finds you well, as we move into the sweetness of summerโs ripening. With another turn of the Wheel, we arrive at Lammas, the first of the three harvest festivals.
Lammas, meaning 'loaf mass', is a time to share bread, baked from the early grains, a joyful celebration of the Earth's unwavering generosity, the bounty of summer's gifts and fruits of all we've tended so far, physically and metaphorically.
Though our sickles meet the oats and our baskets brim with berries, there is a deep, collective sorrow for those who go without tonight.
In this season of harvest, as we witness abundance and deprivation. When the world aches with war, with greed, with need...
Still, we gather. We give thanks. We make space for joy. We bake bread and pick fruit, acts of reverence that root us into Gaia's generosity.
I hold this sweetness tenderly, a paradox of plenty and starvation: honouring the gifts before us while making space in our hearts for the injustice that persists. This is a time when body becomes prayer, when joy and sorrow coexist, and when we are reminded what it means to stay present, the courage to feel what is unjust and inhumane, and the tenderness to protect what is good to sink into the ripeness of late summer.
So, as the sun fades into a fiery ember glow and the night folds in, I invite you to take a moment to pause and reflect:
To celebrate is not to turn away, but to show up fully, with lament, and with the amplitude of collective breath.
A breath that honours the weight we carry, as children of the Earth.
That to celebrate is not to look away, but to hold the fullness of what is.
Held by the Earth.
Held by each other.