It is Mabon. I walk about my garden in the cool of the evening. The leaves of the trees show hints of the coming fall. The harvest should be ripe, but disappointingly, there is little here to celebrate. My pumpkins should be covering the ground in their abundant blaze of orange beauty. I see only a few shriveled pumpkin flowers whose promise was never fulfilled. It's too late now. The birds have made off with the meager harvest of strawberries. The corn has an infestation of worms. I dig up a carrot, it is shrunken, soft and limp. Even Summer's tomatoes are few and small. Last year we were overflowing with pumpkins, tomatoes, corn, cucumbers, green peppers and all the other gifts of the earth. I think back to Beltaine when we planted and wonder...
Silver Oak Coven gather on a beautiful Beltaine evening. Summer and I are HPS and HP for the evening. For the first time our circle would include a Great Rite. We start ritual and as our coven drums and raises energy, Summer and I retire to a bedroom adjoining the ritual room to celebrate the God and Goddess.
My love and I exchange the fivefold kiss. We had waited for this evening for weeks. Believing that anticipation was the best spice, we had delayed our normal indulgence to bring our desire to its height. Aware of the drums, and the circle awaiting our return, we turned to each other with intent and focus. Unfortunately, despite lengthy and erotic attentions by the Goddess incarnate, the flag will not go up the pole. The soldier will not stand at attention. The ..., well, never mind, you get the idea. My little friend remains shrunken, soft and limp, although appreciative. I had never had 10 people in another room awaiting my performance and the tension did not allow me to rise to the occasion.
Summer kisses and hugs me, and we return to the circle, not mentioning that anything was amiss.
The next morning the coven gathers and we begin to plant our garden. I think briefly about ancient Pagan beliefs that as performs the High Priest so goes the crops, but dismiss this as superstition. Through the warm spring day we roto-till and hoe, our bodies gain a soft sheen of sweat that drips into the waiting earth. Lovingly we transplant seedlings started months ago in the greenhouse into the neat rows of earth.
With delight we watch as our garden comes alive. A few weeks later, while we were out of town, a storm comes up. On our return, the neighbors tell of incredible hail; we are appalled at the battered leaves and stems.
We start over from greenhouse seedlings, but we have lost two irrecoverable months of growing time. Summer tenderly watches while I travel in Europe.
I return – I anxiously tour our garden. Things are not as they should be. Despite mounds of fertilizer and generous waterings my pumpkins seem pale and listless. There seems to be a lack of energy, of direction. The garden reminds me of a pale, gaunt teenager I once met, who spent his life smoking pot and watching MTV. There is life, but not much more.
Unable to find a solution, I watch and hope for a quickening of spirit in our garden, but none is forthcoming. I tour a friend's garden in envious wonder. It seems every plant, every seed has produced a cornucopia of bounty. Perky tomatoes shout with color, mysterious pumpkins lurk beneath their covering of foliage. Corn stalks, bursting with plump ears, tower with majestic beauty over their domain. Unkind thoughts towards my friend's success are quickly suppressed.
There is a hint of chill in the air as I sit in my sad little garden, dreaming of salads unmade, of pumpkins uncarved, of salsas uncreated and thank the Gods for another damn learning experience. I am not quite sure of the lesson, but I can guarantee that there will be a blanket spread out in the middle of our garden in the deep of the night next Beltaine. We will celebrate the union of the God and Goddess without the distraction of an awaiting coven and bless the land and each other. Superstition? Maybe, but it sure is fun.
