Beltane 2008 - a lesson in listening

Some lessons take longer to learn than others. Beltane has been about one of the harder ones this year.

Traditionally, I should have celebrated yesterday, but I did not. I had a meeting at work, which meant that I needed to dress respectably -- pentacles, even tasteful ones, don't exactly fit into that equation. Since I wear my pent for all pagan holidays, that was going to cause a problem, so I postponed my celebration until today.

I also didn't plane for the holiday at all. Now, I tend towards the more freestyle rituals in general, and I know the wheel of the year well enough now that I don't need to do a ton of planning to have a ritual, but I generally have at least a vague idea of my plans beforehand. Not for this holiday I didn't!

On a whim, I took my sacred rattle and went out to a local conservation area. It's small enough that it's hard to really get away from the street noise, but it has a series of ponds and a waterfall, which appeals to my soul deep need for running water. I got there and began to soak it all in. I could feel some part of me positively gulping it in - the budding leaves, the geese, the running water, the whole scene. I was so filled to the brim that I began to sing a wordless tune of joy, just to participate in the scene. I thought to myself how badly I need unstructured time like this outside of the house, this kind of unrushed time to stop and listen and breathe without rushing around. It was bliss. Surely, I would get home, perform a ritual in my backyard, and bask in the radiance of nature's beauty.

Then I got home and began rushing around, flailing under the weight of have-to's and need-to's and demands. I was tense, miserable, and empty. Eventually I tore myself away to attend to the chore of doing my Beltane ritual. I grabbed some supplies, including the daffodils I bought on the way home as an offering, and trudged outside.

I sat down and waited for inspiration to strike. Once again, I began to sing, but this time the tune had words. I found myself singing a refrain of "Why oh why are green things born to die?" Not exactly thematically appropriate to the ritual at hand! But that is what was in my heart - pain and rage and despair. But why? Where was this coming from? Sure, I was busy today, but doing things that I love! I'm taking pictures for my etsy store, which I set myself a dealine to complete by Beltane whether I want to or not. I'm working on my new embroidery project, which I know my mother will criticize for not being even enough. I'm looking over the new embroidery patterns I bought, and berating myself for not being creative enough to make my own. If you see my problem at this point, you're quicker than I was.

I don't know how long I sat there, or what the final catalyst was, but eventually I came to a single word: flow. The earth knows when to be kind and gentle, and when to unleash an avalanche. Water knows when to pour gently and when to wash away entire settlements. Neither works on any schedule but their own. They don't rush. Like a wizard, they arrive just when they are supposed to, and not a moment sooner. They know who they are.

Lesson of the season? Slow. Down. Only once I manage that, can I live from the heart. And living from the heart is the reason for every season.