[ blows dust off the blog ] Okay then.
Three weeks ago, I was exhausted. To the point of uselessness. I think that’s important for me to remember, right now. Because while I was in that state, where I could barely do anything at all, I declared that I wanted to mark the equinox.
I don’t really have a strong equinox practice, historically speaking. I haven’t turned up evidence of the Egyptians marking it, so I don’t have a reconstruction vibe with it, and while I have strong Beltane and Samhain vibes within my practice of my Craft tradition, I don’t have strong pulls to other sabbats (and I have a sort of low-grade allergy to the Wheel of the Year). The best I’ve had is a sense that the equinoxes have an active deep ancestral vibe for me (as distinct from Samhain’s beloved Dead) and is also close to the beginning of Opet, which I particularly mark with donations to charity that match the ways that expressed community support and regenerative power in ancient times. (Food. Boats. Clothes.) I’ve done a lot of chewing on the concept of Opet over the years, actually. Maybe my vibes for this are very Opet, I think, as I reread the things I’ve written…
Anyway. We have slowly been building out a sort of village festival cycle, over time. Something to be a community core. We didn’t really have anything for the equinox; nobody had Strong Equinox Vibes to work something with. We tried to time a yearly cyser brew (apple cider mead) for then, because apples are in season, and that’s a thing, but with one thing and another (and the demands of children, and and) we haven’t done that for a while. And that’s not really a community thing, it’s just a busy afternoon.
But I wanted to pick it up again.
And I wanted to expand it, to find a community festival, to feed people. That’s the thing that started burning up my brain back when I was too tired to be able to endure having my brain on fire: the harvest season is happening, we should have a feast. We actually managed a small garden this year, with an apparently ceaseless supply of cherry tomatoes and a single mystery squash (all our brassicas were destroyed by cabbage moths). There should be a harvest feast. It should be potluck, everyone sharing their harvest. This would be a good thing. Community bonds.
Because here’s a thing: while I’m not as aggressive about it as some people I know, I put a whole lot of importance on the process, the concept of feeding people. If I ever get my shit together to write about ka theology, there will be a whole section on the relevance of food. The Egyptians presented gifts to each other – and to the gods – with “may your ka be fed”. The word for the ka, that vital body, that energizing soul, is linked to words about magic and reproduction … and food. “Kau” translates “victuals” and that’s a connotationally correct translation given the etymological link of ‘victuals’ with ‘vitality’, with life itself. One of the things that is important to me when we host these festivals is that nobody goes away hungry.
By the time we had that sorted out, I had two weeks before tomorrow, and they were jam packed with Things, between beginning-of-school meetings and child lessons and various other things. Also, one of my chosen/adopted brothers pinged me and said “Hey, I’m going to be on the East Coast for my mom’s wedding, can I come up and visit for a few days?” to which my response was “I will feed you.” I can’t fix his housing and food insecurity forever but I can absolutely fix it for three and a half days. So he was here, and I made sure he had food he could eat, and I got more of it when I came up with something that worked. Because I will take care of my baby bro while he’s under my roof.
Feeding people is essential. It’s a core thing, back to the ape instincts: sharing food is how we demonstrate that we aren’t going to war. Historical Polish hospitality is rooted in offering bread and salt. The Greeks had their xenia traditions, where feeding the stranger at the gate was a holy obligation; the host needed to feed the guest before even asking for a name. A friend within my Craft tradition recently had a dream touching upon the concept of Holy Communion within Christian tradition, in which the dream visitor said that this was not about going to a special, set-apart space for bread and wine, but rather that “all people should break bread and enjoy fruits of their labor with others in community in honor of the divine.” (Shared with permission.)
So I started building out my menu, drawing on the harvest and the ancestors. I cracked out my medieval Polish cookbook and got my oldest to help me set up the three-day marinade process for a roast; I got another roast defrosting for the traditional roast for my father’s side of the family (one will feed the household, not the household and guests, certainly not for a feast day). Kiddo and I made Irish soda bread. I baked the cake with the recipe passed down from my grandmother – the family’s traditional birthday and other occasion cake, but one of the guests’ birthday is tomorrow, so we will have birthday cake. Tomato salad out of the garden. Roast mystery squash. (We think it’s buttercup squash. I have a recipe. That is one of Tomorrow Me’s problems.)
This morning I had a message from another one of my chosen brothers: he’s in the ER and not making it to the festival. And I am already in feed my people mode, a thing that only gets more intense when one of my people is having difficulty. I have since arranged to come out after we finish up the festival to make sure the feast makes it to his household; the shape of community, the importance of these ties, it matters.
Also at this stage a meaningful fraction of the guests are vegetarian and aren’t going to help us eat all this roast beef. ;)
Wishing you all a pleasant equinox. May your ka be fed.
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