Beltane 2012

Beltane 2012 - a reading (on YouTube)

Beltane. May 1st. May Day.

When you say May Day, most American minds spring to the distress call. Some believe it evolved from the Haymarket Massacre in 1886 Chicago several days after what has become known as International Worker’s Day. Others believe that holiday arose in Communist Russia, though the Soviets only marked it, they did not create it.

In truth, the distress call (“mayday”) derives from the French “(venez) m'aider” (“come help me”) and came into use around 1927 as French desperately clung to its lifeline as the lingua franca of international commerce.

Neither is related to the older, Celtic holiday. May Day marks the end of barren winter in the northern climes of Europe. Mid-spring to some, the first day of summer to the Celts. A cross-quarter day of celebration not distress.

Normally, I would write about the green-root rather than the red-root or pan-pan meaning. Today is not a normal day. My mother is in the hospital, my father is dying, and their surrounding situations seem intent on putting the “fun” back into “dysfunctional.”

Currently, my life feels like a three-ringed circus with me cast as the clown trying to distract a runaway tiger so no one gets mauled. Or a flashback to December, 1942 (there I was in Chicago enjoying a nice game of racquetball at the university when suddenly...). Who knew that two six-month tours in the integration lab dealing with the narcissistically Cerberean egos of hardware engineers was really an Israeli-style commando simulation training me for my future?

So, for me, today is about escape. I don’t distract myself in any of the traditional Celtic ways. I don’t drink. I don’t dance. I don’t don antlers and chase maidens through the gorse and bracken by moonlight. When I have time, I read stories. More often, I sneak in a game.

Some people tell me games are a waste of time. I would ask what purpose is served by drinking? By dancing? By drama, or any other pastime? On the best of days, they make us feel good about our lives. On the worst, they anesthetize our pain.

My favorite games serve as simulations. They present problems with discrete though sometimes complex solutions rather than ones that remain intractable. Most games have preset starting points with definitive goals and objectives. They grant players a stronger measure of control than ordinary life. When we get stuck or find ourselves trapped in a dead end, we can backtrack step-by-step to where we went wrong, restart and try again. Sometimes we succeed. But runs of luck can never be discounted.

Games form one layer to the bedrock of my existence. My father had me playing chess before I turned ten. My mother taught me Spite and Malice. My grandmother cribbage. I discovered a passion for war-games and role-playing on my own. We never had a family game night. In fact, we never had much of a family night at all. Perhaps that plays a part in our ongoing angst.

In times of stress, games act as my reward. I seek them out at every opportunity. Game stores form the constellations that guide my travels, from Maryland to New England, Scotland to Seattle, the I-4 corridor to the dealers rooms at Dragon*Con, even as their individual stars wink out one by one. I can trace the stratigraphy of Sci-Fi City (nee Enterprise 1701) back through four locations. The Fantasy Factory through only three.

On our weary way home from one of several round trips to the right coast of Florida in March, we detoured through Orlando so I could pick up a war-game based on the Crusades that I had hesitated over in January. Reading new rules is a kind of meditation for me. Game tokens have become my talismans. I have more dice stashed in boxes and bags throughout the house than any sane man should. Perhaps that says something but each sight of them brings me just a tiny bit of joy.

In whatever brings you joy this Beltane, I hope your day comes up natural rather than snake eyes or midnight. As I wish you luck in yours, I hope Fortuna grants the same in mine. Regardless, the die is cast, the strategy laid out and opening moves will soon begin.


© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Beltane 2011

Beltane 2011 - a reading (on YouTube)

The White Witch has been deposed. The Green Witch has been resurrected.

At Samhain, the Frost Queen passed annual judgment against her twin and rival after usurping power at the autumnal court. The Green Witch was garroted and minced, her body cast like feed-corn across the dry and dusty fields. In the overwatching wood, oaks and maples bled in mourning. Beneath the oppressive blanket of her icy enemy, her seeds lay fallow all winter. Like a mother spider to her emerging brood, she prepares herself for the ultimate maternal sacrifice come spring, when in revenge of Medea's children, her hatchlings will devour her alive.

Each crystalline defection from the Ice Queen's occupation waters the seeds of the Green Lady's discontent, first by drips and drops then in a steady stream. The Snow Queen's alpine army melts away before the steadily advancing wall of green. At Imbolc, there was an uprising. At the equinox, a revolution. By Beltane, the ritual plunder of the White Witch's final strongholds had begun. As the last green jacked messenger arrives, the Sun Queen's court erupts into an orgy of colorful celebration.

Reborn in coldspring snowmelt, emerging from her donjon tower, the verdant maiden blushes pink and rose before the encircling soldiers of spring. Bees and wasps in black and yellow tabards, their lances sharp and shining, stand watch while common workers deflower her in turns. By Lughnasa, she will once again be heavy with child. In the wickerman at Samhain, she will be sentenced to her fate. Her ash and sackcloth remnants will be sown throughout the land. To once again lay dormant, awaiting Imbolc and the Equinox.

When the White Witch will be deposed, and the Green Witch resurrected.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Beltane 2010

Beltane 2010 - a reading (on YouTube)

As frost retreats from sunlight, winter trickles into spring. Snowmelt fills the northern passes as torrents of wildflowers flow down the mountainsides like honey drizzled into tea.

The sweet scent of whitethorn battles with the juniper heaped upon the need-fires whose smoke weaves a web of protection against the Otherworld as we approach the Eve of May. Bonfires besiege the forest where the dark horned king calls his spirits out. He seeks the pattern in the burlwood, the grain in wisps of smoke. He performs divinations in a mat of pine needles, interpreting how one lays atop another, enchanting sacred pools and casting for a reflection of his fate come fall.

Shrouded in brightness and morning fog, an ivory maiden becomes the huntress in white doeskins as she stalks the trees in search of a sacred hart. Last night, her lover was stolen by the Wild Hunt, transformed into the stag she seeks to pierce with a faerie arrow loosed from her tiny, elfin bow. Pursuit by Wodan's wolf pack has left him weary and marks him easy prey.

With the stinging note from the pluck of one high harp string, they are forever intertwined, the huntress and the forest king, ancient avatars of the Great Mother and the Antlered God who shield their unruly brood as they hold the moon at bay. With a little luck, their lesser children might glimpse the stars this night and know from whence they came.


© 2010 Edward P. Morgan III

Beltane 2009

Beltane 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

In darkness there is memory. In shadows, a witness to our reflections. At moonrise the shadows coalesce into the shapes of trees disguised as men, hungry and threatening, their sylvan fingers scratching at the window. In the forest, gathered green men turn their faces eastward to catch a glimpse of the sun king reborn.

The wind whispers colors across the morning sky, telling tales of all the places it has been. A golden fanfare of allamanda echoes off a slate gray ceiling. The sun peers through a fine leaden veil as the wind traces the shadows of her face with a delicate lover's touch. When the veil parts and the morning brightens, new leaves perch upon the branches like hundreds of yellow-green butterflies drying their wings, poised to take flight. Near the moss cloaked statuary, fallen flames of honeysuckle litter the grass like discarded votives at an unnamed shrine.

The morning air has the cool edge of a little used knife scraping slowly against a pale blue stone as the seasons prepare for battle. Summer and winter have once again entered the lists to settle their annual dispute, this time to the death. Two men, one armored in multicolored ribbons with a willow wand, the other armed with only a shield and blackthorn switch. Like ancient rivals at a watering hole, each circles in silence, cautiously waiting for the other to respond. Between the need-fires their melee erupts, and none too swiftly ends. The green man claims the victor's cup, quenching his thirst with honey mead, sweet water from a holy well. The straw man has been scattered, at least for a time. From winter's corpse we sow the embryonic seeds from which the barley king will rise so we may sacrifice him later in the year.

In the west, the sun peers shyly around a pale purple curtain, her face half concealed. She retreats demurely, divergent rays shining outward from radiant eyes behind a gold-lined mask. As we bow to the antlered king, she sets the sky afire in his name, burning a rainbow of amber to apricot, lavender to ash. The last a reminder that deep within the thicket, a wicker man is born, stalking among the roses, and all too soon will be coming home.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Beltane 2008

A spot of light in one corner of the window oozes across the bone white curtains, staining them the color of liquid honey. Amber slowly pales to sunshine yellow then to white before it fades into dappled gray as it hides behind the bright green veil of spring.

Sunset bracketed by folded wings with filigrees of light, traceries of cloud, like Icarus descending in fire behind a copse of trees, burning against their matchstick shadows, observed only because it's partially obscured.

Herons and egrets lazily chase sunrise then sunset in silhouette. Do they notice the beauty beyond their destination on these daily migrations? Or do they, like us, transit the sky blindly, thinking only of work and home, past and future, never truly living in the present?

Beltane, the pastoral transition from spring leas to summer grazing. Tonight, we light the purifying bonfires in a ritual celebrating our survival through the spring. The flames flicker across still pools of night, encouraging the rebirth of our dead. As numerous as fireflies on a summer's eve, their souls are like tiny echoes of the distant fires reflected in the water, waiting only for us to light the candles that eventually will guide them home.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III