Ærra Ġēola, Before Yule

Ærra Ġēola, literally translating as “before Yule,” this time marks the period leading up to Midwinter. In the dark and oft’ times trying months of winter, the winter solstice was marked by celebrations, merriment, and a good dash of misrule. Many pre-Christian traditions carried into the medieval and early modern period such as mumming, which involves masked and costumed individuals performing dances, plays, and songs (period image right).

The Crooked Path

The Crooked Path is a safe space to be unsafe. There are times when we walk the path in solitude. We can let our guard down and reflect in these moments. There are other times when we walk this path in community with our brothers. In their company, we may also learn to seek our true selves. We can let our guard down and be ourselves. The fraternal bower is self-supporting.

As we walk on, we come to a small clearing surrounded by a border of evergreen. For, the path traverses a discursive field. Our journey empowers us to tell our stories. Some of the most poignant moments of our coven gatherings are the minutes after cakes and wine when we sit and talk surrounded by spirit and the ancestors.
Memory is our birthright. Our history our own.

In days not so long before our own, epic journeys were depicted on tapestries. They were the cellphone cameras of their age. As we walk, we combine the threads of past and future into our own weaving. The warp is our past, memory, and ancient custom. The weft is potential. As it passes through the shed, the space between the warp threads, it combines with the many threads of memory and custom, transforms into the present moment, and instantly becomes memory.

As we progress in our work, we realize that we craft our own tales. History, custom, and memory are but materials, unwoven wool or undyed yarn. They are ours to craft our own unique tales. As ancient custom carries us to bed, it also gives us the agency to dream our own myths from its bones.

Fate may spin the warp threads, but from our history, we spin the weft and, through experience, can learn how to adjust the shed rods. Thus, we can change the set and alter the resulting pattern.

Bodies of water, such as streams, lakes, and ponds, have long been sacred places. Their surface is a boundary between our world and the otherworld. They are both a mirror reflecting us back to ourselves and an entrance to other realms. Going back to time before written memory, they are an entrance to the realms of the goddess. They are a doorway to the underworld ruled over by the goddess Hel.

The Lady of the Lake may be a vestigial echo of the time when swords and other prized objects were thrown into their depths as watery offerings. It may be that the ancestors found one of these sacrificial swords, bent and broken, and from this, the image of the spirit of the waters offering up a sword arose.

When we pause along the path and gaze upon the pond’s surface, we see both a reflection of ourselves and an opportunity. If we look beyond our mirror image, we can see a portal. Our offering is reciprocated with the gift of understanding.

As we progress along our journey, we will undoubtedly encounter jealousy. From an underlying insecurity, we may face judgment from the outside. This is a natural facet of our current conditions. Weeds may just as often have thorns as produce beautiful wildflowers. The pond’s edge, the meeting point of land and water, is guarded by razor-sharp sedge.

As we gain in our understanding and manifest a new empathy for others, we may feel that we carry a burden of responsibility. At times, the weight of it may feel immense. It may seem that we are asked to support not just our own but the responsibility of the many. This can all too quickly overwhelm. As we ascend a rise in the path, we may have a strong sense that we carry the weight of those who have gone before, our ancestors, and those who may be following behind in our footsteps.

A residual insecurity all too often underscores this sense of burden on the surface. The conditioning of our upbringing, our interactions with schoolyard bullies, religious intolerance, threats of brimstone, and damnation may make us question our footing.

In these moments, recall that we enter the path from a point of balance. We wouldn’t have found the starting point if this were not the case. The way only opens before us when the unfolding knows we are ready to begin.

We tend to cling to trauma. We instinctively fear the unknown, and all too often, we prefer the familiar, even if it is painful. The way ahead is guarded. We will meet the skeletal beast of our past. Confronting and releasing our past hurt, collective and personal, is the price of our passage.

We are the wandering fool. Our journey is not just about a leap of faith but is also one of letting go. We can not progress far carrying the summation of such weight. With each step, we leave our insecurity behind even as it attempts to nip at our heels. The fool traditionally signifies the wanderer, not because he is foolish but because he has let go of past conditioning. His eyes are open in childlike wonder at the as-yet-undefined opportunity before him. When he jumps off the cliff into the unknown, he lands on a rainbow bridge arcing over the clouds of others’ ignorance.

The otter guides us in this boundary space between land and watery depths. As we progress, others may see us as the cunning fox, the sly knight of the wood.

The path is not always straight; by definition, it is crooked. Along the way, we may experience what feels like inertia and boredom.

But our ecstasy lifts us. We dance in the sacred compass formed of elemental forces in the company of our brothers, ancestors, and spirits.

Adapted from Puck You! Walking the Crooked Path of Queer Resistance a work-in-progress.