Wheel of the Year: May Day

If the year is divided in halves, May Day, or Beltane, marks the true beginning of the warm half for those of us in Appalachia. Dogwood winter, the harshest of the little winters, has ended, and the breeze on the evening air is warm and sweet. Flowers bloom everywhere. Bees and butterflies flutter and buzz. And hopeful young women wash their faces in the dew of the morning of May Day. Technically the season of Beltane runs from the late days of April through the early days of May with the evening of April 30th and then May 1st being the main event. On May Day young people dance around the maypole, wear a garland of flowers in their hair, and in some times and some places consummated their marriage to be—or maybe just engaged in some heavy petting—by the light of the season’s first bonfires.

Speaking of bonfires, once upon a time I knew a guy, “Alec,” who was born on April 30th, which is known as Walpurgisnacht. Night of the Witches Alec would say with a sly grin and bounce on his toes, waggling his eyebrows at me. I was desperately in love with him and was nearly consumed by the fires of May Day for him. I yearned and burned and tried very hard to have a child with him. 

But at the time I had an actual boyfriend, To., who happened to live all the way across the ocean in Germany. He chuckled when I asked him about Walpurgisnacht. You won’t be surprised that the holiday is not actually a big deal amongst young, cosmopolitan Germans. The fires of my Beltane burned for To. as well, but they were no match for the ocean between us. 

The May Day season of my life has passed; and all its drama—for there were far more characters than Alec and To. in those days! As many as the petals of a dandelion. Oh how I did burn. The Beltane fires still flare on a regular basis, but I’m in no danger of being consumed. Somehow, by the magic of the seasons of life, I’ve learned to refocus that burning energy to things more productive—my work and writing life, managing the care and feeding of my children and the doggos. It’s nice to be grounded, to burn with the steady flame of a sturdy candle rather than a roaring bonfire.

Yet, you might find me out in the early morning, a crown of flowers in my hair, washing my face in the Beltane dew.

I was actually laughing here because I felt ridiculous. But I kind of like how it turned out. (A woman, eyes closed, lying on the ground with flowers.)

Wheel of the Year: Vernal Equinox

Signs of spring

No holiday is more personally meaningful to me than the spring equinox and the Easter season that follows—probably for vanity’s sake because I was born in April and my middle name, Renee, means rebirth. But who doesn’t love the longer days, the promise of summer in the sun’s growing warmth, and the world pulsing with fertility.

There is plenty of easily accessible information on the history and origins of contemporary Easter celebrations in the U.S., and I won’t go in to that much here. But the story of a maiden goddess returning from the underworld is a common trope. In the mountains, I imagine her footsteps leaving behind a trail of daffodil and crocus blooms. And fragrant wild onions as well!

Recently one morning when I walked outside to check the mail a movement caught my eye—a rabbit. Most likely, an Appalachian cottontail, with brown mottled fur and a cute fluffy tail. She stopped under the cover of a pine tree and stood motionless with her head turned in my direction. Under her spell, I stopped too and stood looking at her. I thanked her for visiting my yard and hoped she enjoyed the blueberry offering I’d left out the night before.

One of my early ancestors, William Richard McCann*, a resident of North Carolina, supposedly believed in the fae folk and practiced the custom of leaving out a bowl of milk or whatnot to appease the fairies inhabiting the land around him. Leaving such offerings of milk, honey, bread, or whiskey put a family in good relation to mischievous land spirits. I often think about my ancestor’s offering. Every time I have a spot of good fortune I wonder if it is the inheritance gifted to me by kin hundreds of years ago. In honor of my heritage I too leave out treats for the magical creatures that inhabit the mountains around me—whether it is bird food for the downy woodpeckers and chubby nuthatches or blueberries for the deer and cottontails.

On this vernal equinox, when all is balanced for a moment, in harmony, in that space just before the northern hemisphere explodes with life, magic, and wonder—all our winter longing made manifest—I give thanks for another spring, for another rebirth, for each breath my lungs hold.

*I have a reference for this; I found it mentioned in a McCann genealogy book. When I locate the photocopied pages lost somewhere in my files, I will give a proper reference.

Purple Crocus