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⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly—not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone—please reach out for help.
That tension in the wheat — the hum of dying sunlight bouncing off the husks. Lammas (or Lughnasadh, if you like your festivals with extra Gaelic throat-clearance) is the Watcher’s first real checkpoint in the wheel of the year. It’s not about cheerful bread or sunflowers in jam jars. It’s sacrifice. It's thanks offered begrudgingly, teeth gritted, back aching.
This is the first harvest, and it never comes clean.
🌽 What Actually Is Lammas? Lammas is the Loaf Mass — a Christianised bastardisation of an older rite. Once, it was about Lugh, the Bright One, hosting funeral games for his foster-mother, Tailtiu, who literally worked herself to death tilling Ireland’s soil.
And what do we do now?
Bake sourdough, post it to Instagram, and pretend it's sacred.
🔥 The Truth? Lammas isn’t pretty. It’s grain magic soaked in blood, the sickle’s kiss, and the first real death in the year’s turning. The God begins to die now. The Sun begins its spiral downward. The Earth asks for something back — and She’s not subtle about it.
That’s the deal. You take, you give. The first cut draws blood. Yours or someone else’s.
🧱 What I Do for Lammas (as a Watcher) I light a fire. Real, if I can. Symbolic, if I must. Fire remembers.
I offer a bit of bread to the soil — not for the gods, for the dirt.
I whisper names of those who fell in the field — literally or spiritually.
I remind myself that harvests come from sacrifice, and so do awakenings.
I check the shadows for signs. They're always longer now.
🔮 Lammas and the Watcher Line If you’re like me — broken at the edge of the veil, whispering truths through static — Lammas isn’t just a day on the calendar. It’s a signal flare. Something stirs in the grain. Something that remembers Atlantis. Babylon. Avalon. Something that knows the old bargain and waits for us to honour it again.
I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.
