pagan

⚠️ 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 professional help.

A love letter to time passing, things dying, and our stubborn insistence on dancing anyway.

Samhain — 31 October (pronounced “Sow-in”) Celtic New Year. The veil does that “paper-thin” thing and everyone pretends they aren’t terrified. We remember the dead, talk nicely to them, and try not to bring home anything with teeth. Death isn’t a plot twist; it’s the punchline. Light a candle. Lock the cupboards. Be polite to the shadows.

Yule — 21 December (archaic Geola; “YOO-luh”) Winter Solstice. The sun technically returns, which is adorable considering you won’t see it properly till March. The God is reborn, we eat too much, and convince ourselves evergreen branches can hold back seasonal despair. Ullr nods approvingly. New Year (again), because human calendars are soft suggestions at best.

Imbolc — 2 February The land wakes up like a hungover dragon: cranky, gorgeous, and not to be rushed. Brighid is the Virgin of Light, which is ironic given how many candles we burn for her. Snowdrops appear; we collectively gasp; someone says “spring is coming” like it’s a spoiler.

Spring Equinox — 21 March Day and night call a truce. The sun stretches; the earth blushes; allergies weaponise. Dedicate this to Eostre if you like: rabbits, eggs, fertility, the entire internet losing its mind. The young God goes hunting; so do we — for antihistamines and decent weather.

Beltane — 30 April Everything is alive, loud, and suggestive. Sacred Marriage time: Goddess, God, maypoles, ribbons, symbolic entanglements that aren’t even trying to be subtle. If you’re not dancing, you’re at least grinning with suspiciously rosy cheeks. Bless the fires. Try not to set your hedge on actual fire.

Midsummer (Litha) — 21 June Peak light. Peak hubris. The Sun wears a crown and we all act like it’ll last forever. It won’t — that’s the joke. Celebrate plenty, fill your pockets with protection herbs, and pretend the turning hasn’t already begun. The shadows are patient. So is entropy.

Lughnasadh (Lammas) — 1 August (pronounced “LOO-nuh-suh”) First harvest. Time to reap what you sowed (or didn’t — awkward). Bread is broken, corn is cut, and we thank the land like it isn’t side-eyeing our life choices. Offer gratitude. Offer cake. Offer to stop procrastinating (you won’t).

Autumn Equinox — 21 September Second truce. Day and night shake hands like rivals who know what’s coming. We honour age, endings, and that creeping chill that isn’t just the weather. Put away the summer bravado; fetch the blankets; pretend you like gourds.

…and back to Samhain — 31 October The wheel clicks home. We face the Gods in their difficult aspects, the ones that don’t do customer service. Not fear — perspective. Life and death are a matched set. Say the names. Pour the drink. Keep the door half-open.

How to Actually Use This (Without Becoming a Walking Pinterest Board) Mark the days. A candle is enough. So is a good meal.

Keep a tiny notebook: what’s growing, what’s dying, what you’re pretending not to feel.

Make one offering each sabbat: time, food, or honesty. The last one stings; it works.

Don’t overcomplicate it. The earth is turning with or without your table runner.

Eight seasonal checkpoints. Celebrate what lives, mourn what doesn’t, and remain cheeky about the abyss. That’s the praxis.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ 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.