Lughnasadh or Lammas (Luh guh' nahs eye or Loo nas saw)
- Traditional date: August 1
- Actual astrological date: August 7 in 2019
- Midpoint between Summer Solstice and the Autumn Equinox
- Fourth Gaelic Fire Festival (female)
- Celtic Lughnasadh means "Lugh's assembly", the god Lugh celebrated a funeral feast for his foster-mother, Tailtiu
- Modern Gaelic Lughnasadh means "August"
- First harvest festival
- Celebrates the beginning of harvest season, the decline of summer to winter
- Time of dismiss regrets, farewells, perparation for winter
- Ceremonies involve breads, grains and harvest corn dolls
- Colours: Oranges, greens, browns
What we like to do:Today we're wearing a green henley shirt; we've baked a loaf of bread that we'll share with the family; and, tonight we'll be sure to light candles at our evening meal. Even the monarch caterpillar / butterflies share the colors with their green chrysalis becoming a predominantly orange butterfly. It was about this time of the month that the monarch emerged last year. We'll share more of those pictures again one day very soon.
- We bring out the first of the fall decorations, make bread that is shared with our family and friends,
- candles are lit on each night with a prayer for thanks for the first harvest.
In August is a monarch chrysalis green in honor of Lughnasadh?
Photo by J. Harrington
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A nearby farmer finished harvesting several fields of small grain, we're not sure which kind, a couple of weeks ago and just last week cut and baled the straw. We find it reassuring that August can share overlapping activities on both sides of "the pond," although we're still working on how it is that Summer Solstice is referred to as "midsummer" rather than the beginning. We think it may have to do with splitting the year in half rather than in quarters, but haven't become comfortable with that rationale just yet.
Tonight is the First Quarter moon, with the Sturgeon Moon falling a week from tomorrow. It seems an august time of year worth celebrating, or not?
August Morning
It’s ripe, the melonby our sink. Yellow,bee-bitten, soft, it perfumesthe house too sweetly.At five I wake, the airmournful in its quiet.My wife’s eyes swim calmlyunder their lids, her mouth and jawrelaxed, different.What is happening in the silenceof this house? Curtainshang heavily from their rods.Ficus leaves trembleat my footsteps. Yetthe colors outside are perfect--orange geranium, blue lobelia.I wander from room to roomlike a man in a museum:wife, children, books, flowers,melon. Such still air. Soonthe mid-morning breeze will float inlike tepid water, then hot.How do I start this day,I who am unsureof how my life has happenedor how to proceedamid this warm and steady sweetness?
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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.
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