We gather on the shortest day of the year to beg it not to forsake us.
This year, we gather at S’quatch’s house. I can’t think of better stewards to the druidic rituals than the gentle giant of the forest and his brood. After all, they were married in a forest, he clad in buckskin skivvies and she naked I believe, with maybe some flowers coyly placed. Their children were born under the glow of bonfires and an anxious tribe.
Also, with their long legs they stand effortlessly across cultures, unaware of the inconsistencies that do not allow this to be mixed with that. Sun? Son? What’s in a name say the Yeti? The important thing is that something gets worshipped or revered and that it is groovy.
It is also a time to honor fertility and bounty. No doubt, honoring our host, we will wish for fertile soil in which to sow yarns of conquests unattempted, perceptions bent through his secret prism, and an abundance of mayhem, chaos, and deals gone awry. It is his way. He can walk no other path.
Whatever we do, it couldn’t come at a better time. Road trips and grey skies have sapped me.
I’m always in need of some strong medicine this time of year.
I think I’ll find it in the oyster stew. (Which also puts lead in your pencil.)
Have a meaningful this or that,