Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Island of Summer
Well, the Tree's up.
(“The Tree,” we say, no further modifiers needed: that certainly tells you something.)
It's an island of light in a sea of darkness, of color in a sea of white. Bedecked with fruits and vegetables—a lifetime's gathering—it's an island of fertility in a sea of fallow.
Behold, a migratory flock of Suns has settled among its branches. Every ornament's a prayer.
Oh, it's always too much work, the Tree. Every year I curse at the lights as I painstakingly wind them, spiral-wise, around the branches. Every year, I tell myself: You don't have to do this. Every year I remind myself: It will still be Yule without it.
Every year, I find myself doing it nonetheless. Every year, I'm glad of it.
The Tree is a sacrifice. Sacrifice bears prayer.
What price, beauty?
What price, mystery?
What price, an island of Summer in a vast, white sea of snow?
Photo: Wren Swart
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