In a year where cruel irony seems to be a constant theme, and the emphasis seems to be increasingly on the cruel part, the cycle of pagan holidays feels less like a wheel and more like one of those tilt-a-whirl carnival rides. The ones where you used to make sure you went on them *before* you had the funnel cake. Unless, of course, you wanted to ask your best friend to hold your hair back while you emptied your stomach with much greater speed than which you’d filled it.
And here we are at Mabon, the midway point between the height of summer and the depth of winter, the fall equinox. Among the things we traditionally celebrate at Mabon is that balance that comes with the equinox. Yes, it’s one of the egg holidays — when you should be able to balance an egg on its base and make it stand upright. The equinox is about balance, or so the conventional wisdom goes.
How the fuck do you do that when the world is literally burning up on one coast and being swamped by storms on another, and still fighting battles against racism and fascism? Oh, and there’s this little matter of a pandemic that is still not controlled that has taken more than 200,000 American lives. And don’t even get me started on RBG dying and the election. Balance? Are you fucking kidding me?
I promise it’s not hopeless. I know it feels that way right about now, but I promise it’s not.
