I promise that the work I am doing is indeed part of the effort to right the ship of state. But as is often the case, as a writer I feel it is not enough, not valued, not important. And then I read Alexander Chee’s new book, How to Write an Autobiographical Novel, and to say I take heart doesn’t cover my feeling of deep gratitude and recognition.
There is some murmuring online about the difference between the names Lunasa, or Lughnasadh, and Lammas, both names for this time of the year. The first is an old Celtic cross-quarter day, named for Lugh and celebrated by the practicing and showing off of skills. The second is English in origin, in Anglo-Saxon chronicles called Hlaefmass, or Loafmass, and was a celebration of the first harvest of the grain. Loaves of bread were brought to the church altars and blessed as the sacred food they were.
Now at summer solstice, the feel of the desert heat comes easily to me as I face south for my morning devotion to fire, just as I envision the mountain when I face north for earth. These past weeks I’ve had reason to go to the mountain, the sea and the desert. I always knew I loved the first two, and moved north to have them both. It has been fourteen years since I discovered, much to my surprise, that the extremity of the desert also answered something in me. I had never thought I would love it so.
I basked in the mountain’s presence, its ever-changing face in the various lights of day, its felt immensity in the darkest night. During my much-needed rest that first day, I had a revelation about a writing problem, and wondered if just getting far away from home for a while opened that particular door of perception, or if the mountain was whispering to me. Probably a little bit of both.