May and Midsummer

"Lady Smocks all silver-white / Do paint the meadows with delight" (Shakespeare)

A Pagan Movement Archive item from Tony Kelly:

Maytime is a time of brightening days, of flowers and insects and new green leaves. All life seems to be bursting out anew, birdsong is exuberant and we're abundantly aware of the fertility of it all. It's a feeling of joy in your soul which won't be gainsaid.

Yet, it can also be approached in a quantitative scientific way. Some years ago, when we were touring the whole land here every week and noting each new species of flower to appear, we were able, at the end of the year, to construct a graph showing week by week the number of new species of flower appearing for the first time that year. The graph was down at zero in Yule and for a month or two thereafter; the first flowers began to appear in their ones and twos, and gradually the pace increased. As the weeks went by, each new week brought a greater abundance of new species into bloom to add to those already in flower. After a time, these increments began to become smaller again. They still added to the flowers already in bloom, making them even more abundant, but the actual increases began to get smaller. When we drew the curve, the peak was in Midsummer, but the steepest slope was in Mid-May; it was in Mid-May that the Goddess was unfolding all her finery the fastest. And May in the modern Gregorian calendar is very close indeed to Mayday in the old Julian reckoning.

We did the same thing for the appearance of each new species of moth at our windows, and again we got a curve of the same kind, and again the steepest slope was in Mid-May (and we used a book to confirm the picture for the beetles). May is the month of acceleration as Midsummer is the season of abundance. In May the flowers, the moths and butterflies and the other insects and the green leaves are arriving fastest; in Midsummer they're most abundant.

The Magic of Midsummer

A posting from a previous Midsummer. This year is likely to be wet in the UK. Though the day no less long and magical.

*****

As the days lengthen to the heat of Midsummer and fields fill with flowers so the green of the pasture meadows has given way to a glittering of yellow buttercups.  Both these and spearworts have made the grass a green background to their bright display.  I stand on a heath above the yellow fields and see the Sun shine on a far bay and the sea appears as a jewel in the cup of the green hills and the grey town.  The boggy ground up here has a dry crust on it now, but there's bog cotton on it nonetheless, with its fluffy cotton-wool head, and marsh pennywort leaves lie dark green on the dried mat of sphagnum moss.  Out of the bog proper, in the wet meadow, there's lousewort with its purple flowers lying close to the ground seeking shelter from the Sun.  On the hedgebank among the heather and the gorse I find milkwort too, a strange flower this with an inner tube and outer petals all forming a single flower.  The outer petals stick out as the flower opens, like wings from the base of the tiny inner tube.  All this is difficult to make out as the plant is only a few inches high.  The colour varies too.  These are all pale blue, but further down the bank are some with dark blue outer petals (sepals?) and a white inner part.  The outer part will later take the appearance of sepals proper when they turn green as the fruit ripens.  The herbalists used to prescribe this plant for nursing mothers to increase their milk supply.  In Ireland it is known as fairy soap, the idea being that fairies made a lather from the roots.

   After an absorbing hour or so on the hedge bank I cross the fields to the wood which I came to see.  There are stretches of this wood running here and there from the heath down to the sand dunes by the sea.  They are the remains of an ancient forest long since cleared for farmland.  The trees which are left - mostly oaks - are old, and there are other things which are old here too.  You can feel it in the cool shade of the canopy: a green magic that only a great age seems to bring.  I walk the woodland path admiring the ferns, noting in particular the way the male ferns stand up in circular rosettes from the woodland floor.  Then I see something unfamiliar.  A fern to be sure, but what is it?  I stop.  Admire the perfect form of it.  The soft green and unfamiliar shape - a bit like a polypody, a bit like a male fern -  hold me there spellbound for a while.  Then I must decide.  It is either a beech fern or an oak fern, and only later after consulting my book can I finally conclude that it is the former.  But still I must go back to make sure.  Further on I come to a place were the fields fall down to the sea on one side and the trees clothe the sides of a deep gorge on the other.  By the field's edge there is cow wheat growing; just inside the wood there's creeping jenny, a flower whose deep yellow petals have always held a fascination for me.  This is not the yellow glitter of the buttercup fields, or the bright happy yellow of ragwort, or even the golden richness of a dandelion, but a dark mysterious yellow that somehow holds the secrets of a woodland summer in its five pointed petals.  Such secrets now are whispered all around me.  I'm standing by the tree that I came to see.  An old, lichened wild service tree growing on the very edge of the steep slope of the gorge.  But there are suckers growing on the flatter ground of the field from beneath the bracken which forms a barrier between the grass and the trees.  This old wild service tree, with its fragile offspring, may be the only one in the country.  They are usually only found in very old woodland.  In coming to see it I have seen so much more and the afternoon has passed to evening.  The Sun now is slanting low over the green hills to the sea beyond.  All is still after the long day.  Fields as rich as butter darken their shades of green as the yellow light deepens to the cool of night.  Already the Moon pales to whiteness in the clear sky.  Soon the night is all blue and silver.

Fair Earth, so glad I am to love you like this.  So glad I am to love you.

Midsummer Flower Lore

A Pagan Movement Ethos Group post from June 1982:

Milkwort (Polygala vulgaris)

As the days lengthen to the heat of Midsummer and fields fill with flowers so the green of the pasture meadows has given way to a glittering of yellow buttercups. Both these and spearworts have made the grass a green background to their bright display. I stand on a heath above the yellow fields and see the Sun shine on a far bay and the sea appears as a jewel in the cup of the green hills and the grey town. The boggy ground up here has a dry crust on it now, but there's bog cotton on it nonetheless, with its fluffy cotton-wool head, and marsh pennywort leaves lie dark green on the dried mat of sphagnum moss. Out of the bog proper, in the wet meadow, there's lousewort with its purple flowers lying close to the ground seeking shelter from the Sun. On the hedgebank among the heather and the gorse I find milkwort too, a strange flower this with an inner tube and outer petals all forming a single flower. The outer petals stick out as the flower opens, like wings from the base of the tiny inner tube. All this is difficult to make out as the plant is only a few inches high. The colour varies too. These are all pale blue, but further down the bank are some with dark blue outer petals (sepals?) and a white inner part. The outer part will later take the appearance of sepals proper when they turn green as the fruit ripens. The herbalists used to prescribe this plant for nursing mothers to increase their milk supply. In Ireland it is known as fairy soap, the idea being that fairies made a lather from the roots.

After an absorbing hour or so on the hedge bank I cross the fields to the wood which I came to see. There are stretches of this wood running here and there from the heath down to the sand dunes by the sea. They are the remains of an ancient forest long since cleared for farmland. The trees which are left - mostly oaks - are old, and there are other things which are old here too. You can feel it in the cool shade of the canopy: a green magic that only a great age seems to bring. I walk the woodland path admiring the ferns, noting in particular the way the male ferns stand up in circular rosettes from the woodland floor. Then I see something unfamiliar. A fern to be sure, but what is it? I stop. Admire the perfect form of it. The soft green and unfamiliar shape - a bit like a polypody, a bit like a male fern - hold me there spellbound for a while. Then I must decide. It is either a beech fern or an oak fern, and only later after consulting my book can I finally conclude that it is the former. But still I must go back to make sure. Further on I come to a place were the fields fall down to the sea on one side and the trees clothe the sides of a deep gorge on the other. By the field's edge there is cow wheat growing; just inside the wood there's creeping jenny, a flower whose deep yellow petals have always held a fascination for me. This is not the yellow glitter of the buttercup fields, or the bright happy yellow of ragwort, or even the golden richness of a dandelion, but a dark mysterious yellow that somehow holds the secrets of a woodland summer in its five pointed petals. Such secrets now are whispered all around me. I'm standing by the tree that I came to see. An old, lichened wild service tree growing on the very edge of the steep slope of the gorge. But there are suckers growing on the flatter ground of the field from beneath the bracken which forms a barrier between the grass and the trees. This old wild service tree, with its fragile offspring, may be the only one in the county. They are usually only found in very old woodland. In coming to see it I have seen so much more and the afternoon has passed to evening. The Sun now is slanting low over the green hills to the sea beyond. All is still after the long day. Fields as rich as butter darken their shades of green as the yellow light deepens to the cool of night. Already the Moon pales to whiteness in the clear sky. Soon the night is all blue and silver. Fair Earth, so glad I am to love you like this. So glad I am to love you.

Creeping Jenny (Lysimachia nummularia)

Faery

From the Pagan Movement Archive

For as long as I can remember, and before ever I knew its meaning, the word 'pagan' has evoked feelings of longing, beauty, and half-memories in my soul, and before I knew where to find expression of my pagan longing or even the form of it, my heart ached for its strange elusive fascination - as formless as the scents of Midsummer, but as bewitching and alluring, and drawing always on and deeper.  The same is true of the word witch', a woman who brews in her cauldron such a brew as I later discovered was prepared for Afagddu, in her hope, her love and her sorrow, by Ceridwen, but it was the image that called to my soul because I knew, though not with my mind, that the image was only a little distorted, and the real was deep, dark, and old.  I came, by chance, to a reference to Pan and the Moon Goddess, and again there was that strange call, and I needed no more than those mere words to revive something in me and remind me of things I had known of the moon kith.  But it was always just over the hill, where the Sun was setting, or lost in the scents of the grass and clover, or strangely joined to the male fern that grew in our garden (and I didn't know then the fern lore of Faerie).  Now it doesn't need emphasis to say that a person in whose soul these things begin to stir again is going to feel lonely, as a Celt among Saxons, or as a fern in the dry lands of the east.  So perhaps I should admit, for it may be true, that I don't write for the earnest 'enquirer', but rather because of the pain and longing in my soul, in the hope that others of us would hear and together we would find the Moon Maiden.  It isn't the enquirer, however earnest, that I want to attract, but rather, the pagan who already knows the call of Faerie but needs help and companionship in tracing it to its source.