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badseed1980And so we come to Thursday morning. After breakfast, we had the first of three community discussions. At the ringing of the bell, we all met in the stone circle to discuss the meaning of "family", and what its significance was in the context of Four Quarters. We talked about biological family and about the family of the heart. Again, I was amazed at the children there, and at the health and happiness of the families present. Teenaged kids hugged their parents without shame, even if they were a little shy of speaking up. Young children toddled around, staring at everything. The word "dysfunctional" seemed to be something from another language, without a translation in the language of this place.
The thought of family as those close to me was what I pondered at this time. I was growing closer by the hour to the friend who had come with me, in many ways. I had prepared my "family" giveaway bundle for Morgan...I'd spent hours with pen and ink, calligraphing his favorite poem. I thought that it's always hardest to give someone a gift when their presence in your life seems like a gift they've given to you.
After the discussion group, I was at a loss for something to do while Morgan chopped wood for that night's Bardic Circle. Fortunately, there was a workshop being held on the labyrinth project and the meaning of the labyrinth in history. I meandered down to the fire circle where it was taking place, and listened with interest to the talks. The idea of this semi-spiralling, repetitive, misleading, yet certain pattern stuck with me, and I was eager to sign up to help prepare the labyrinth for the next night's ritual.
I headed up to the Labyrinth Hill about an hour after the workshop, making a quick dash to camp first to pick a towel and some water. The sun was blazing that day, and there was little breeze. The hilltop was covered in long, scratchy grass that was the playground of hundreds of grasshoppers. I was soon given the job of pushing a long iron bar through this thick grass and into the tough ground, making holes for the dozens of tiki torches that would mark the labyrinth's perimeter and the avenue that approached it. It was hot work. I soon decided that sunburn be damned, I wasn't going to keep my shirt on anymore. I tossed it aside, and reveled in the freedom that men get to enjoy in the summer. So, with sweat rolling down me and the sun slowly browning my skin, I dug the holes and planted torches to light our way the next night.
Finally, it started to become a little too much for me. I wasn't faint, but it was in the post. I gulped water and replaced my shirt, said goodbye to my fellow workers, and headed to the swimming hole.
I had been looking forward to skinny-dipping for a long time, and this was my first opportunity. The embrace of the cool water around my naked body was the most wonderfully refreshing thing I had ever experienced. I felt weightless, in a womb of water. Other people cavorted around me, nearly all of them as naked as I was. It was idyllic. Morgan joined me later on, and as much as I wished we had the place to ourselves, it was still wonderful. I floated on my back, eyes closed, with his hands supporting me from beneath. Few things are that relaxing.
That night after dinner, the relaxation turned to revelry. Archedream, a dance/theater/performance art troupe with Pagan themes, put on a show for us. In the darkened stone circle, lit by two blacklights, huge dreamlike and nightmarish figures cavorted on stage. They wore costumes that were vaguely Asian or African, with day-glo colours that shone out in the dark like deep-sea jellyfish. They whirled and leapt and loomed on stilts, presenting to us the story of a shaman learning the magic of the Chinese elements: fire, water, air, wood, and metal. It was unearthly and delightful.
After the performance, Morgan and I headed to bardic circle. A few people joined us. A fire burned in the center, as we sang and listened to songs, old Irish songs, sea chanties, even Tom Waits. The inimitable Fox told us a story (though that seems a mundane phrase for his revelatory magic) about a magus. Morgan told us of Cu Chulainn, and how he got his name. Our voices rose with the smoke from the fire, and at the end if the night, both sank to a whisper.
The thought of family as those close to me was what I pondered at this time. I was growing closer by the hour to the friend who had come with me, in many ways. I had prepared my "family" giveaway bundle for Morgan...I'd spent hours with pen and ink, calligraphing his favorite poem. I thought that it's always hardest to give someone a gift when their presence in your life seems like a gift they've given to you.
After the discussion group, I was at a loss for something to do while Morgan chopped wood for that night's Bardic Circle. Fortunately, there was a workshop being held on the labyrinth project and the meaning of the labyrinth in history. I meandered down to the fire circle where it was taking place, and listened with interest to the talks. The idea of this semi-spiralling, repetitive, misleading, yet certain pattern stuck with me, and I was eager to sign up to help prepare the labyrinth for the next night's ritual.
I headed up to the Labyrinth Hill about an hour after the workshop, making a quick dash to camp first to pick a towel and some water. The sun was blazing that day, and there was little breeze. The hilltop was covered in long, scratchy grass that was the playground of hundreds of grasshoppers. I was soon given the job of pushing a long iron bar through this thick grass and into the tough ground, making holes for the dozens of tiki torches that would mark the labyrinth's perimeter and the avenue that approached it. It was hot work. I soon decided that sunburn be damned, I wasn't going to keep my shirt on anymore. I tossed it aside, and reveled in the freedom that men get to enjoy in the summer. So, with sweat rolling down me and the sun slowly browning my skin, I dug the holes and planted torches to light our way the next night.
Finally, it started to become a little too much for me. I wasn't faint, but it was in the post. I gulped water and replaced my shirt, said goodbye to my fellow workers, and headed to the swimming hole.
I had been looking forward to skinny-dipping for a long time, and this was my first opportunity. The embrace of the cool water around my naked body was the most wonderfully refreshing thing I had ever experienced. I felt weightless, in a womb of water. Other people cavorted around me, nearly all of them as naked as I was. It was idyllic. Morgan joined me later on, and as much as I wished we had the place to ourselves, it was still wonderful. I floated on my back, eyes closed, with his hands supporting me from beneath. Few things are that relaxing.
That night after dinner, the relaxation turned to revelry. Archedream, a dance/theater/performance art troupe with Pagan themes, put on a show for us. In the darkened stone circle, lit by two blacklights, huge dreamlike and nightmarish figures cavorted on stage. They wore costumes that were vaguely Asian or African, with day-glo colours that shone out in the dark like deep-sea jellyfish. They whirled and leapt and loomed on stilts, presenting to us the story of a shaman learning the magic of the Chinese elements: fire, water, air, wood, and metal. It was unearthly and delightful.
After the performance, Morgan and I headed to bardic circle. A few people joined us. A fire burned in the center, as we sang and listened to songs, old Irish songs, sea chanties, even Tom Waits. The inimitable Fox told us a story (though that seems a mundane phrase for his revelatory magic) about a magus. Morgan told us of Cu Chulainn, and how he got his name. Our voices rose with the smoke from the fire, and at the end if the night, both sank to a whisper.
