Good ’morrow… and come a little closer.
Do you feel it?
The air is softer tonight, but not quiet. It hums. It waits. The last light of day slips low and lingers, as if even the sun is reluctant to leave what comes next. Somewhere, just beyond the reach of sight, the first fire is being lit.
Welcome… for tonight is Beltane.
You may know it by gentler names. May Day. A ribboned pole turning slow in a village green. Flowers left on a doorstep before dawn. A sweetness in the air you can never quite explain, only feel, like a memory that brushes past and is gone before you can turn your head.
But step just a little deeper…
Before there were calendars, before there were tidy holidays and printed cards, there were hills crowned with flame. Great fires, roaring against the dark. People gathering in the night, not as spectators, but as something older, something wilder.
They did not mark the coming of summer.
They welcomed it.
They stood at the edge of the long cold and watched it lose.
Not symbolically. Not poetically. Truly.
The Maypole your grandmother might remember… it spins still with that same ancient rhythm, though its meaning has softened with time.
Those flowers at the doorway… once they were not decoration, but invitation. Protection. Promise.
A quiet whisper to whatever walks unseen: this home is alive. This life is blessed.
And that feeling… that subtle quickening in your chest when May arrives. The sense that something in you has woken up without asking permission. That the world is brighter, sharper, almost electric at the edges…
That is no accident.
That is memory.
Not the kind you can name. Not the kind you can place. But the kind that lives in bone and breath. The kind that stirs when the veil thins and the old rhythms return, if only for a moment.
Look closely now…
The mist gathers. It curls at the edges of things, softening the world just enough that what was hidden might pass unseen.
You catch it in glimpses. A flicker between trees. The echo of laughter that is not quite yours. The warmth of a fire you cannot see, but somehow feel.
And then…
It slips.
Gone again. Just beyond reach.
We are older than we remember. Wilder than we allow. And on nights like this, something in us leans toward the flame, toward the music, toward the dance we somehow already know.
Only for a moment.
And then the mist closes.
Happy Beltane… Go outside tonight… if only for a breath. The world is showing off for you.
And if you feel it… even just for a second…
Don’t question it.
Just step into it.
Blessed be.
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