John Barleycorn is dead! That’s the call at Lammas, the
European pagan festival of first harvest celebrated at the beginning of August
each year. The grain, personified as the God of Harvest, is cut down with
scythes, a sacrifice that provides food and therefore life for the people for
the coming year. The god dies that we may live.
Many pagan groups make grain dollies and decorate their
Lammas ritual areas with sheaves of wheat. But how many of you are really
familiar with the sight of grain growing in the fields near your homes? How
many of you have actually wielded a scythe or even know someone who has? All
right, I’ll admit that I have, but I’m a living history demonstrator, so that
sets me well outside the norm for the modern world.
If a grain harvest isn’t a regular part of your late
summer life, how strongly does the image of the Harvest King resonate with you?
Sure, you understand the concept of harvest and you know that certain crops
become available at certain times of the year. But in modern life, with 24-hour
supermarkets and food trucked, shipped or flown in from around the globe, what
does harvest time really mean any more?
I live in Georgia, in the southeastern United States, and
I can tell you what harvest time here means to me: watermelon. Huge stacks of
them at roadside stands and farmer’s markets, and yes, even at the chain
grocery stores. While it’s possible to get watermelon out of season, shipped in
from southern Florida or California, in-season watermelon is a delight without
compare. Its juicy red meat has a flavor and a perfume that simply speaks of
hot days in late summer, of air so thick with humidity that stepping outside
feels like walking into a wet blanket, of cicadas buzzing and clouds drifting
slowly by. It is the taste of bounty, of Nature providing for us. To me, that’s
what harvest is all about.
So this year, as we have done in the past, my friends and
I will not call to John Barleycorn at Lammas. Instead, we will invoke the
Watermelon King. We will not stride out into the grain fields with scythes in
hand. Instead, we will crown the Watermelon King and sacrifice him with a sharp
knife, cutting into his flesh and watching the red liquid drip, knowing that
for us to live, something must die. This is the way of things.
As the wheel turns toward harvest time in the northern
hemisphere, I encourage you to look to your local environment. What speaks to
you, from the gardens and the fields, telling you that the bounty of harvest is
nigh? What taste, what scent, what food has meaning for you? Focus on this, for
it is the embodiment of the Harvest King, who dies that you may live.
I live in a farming community, so the wheat harvest is still important locally - though there doesn't seem to be any type of local 'harvest festival' around here, other than the County Fair - which I've maintained for years is the direct survival of such.
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