Walking the Celtic Wheel of the Year

A Mandala on the table my Dad built from tongue and groove flooring. A scarred and beloved family heirloom.

A Mandala on the table my Dad built from tongue and groove flooring. A scarred and beloved family heirloom.

For the past few years, I’ve spent a lot of time traveling. Being a homebody at heart, all of the travel, while exciting, is also wearing. This year I have dedicated to learning from home and to doing ceremony at home.

One of the ceremonies I have dedicated myself to this year is working with the Celtic Wheel of the Year in a 3D form.

Walking out into my yard and using the compass, I began with Samhain in the Northwest and moving from tree to tree around the points of the compass and the festivals of the year, I sought the resonance that would tell me that, yes, this tree is the one volunteering to be part of this ceremony. This tree is vibrating with excitement to be of service in this way, to share this connection.

The Wheel, as it shows up on my land, is not exactly round. It flows and curves like the body of the Goddess, swooping in here, diving out there, but each of the trees is oriented in a certain direction, radiating out from the hub, which is the center of our home.

The type of tree representing each station on the wheel has nothing to do with the trees associated with the festival and everything to do with the trees that are rooted here, the trees that are the guardians and watchers on this land.

On the day of a given festival, I go out and sit with the tree, and listen for messages. I will do a Shamanic Journey while leaning into the trunk. This is one way of offering an energy exchange, a bit of myself, to this place. I honor the tree with tobacco, possibly in a prayer tie, or with corn meal or a stone before I depart.

This rooting meditation is powerful and prayerful. It helps me to feel as if I belong to this land, in spite of the onslaught of words to the contrary—from the natives from whom my ancestors or predecessors took the land; from my own family who brands me outlaw, black sheep, outlander; from the genetic lineage my DNA connects me to overseas and in a place that accuses anyone not native-born of appropriation should we make efforts to connect with, or goddess-forbid recreate, our genetic spiritual or mythical heritage.

Far removed from the capacity for judgment, the land accepts and nurtures me. The trees do not care who came before me. They do not care whose lineage I bring in my bones. The land and trees care not whose story comes singing on my breath, as the offering of love and beauty goes vibrating down the roots and into this earth that I am constantly claiming and reclaiming as my own.

This is the place that claims me and which infuses my spirit, the environment that helped me learn my own song…the song of eagle, otter, osprey and hawk. The song of hurricane in late summer and a sudden wet snow in winter. The song of tides slowly rolling and the winds rustling through the brown dried rushes of late fall…These are the points of connection, these are the places where the land speaks to me and I hear its voice.

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Burning Bowl Ceremony

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There is no ‘Us’