|Fire Pit "Of Yore."|
Today I was remembering my life in Massachusetts, probably because I have always missed the community & friends there. It is an awkward idea to have a festival alone & Bealtaine is particularly awkward. Solo Maypole? I think not.
Anyway, these thoughts reminded me of the old photos I found while sifting for images for the "Guru Board" assignment. There was a small batch of prints from a home I once knew in Massachusetts. I don't recall taking them. A few years ago, we came across the undeveloped roll of film in the basement. When the prints arrived, I joyfully became reacquainted with that unique place.
|Stones of the Fire Pit.|
Last week I had another piece published over at No Unsacred Place. In the story ("If These Walls Could Speak...") I described my experiences with this house I once knew:
"Years ago, I lived in a tiny cottage in a New England forest. Once a vacation cabin, it had since been converted into a student rental. I adored the tiny hut, but it returned my adoration with a noncommittal, unsentimental attitude. My impression is that it was ungrudgingly returning to the Earth (as evidenced by much rotting, sinking and mildewing). It never had any solid investment in providing shelter for an endless stream of transient humans. Why should it when there was a beckoning forest and so little reciprocity from its ephemeral residents?"The house & it's environs are now part of who I am. Part of my heart remains tethered there. That house; a place of growing up, a place of many gains & so many losses. My beloved cat is buried there at the base of the penta-furcate tree which served as my shrine to Thoth. I have only been able to make one visit to that house & my cat's grave since I left over a decade ago.
Curiously, after all the time spent there, I do not have a photograph (of which I am aware) of the house from the outside. However, I do have that small set of photographs which capture, as least faintly, the space we created on the hillside above:
There was a path up which wound up the hill & under the arching trees.
For special occasions, we strung lights along the path & over the arches.
Tiny, bright lights beckoning us to follow, piquing curious spirits.
The path led to this clearing.
A space where we celebrated with friends.
A place where I could be alone,
...its fires warmed us, inspired us, mesmerized us.
...how I remember them.
How I remember you.