It’s Mothers’ Night, which is, in general, when your female ancestors come back to make sure you’re doing your chores and, along with their friends, terrorize you if you’re not. I plan on spending the evening screaming in horror as the Krampus whips me with a birch stick, because my house is a mess.
It’s not surprising that, on the longest night of the year, we yet again find that the barrier between here and There is thin and that the gatherings of dear friends and family extend beyond the barriers of the body. And, as always, when the dead show up, we greet them with mixed feelings and interpret their return as both cause for celebration and fear.
It’s also time for the midwinter blot, or sacrifice, again, because the veil between here and There is so thin. If you remember how Christmas was celebrated even 200 years ago, or know anything of the Mummers’ Dance, you know that we’ve carried with us this knowledge even up until now. It makes sense that we’d place the birth of the Christ child right here. There are only a few times a year when the Divine slides so easily in next to us.
It’s also a perfect night for fortune telling, and that, I hope, is what I’ll spend my evening doing, turning cards, one after another until the dark is at its deepest and Sunna is at her farthest and then, I hope, the noise of her relatives laughing and drinking and acting rowdy will pique her curiosity and she’ll turn around and begin the trek back to us.
Tiny Cat Pants 