On Michaelmas and the Holy Tide of Autumn

Living in the Blessing Field

Oct 05, 2022

The last days of September and the first days of October are scattered with autumn feast days and festivals, the most important of which is Michaelmas on 29th September, with Old Michaelmas, by the older Julian calendar, on 12th October. We also journey through Nut Gathering Day, Autumn Equinox, and Autumn Embertide, each of which offers an invitation to deepen into the season. We are being called back to our roots, to rest, renew, and soften during these first days of autumn. The golden wheat fields of Lammas are stubble now, all is safely gathered in, and the time of harvest festivals and celebration has begun. A welcome opportunity to draw a line on the growing season before turning to the dark.

The four Embertides; Advent, Lenten, Whitsun, & Michaelmas, or Winter, Spring, Summer, & Autumn, are some of my favourite days of the year. These are ancient festivals of the agricultural church year, preparation times of prayer, fasting, & reflection for the season to come. Their dates vary slightly each year and can be worked out from the old rhyme, "Lenty, Penty, Crucy, Lucy", with the Ember Days beginning on the first Wednesday following these festivals ~ the first Sunday in Lent, Pentecost, Holy Cross Day, and St Lucy's Day. Being connected to Easter, both Lent and Pentecost are calculated by the moon, with Holy Cross Day and St Lucy's Day fixed dates calculated by the sun (14th September & 13th December respectively).

The 'ember' may come from the Anglo-Saxon ymbren, a circuit or revolution (from ymb, around, and ryne, a course, running), relating to the annual cycle of the year. The word occurs in Anglo-Saxon compounds such as ymbren-tid 'Embertide', ymbren-wucan 'Ember weeks' , ymbren-fisstan 'Ember fasts', ymbren-dagas 'Ember days'.

The Embertides offer valuable pivots and anchors at these shifting points in the year when many of us are wobbled off our axis and need a pause to breathe deeply and settle ourselves. They were once a time to offer thanks for the gifts of nature, to learn to respect them in & of themselves (not just for what they offer us), to use resources wisely & only in moderation, & to support those in need. These days of kinship, solidarity, & reciprocity with all beings, have become, if they are remembered at all, times of fasting for the sake of fasting, for the denial of matter, & for the ordination of clergy; the final act of 'thumbing the nose' at cycles whose very essence is the antithesis of hierarchy.

Rather, the Embertides are days to be 'humbled', in the most positive sense of 'grounded', from the root 'humus', 'of the earth', which is also the root of the word 'human'. But, so great is our disconnection from the ground beneath our feet, that we took humility and made it a source of division. In feudal England, the lowest cuts of meat, or 'umbles'; the leftovers when the upper classes had taken their share, were provided to the 'lower classes', or the common people, so that they could eat 'humble pie'. No wonder then that our sacred festivals contain within them frequent calls for the rich to share freely with the poor, and for us all to ensure that no one 'falls through'.

In my community, the Wild Goose Collective, we spend much time journeying with, and reflecting upon, the saints. Generally these are the pre-reformation saints of the early Anglo-Saxon period and Middle Ages, usually from the 5th and 6th Centuries when we were still allowed to believe in magic.

'Saint' can be an emotive word, and a divisive one, but we have come to love these often elusive tales of our ancestors. And extraordinary ancestors at that. In his book, 'Singing With Blackbirds: The Survival of Primal Celtic Shamanism in Later Folk-Traditions', Stuart A. Harris-Logan suggests that many of the spiritual disciplines practised by our ancestor-saints, such as social isolation and sensory deprivation, often in water, echo those used to induce trance in indigenous communities throughout the world. and that, "in so doing, the saint seeks a closer kinship with the Sacred".

In her wonderful book, 'Power, Passion, & Politics in Anglo-Saxon England: the Private Lives of the Saints', Dr Janina Ramirez tells us that, "The divide between living and dead was less fixed then, and the saints acted as portals between the two. There are clearly links between the veneration of saints and the setting up of household deities in earlier societies."

These stories are memories of our holy ancestors' deep connections with the landscape, reciprocal relationships with animals and birds, & self-offering to a wilder Spirit. They can teach us much about the things we've lost. I have no doubt that the proliferation of 'Royal Saints' who appeared as the Anglo-Saxon kings converted to Christianity had more to do with facilitating & legitimising land grabs than with grace, but even this helps us to understand our history. In the meantime, we have learned how to tell when a saint has 'antlers'.

We have journeyed with half-salmon, mermaid St Li Ban, St Pega of the Fens, who was said to be connected to an ancient swan cult, St Cenydd, who was cast into the sea as a baby & rescued and cared for by gulls, St Caemgen (Kevin) who nurtured the life of baby birds when a blackbird laid her eggs in his outstretched hand. We have taken tea with St Melangell the protectress of hares, St Modomnoc of the Bees, St Elen of the reindeer tracks, St Cuthbert, who prayed in the freezing cold North Sea & had his feet warmed by otters, and St Baglan whose church had open doors, windows, & no roof, save for sheltering oak branches, to let all praise-singing wild beings in. These 'wild antlered saints' connect us into a continuing animism that reaches back to the very beginning of human consciousness & to the root where we are all bound together, no matter what our religion.

I love the words of April Dendra Mona, who describes herself as a 'feral nun', writes, “Neo-paganism and Folk Catholicism arise out of the exact same ancestral root stock: the indigenous traditions of Europe. They are like a double helix, two different ways of looking at the same traditions”, and that, “I want to invite you to experience Neo-paganism and Folk Catholicism as two sisters. I call them the Witch and the Heretic. Each is unique yet each contains a piece of the other. And the deeper I explore the relationship between these Two Sisters, the more their differences seem at a surface level. They have far more in common than they have in opposition...Who better to honor the Witch than the Heretic? Who better to praise the Heretic than the Witch? Both Sisters were demonized by institutional religion and both were burned. Once they have both been tied to the stake and lit on the pyre, is there any real difference between the two?"

If these wild saints seem a little far fetched, I offer you the words of W.H. Auden, "Animal femurs ascribed to saints who never existed, are still more holy than portraits of conquerors who, unfortunately, did."

If we are to connect again with this mycelial network of holy beings then we need to go to ground.

And so, returning to St Phocas, William Bryant Logan in a chapter entitled ‘Saint Phocas as Fertilizer’ in his book, ‘Dirt: the Ecstatic Skin of the Earth’, tells us that;

“Far to the East of Constantinople, near the town of Sinope on a thumb-shaped peninsula sticking out into the Black Sea, lived Phocas the Gardener – 'animum simplicem, hospitalem'; 'a simple soul and hospitable', as a fourth-century hagiographer said of him. Nobody knows when he lived, but many know how he died. He became the Christian saint of the garden, because he composted himself.”

Phocas was said to have lived at a time when persecution against Christians was commonplace and, having been accused of following the new religion, Roman soldiers were sent to find him and kill him without trial. The soldiers came to a town close to where Phocas lived and decided to ask for directions to his home. The hour was late and, at a nearby farmhouse, they met a kind man who offered them a warm bed and food. During their evening meal they told the man who they were looking for and he said that, after a good night’s sleep, he would direct them to their quarry.

As they slept, Phocas dug a deep hole in his garden. In the morning, he offered them a generous breakfast and then admitted that he was the man they sought. He led them to the hole he had prepared and, no doubt somewhat unwillingly, they chopped off his head.

William Bryant Logan goes on to imagine that the soldiers carefully covered his body with soil, thus fulfilling Phocas’s wish that they “return to the garden the body that had taken sustenance from it.” He adds that, Phocas found in his garden “lessons in simplicity, economy, and hospitality...There is no need to suggest anything about Eden. If Phocas had meditated on any story from the Bible, it might have been on the parable of the seed that was planted on stony ground, the other planted where the birds could take it, and the third planted in good soil so that it brought forth fruit. To make that soil, Phocas did not spare even his own body. Hospitality is the fundamental virtue of soil. It makes room. It shares. It neutralizes poisons. And so it heals. This is what the soil teaches: If you want to be remembered, give yourself away.”

And this is what we do when we follow the old holy days; we give ourselves away, offering our time to a deeper tide that might hold a less insistent call than the demands of the everyday, but which will provide us with an anchor in deep time and an, often sorely needed, realignment with the sacred.

In ‘The Book of Trespass’, Nick Hayes writes that, “Lammas, Oak Apple Day, Jack in the Green, Hocktide, Imbolc, Bealtaine, Lughnasadh and Samhain. Any number of forgotten festivals were cut from the culture when the people were excluded from the land.” Like the Embertides, with our loss of the land, we have lost so many of our sacred pauses and days of grace. It matters that we not only mark them again, but that we bring them back to the ground that they are rooted in. It feels that this matters more than ever with Michaelmas, which could so easily be framed as being in opposition to the earth, and very often is.

In 1992, Goddess artist, researcher, writer and activist Monica Sjöö published ‘New Age and Armageddon: The Goddess or the Gurus – Towards a Feminist Vision of the Future’ (since republished as ‘Return of the Dark/Light Mother’). In it, she noted that Sir George Trevelyan, considered by many to be the ‘Grandfather of the New Age Movement’, spoke about a battle between the forces of light and darkness on a cosmic and human level. He said that this battle was led by Christ and the Archangel Michael, the ‘Dragonslayer’; the ‘dragon’ being the dark, chthonic Earth Dragon energies of the Goddess.

But, although it is Archangel Michael's Feast Day, Michaelmas traditionally has little to do with rejecting the earth and much more to do with embracing it. It is an eminently practical holy tide offering us an invitation to snip any loose threads in our seasonal beauty blanket before we need its warmth for the months ahead. Because Michaelmas was one of our 'quarter days'; four dates in the year when debts were paid, rents were due, and servants and agricultural workers were hired. They remain the source of our school terms and our tax year (the dates being slightly different in Scorland and ireland).

In the Middle Ages, Michaelmas was kept as a holy day of obligation, when work was set aside and everyone was expected to attend Mass. But, as with Stir-up Sunday in late November, which was named for a passage in the liturgy of the Church but became a reminder to gather to stir the family's Christmas pudding, Michaelmas too has gathered its earthen folk traditions.

For example, Michaelmastide, which continues until Old Michaelmas Day on 12th October, is also the time to gather the last of our blackberries before 'Devil's Spit Day' makes them uneatable, to collect nuts, and to bake delicious hot puddings and pies, such as baked pear 'hot wardens', Michaelmas dumplings, and tasty stews filled with root vegetables (carrots are traditionally harvested at Michaelmas); all the good things to keep our bellies full and warm.

For my own Michaelmas day, I ate porridge, decorated the hedgehermitage door with our autumn wreath, baked nettle seed oatcakes in the shape of fallen leaves, cleaned our animal shelters and filled them with fresh meadow hay for any creatures who may pass by to make a cosy nest, decorated our garden gate with carrots, and made carrot soup. In ‘return’, we received a tiny unexpected windfall; just enough to pay a few quarter day debts, and a neighbour left us two butternut squashes and a marrow from his allotment on our garden gate. I felt truly thankful, and I must admit that I gave not a thought to archangels!

Strange as it may seem, carrots are an integral part of St Michael's Feast Day. According to Scottish tradition, women of the Islands and Highlands would harvest wild carrots, symbols of fertility and plenty, on the Sunday before Michaelmas ('Carrot Sunday'), accompanied by carrot harvesting songs;

Torcan torrach, torrach, torrach,

Sonas curran corr orm,

Michael mil a bhi dha m’chonuil,

Bride gheal dha m’chonradh.

Piseach linn gach piseach,

Piseach dha mo bhroinn,

Piseach linn gach piseach,

Piseach dha mo chloinn.’

Cleft fruitful, fruitful, fruitful,

Joy of carrots surpassing upon me,

Michael the brave endowing me,

Bride the fair be aiding me.

Progeny pre-eminent over every progeny,

Progeny on my womb,

Progeny pre-eminent over every progeny,

Progeny on my progeny.

Particular celebration was reserved for the unearthing of a pronged carrot, which required a song of its own;

Fhorca shona, shona, shona,

Fhorca churran mot orm,

Conuil curran corr orm,

Sonas curran mor dhomh.’

Fork joyful, joyful, joyful,

Fork of great carrot to me,

Endowment of carrot surpassing upon me,

Joy of great carrot to me.

These carrots were traditionally bound with red thread and neighbours would be invited to visit in order to view them and share in the good luck!

I am interested in the suggestion that the carrots gathered were 'wild'. The root of the wild carrot, Daucus carota, is only really edible in the spring, and even then is woody and fibrous. Certainly by autumn it would have been of little use for food. Indeed, our more familiar cultivated carrot was originally grown for its seeds and leaves, rather than its root. But wild carrots do have healing properties. They are 'warming and drying', working on the digestive, urinary, and circulatory systems; all much needed during the cold, damp, sluggish months of autumn and winter. It's also worth noting that the word 'carrot', which originates in the Proto-Indo-European root *ker- ('horn'), due to its horn-like shape (shades of the Horned God, Cernunnos?), wasn't recorded in English until the 1530s. In Old English, carrots and parsnips were collectively called moru, from Proto-Indo-European 'mork', or 'root'. Many European languages still use the same word for carrot and for root more generally. I am not sure whether this is also true of Scots Gaelic. Perhaps, after the hard work of the grain harvest, foraging for wild carrots, and other medicinal roots, gave women an opportunity to gather and to realign themselves with the wilder earth that had not been domesticated for the growing of crops. Underneath the thin veneer of the workaday world we all need an occasional reminder that we are feral.

There is so much more to say about Michaelmas, which also marks one of our early festivals of light. This is the time of the stubble goose, the Struan Micheil, blackberry cobbler, of Michaelmas daisies and Nut Crack Sunday. A time to seek out St Michael's dragon guarding our deepest wounds and to let them become our treasure and the source of grace for ourselves and all our relations as the season turns. Of which more in writings to come. For now, it is enough to note that we are rooting into the season of poverty and plenty, which seems more relevant this year than it may have been in our lifetimes, holding at its heart the invitation to offer hospitality to those who are not blessed to have full bellies and to answer the call to share what we have as an act of solidarity, justice, and love. We are rooting in to our wild blessing field of mycelial saints and medicine plants. Radical or radicle, in marking the holy tides with simple acts of everyday practical devotion, we will not be easily separated from the earth again.

Michaelmastide continues until the Old Feast Day on 12th October. I wish a very blessed Michaelmas season to us all!