It was far too hot to forge today, and it’s only going to get hotter. Joy. I grunted in frustration because that ‘itch‘ to work the metal hasn’t faded. Not by a long shot. I am one of many fire-workers, and I’m sure we all have our own taboos, and observances towards the divine fire. I’d love to talk to one sometime, to share a magically delicious beverage. But I digress…
So I look around where I sit – I hear the wild horses rage in the thunder, the corn spirit cackle in the corn field across the dirt road from me, after I fed my hearth spirits, my two arevoette… With morsels of food from our dinners, and a constant maintenance.
I do not live on an agricultural cycle, nor a pastoral one. My autumn feast is not a ‘Thanksgiving,’ as some would like to just assume it is in it’s farming or pastoral sense; and as aggravated as it makes me when people do assume it is – it is a gathering and celebration of the past summer bounty and of family. Sure, you could interject the whole farming notion – but at it’s core.. It just isn’t a feast from any farm or ranch. Collecting wild fruits, growing some on a small scale for one’s family – it’s the ‘option C‘ in the list of options I suppose.