The May-Bush Meadow
Feast with both hands, darling. Just mind who's at your churn while you're dancing.
Who they are
The wide meadow at Beltane sunrise — a great hawthorn in full bloom on its green mound, dressed the old Irish way: ribbons, rags, and the painted eggshells saved from Easter, hung by the whole townland on the fairies' own tree, outside, where hawthorn blossom belongs — welcome on the bush, banned from the house. Primrose and cowslip lie strewn on the far doorsteps; need-fire smoke climbs the ridge. And under all the garlands, May Eve was the year's most dangerous morning for luck: this was the night charms skimmed the dew to steal the profit of another's milk, the day no fire and no salt left the house lest the year's luck go with them. The meadow holds both truths at once — the open door, and the guarded sill.
Drawn upright — the teaching
Everything's in first flower — a season of fertility, celebration, and open doors, and it's yours. Meeting a good season with suspicion insults it. Say yes to it out loud — joy spoken aloud is itself an offering — and the whole summer opens generous in front of you.
The working
Dress the May-bush. Hang ribbons, rags and painted eggshells on a blooming branch outside — never bring the blossom indoors; even welcome has a sill — one token for each good thing arriving, and say yes to each by name: "Yes to the work. Yes to the love. Yes to the house, the child, the season." Then feast, properly, with the people the season belongs to. "Blessings on the bush and all it carries."
Drawn reversed — the shadow
In all the celebrating you've left yourself unguarded — and your luck, your energy, your good thing is being quietly siphoned while you feast. Somebody's at your churn: the "friend" who leaves every win of yours somehow flat, the yes you keep saying with nothing at the door.
The undoing
Ward before the party, the way the old houses did on May Eve. A milk-bowl on the step — the small ones take their share at the door and leave the churn alone. Rowan at the door. And give no fire and no salt out of the house that day: your essentials — your energy, your money, your private news — stay home while the veil is thin. Enjoy the May with both hands. Just don't leave the door wide open for whatever wants to help itself.
Its tree · the ogham
Uath — the hawthorn, the May-bush itself. Its letter means fear — a strange name for the blossom-month until you understand it: the tree of the year's best feast is the same tree you don't cut, don't cross, and don't bring indoors. Celebration and caution grew on the same bough from the very start. Keep them there.
Sit with this
What good thing is arriving that you haven't said yes to out loud? And who leaves you emptier after every feast — what's your milk-bowl and rowan against that?