Between Two Fires: Beltane, Old Stories and the Australian Spring

On protection, the turning of the seasons, and carrying old traditions into new landscapes.

Hi lovely,

It's been a little while since we've sat together like this.

My last Journal letter found its way to you back in August, and since then, life here has changed quite a bit.

Just before the Spring Equinox, Matt and I welcomed a little person into our home through foster care.

And as you can imagine, life with a three-year-old again has brought a whole new rhythm to our days. Little adventures, big feelings, familiar childhood moments and a great deal of adjusting as we all find our feet together.

It's been a season of learning, tending and making room for someone new.

And while the garden has been moving steadily into Spring, I've been finding my own way through a different kind of seasonal change.

Some things have needed more of my attention, and others, including these letters, have had to wait a little while.

But I'm glad to be sitting here writing to you again.

So, make yourself something warm, find somewhere comfortable, and come sit with me for a little while.

Because as October draws towards its end, there's an old seasonal celebration I'd love to share with you.

Beltane.

A festival of fire, protection, life and the changing seasons.

And a story about crossing thresholds that feels particularly meaningful to me this year.

The fires of Beltane 🔥

Long ago, in the Gaelic lands of Ireland, Beltane marked the beginning of the summer season.

It was a turning point in the year.

The darker, colder months were giving way to warmth, growth and the promise of abundance.

But this wasn't simply a celebration of sunshine and flowers.

It was also a time of protection.

One of the oldest recorded Beltane customs tells of two fires being lit, with cattle driven between them to protect the animals from illness and misfortune in the coming year.

Imagine that for a moment.

The gathering of people.

The warmth of the flames.

Smoke moving through the air.

The sound of animals being guided carefully along a path between two fires.

And all around them, people who understood just how much their lives depended upon the wellbeing of their animals, their crops and the land.

These weren't merely symbols of abundance.

They were the foundations of everyday survival.

The cattle provided milk and other necessities. The land provided food. The changing seasons shaped the work, opportunities and challenges of the months ahead.

To seek protection for these things was to seek protection for life itself.

And I find that deeply moving.

Because underneath the fire and the old customs, I see something very human.

The desire to care for what sustains us.

To acknowledge the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

And to enter a new season with intention.

Flowers at the threshold 🌸

Fire wasn't the only part of Beltane's story.

In Irish May Day folklore, flowers and greenery were gathered to decorate homes, doorways and farm buildings.

Yellow flowers were particularly popular.

In some places, people decorated a May Bush with ribbons, flowers and colourful scraps of fabric.

These weren't simply pretty decorations.

They were associated with good fortune and protection.

And then there was the hawthorn.

A tree woven deeply into Irish folklore, associated with the fairy folk and treated with a mixture of reverence and caution.

In some traditions, harming a lone hawthorn was considered deeply unwise.

May Eve was also regarded in Irish folk belief as a time when the unseen world might be particularly active.

So the flowers, the fires and the protective customs all belonged to a world in which the visible and invisible were not necessarily regarded as separate.

People lived alongside stories of spirits, fairies, blessings and dangers.

Their homes had thresholds worth protecting.

Their animals had lives worth blessing.

And the changing of the season was something worth marking.

I love that.

Not because I believe we need to recreate every custom exactly as it was once practised.

But because there is something beautiful about the attention behind them.

The willingness to recognise that life is precious, uncertain and worthy of care.

What happens when we carry these traditions elsewhere?

Of course, here in Australia, Beltane arrives at a very different time of year.

While Ireland celebrates Beltane in May, I mark Beltane around the end of October, as our Southern Hemisphere spring gathers momentum.

And the landscape around me is nothing like an Irish May.

There are no ancient hawthorn hedgerows lining my garden.

The flowers are different.

The birdsong is different.

The air carries the particular warmth of a Queensland spring, with the promise of an Australian summer not far away.

And that raises a question I return to often in my own spiritual practice.

How do we honour traditions that began somewhere else without asking the land beneath our feet to become that place?

For me, the answer has never been to abandon the old stories.

I love them far too much for that.

They give me language, symbolism, wisdom and ways of understanding the relationship between humanity, Spirit and the living world.

But I also don't believe a tradition needs to become a cage.

We can learn from the people who came before us while remaining curious about the place in which we live now.

We can carry the stories of our ancestors without asking the land beneath our feet to become the land they knew.

And I believe there is a responsibility in that too.

To recognise that this land has its own ancient stories, cultures and custodians.

To respect the First Nations peoples whose relationships with Country extend far beyond our own arrival here.

And to remember that bringing a Celtic-inspired practice into Australia doesn't make Australian plants, places or cultural traditions ours to claim.

We can simply begin by paying attention.

Learning the names of the plants around us.

Noticing the birds.

Watching how the seasons unfold.

Understanding the particular rhythms of the place we call home.

And allowing those observations to shape how we celebrate.

Between two fires

I keep coming back to the image of the cattle moving between those Beltane fires.

Not because I want to recreate the practice.

But because of what it represents to me.

A crossing.

A moment between what has been and what is coming.

An act of care before entering something new.

And perhaps that is one of the reasons Beltane continues to speak to me.

Because we are always crossing little thresholds in our lives.

A new relationship.

A creative beginning.

A change in the rhythm of our home.

A part of ourselves becoming more visible.

A season of life that asks us to move differently.

We don't always know what waits on the other side.

But we can choose how we approach the crossing.

With care.

With attention.

With reverence for what sustains us.

And with a willingness to participate in the life unfolding around us.

The old Beltane fires were lit for the wellbeing of the community and the animals upon which it depended.

In my own practice, they also remind me to ask:

What in my life is worth tending and protecting as I move into this next season?

Not everything needs to grow bigger.

Not every spark needs to become a roaring fire.

Sometimes the most meaningful thing we can do is protect what is already alive.

Our relationships.

Our creativity.

Our health and wellbeing.

Our connection with the land.

The small practices that help us feel like ourselves.

The things we love enough to care for.

A little reflection for Beltane 🌿

As the season turns, I wonder what your own landscape is telling you.

What is flowering?

What is gathering strength?

What is asking for your attention?

And what feels precious enough that you want to tend it carefully as the warmer months unfold?

You don't need a bonfire on a hillside to honour Beltane.

You don't need to recreate an ancient custom or surround yourself with flowers that don't belong to your landscape.

You can begin by stepping outside.

Feeling the warmth of the season.

Listening to the birds.

Noticing what is growing.

And asking yourself what you would like to carry with care into the months ahead.

The old stories can travel with us.

But the living relationship happens here.

On this land.

In this season.

In the life we're actually living.

And I think there's something rather beautiful about that.

Until next time,

Tash xx 🌿🔥