On May 13, A.D. 609, Pope Boniface IV dedicated the Pantheon in Rome in honor of all Christian martyrs, and the Catholic feast of All Martyrs Day was established in the Western church. The symbol of Pomona is the apple, and the incorporation of this celebration into Samhain probably explains the tradition of bobbing for apples that is practiced today on Halloween. The second was a day to honor Pomona, the Roman goddess of fruit and trees. The first was Feralia, a day in late October when the Romans traditionally commemorated the passing of the dead. In the course of the 400 years that they ruled the Celtic lands, two festivals of Roman origin were combined with the traditional Celtic celebration of Samhain. 43, the Roman Empire had conquered the majority of Celtic territory. ![]() When the celebration was over, they re-lit their hearth fires, which they had extinguished earlier that evening, from the sacred bonfire to help protect them during the coming winter.ĭid you know? One quarter of all the candy sold annually in the U.S. During the celebration, the Celts wore costumes, typically consisting of animal heads and skins, and attempted to tell each other’s fortunes. To commemorate the event, Druids built huge sacred bonfires, where the people gathered to burn crops and animals as sacrifices to the Celtic deities. For a people entirely dependent on the volatile natural world, these prophecies were an important source of comfort during the long, dark winter. In later years, the latent spark may burn, and the sea-blue ink may flow, but the sphere of jade will remain, for when I shall learn to embrace it.In addition to causing trouble and damaging crops, Celts thought that the presence of the otherworldly spirits made it easier for the Druids, or Celtic priests, to make predictions about the future. Perhaps I shall develop that of the Buddha? I hope, and I wonder. I soak in the ideas of the great philosophers of yore, trusting that theirs are the way I might find my true essence and nature. I may study Chinese and balk at its numerous, intricate characters, but the cool breath of the stone catches me with its beauty long withered, and I am uplifted by its promise. From a phase of ardent Americanism, I have kept an individualistic impulse, but it has discovered a quiet, introspective realm. I tenderly touch that concentration of spirit, knowing that it is not a crystal ball to the future, but an element clairvoyant of the past, of my ancestral homeland of China. But this hurricane sucks up the ink meant to inscribe the parchment of my life’s tale, and then spills it upon all my hard-earned progress in “controlling emotion.” When, when will the gusts seize their calm? I hope soon.Ĭlutch the gemstone in thy hands, and sense the life within. I wish they were, so to harness the storm. The dam of my eyes and of my heart is yet so weak, and I cry, I laugh, I shiver with sentiment but how could I tell thee so thou could know? To write is not to sing my heart, and to play music is not to melt into the keys. ![]() ![]() There is so much within that which I may call myself – desires, fears, dreams, furies. How could I tell thee how I feel in these watery gales, when emotions rush out without a hint of telling? The artistic me is lost in its stubborn instinct to express, that very compulsion which hath brought us to this mystical realm. ![]() Hear the winds, and feel the tempest once drizzle and drops, now pour. Might that soon become? Might I find a perpetual passion, something modern but meaningful, that shall sizzle in my soul and essence? If only the multitude of sparks would join as one promise, as one truth for my frail spiritual-intellectual existence, as a kindling of ever-fire. I am set ablaze by all too many things – by mind and number, language and nature, the educational system, even water, its chemistry not me extinguishing – and this fire best shalt burn and rage to its own desire yet in the fury of adolescence, lightning strikes, but the flame and heat fast dissolve to earth they have not yet the power to sustain. I find myself much alight – so differently, too, I suppose, as all do but thou kindred spirit, listen to the story of a self. Every spirit hath its spark, its own way of excitement about the world. Watch the fire flit and flee, skipping to the meter of the soul.
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