Cerealia/St. Padarn/Egyptian Day

Known by its Celtic dedication as St. Padarn’s Day. On this day it was customary to begin weeding the growing crops.

The Pagan Book Of Days, Nigel Pennick

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The Tuft Of Flowers — Robert Frost

I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

 

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.

 

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

 

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been,—alone,

 

As all must be,’ I said within my heart,
Whether they work together or apart.’

 

But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a ‘wildered butterfly,

 

Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night
Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.

 

And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

 

And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

 

I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

 

But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

 

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

 

I left my place to know them by their name,
Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

 

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

 

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

 

The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

 

That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

 

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

 

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

 

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

 

Men work together,’ I told him from the heart,
Whether they work together or apart.’
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“The many great gardens of the world, of literature and poetry, of painting and music, of religion and architecture, all make the point as clear as possible: The soul cannot thrive in the absence of a garden. If you don’t want paradise, you are not human; and if you are not human, you don’t have a soul.” — Thomas More
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A Girl’s Garden — Robert Frost
A neighbor of mine in the village
Likes to tell how one spring
When she was a girl on the farm, she did
A childlike thing.

One day she asked her father
To give her a garden plot
To plant and tend and reap herself,
And he said, “Why not?”

In casting about for a corner
He thought of an idle bit
Of walled-off ground where a shop had stood,
And he said, “Just it.”

And he said, “That ought to make you
An ideal one-girl farm,
And give you a chance to put some strength
On your slim-jim arm.”

It was not enough of a garden
Her father said, to plow;
So she had to work it all by hand,
But she don’t mind now.

She wheeled the dung in a wheelbarrow
Along a stretch of road;
But she always ran away and left
Her not-nice load,

And hid from anyone passing.
And then she begged the seed.
She says she thinks she planted one
Of all things but weed.

A hill each of potatoes,
Radishes, lettuce, peas,
Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn,
And even fruit trees.

And yes, she has long mistrusted
That a cider-apple
In bearing there today is hers,
Or at least may be.

Her crop was a miscellany
When all was said and done,
A little bit of everything,
A great deal of none.

Now when she sees in the village
How village things go,
Just when it seems to come in right,
She says, “I know!

“It’s as when I was a farmer…”
Oh never by way of advice!
And she never sins by telling the tale
To the same person twice.

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This discipline and rough treatment are a furnace to extract the silver from the dross. This testing purifies the gold by boiling the scum away.
— Rumi
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There is a center in you that you have to recognize and grow and care about. What is it that you imagine as possible? — T.S.

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