Living on the Edge

I am on edge. On the edge of my seat. It’s the edge of night. The edge of a cliff, a wave. We are edging toward – what? Skating close to the edge. On the leading edge – but who’s leading? On the cutting edge – but who’s cutting, and who or what is being cut?

“The leading edge is the part of the wing that first contacts the air.”[1]

Edges, borders, places between. Neither here nor there, neither this nor that. Here lies peril – and magic.

We in the United States are in a time that is edgy, perilous, and potentially magical. I feel adrift, unmoored. What anchors me? The ground beneath my feet. The water’s edge. Sun on my skin. One breath, then another, and another. The elements of life.

The cycles of nature, of life, go on, despite the sometimes despicable acts of humans. The earth orbits the sun; the moon orbits the earth. Sunrise, sunset, moonrise, moonset.

In the Celtic world, August 1 lies at the center of summer, or samos, the time of light that lasts from May 1 (Bealtaine) to November 1 (Samhain). At this festival of Lughnasadh, named for the god Lugh, the Many-Skilled One, we celebrate the harvest and take stock to prepare for the darkness to come. Our resources go far beyond food; they encompass all the gifts, skills and knowledge we have acquired.

What can we contribute, individually and collectively, from our abundant harvest, our gifts and skills, from the center of the time of light, to help us navigate these edgy, perilous, magical times? What do we need to carry us through the gathering darkness?

On the cliff’s edge where we find ourselves, what can we create?

[1]  Crane, Dale: Dictionary of Aeronautical Terms, third edition, page 305. Aviation Supplies & Academics, 1997. ISBN 1-56027-287-2