review
by Melanie Fire Salamander
I should have known something was wrong when we left on time. We were headed for the thirteenth Summerstar, a pagan festival of about 200 people in the Columbia Gorge July 8 through 10, and traditionally we leave for any festival an hour or two late. Our ancient Pathfinder started slow, but we hadn't driven it for three months. But, coming down our hill, the beast started showing its 220,000 miles. It went slower, and slower and slower...
Returning uphill in first gear, we tackled a physics problem: how to pack the same gear into two-thirds the amount of space. The dogs helped us. Timing at last traditional, we set out again, with heavy hearts and without a portable firepit.
At a time with
no traffic -- that is, in a world where it remained
Meanwhile, in defiance of forecasts and payoffs to the fey, the sky poured rain. This rain wasn't the usual polite Northwest drizzle, but a thunderstorm-like pounding. I imagined the site one big puddle, with us at the lowest point.
But when we arrived, we found our thoughtful friends in One Big Freakin' Tribe had saved us a camping space. Though uneven -- one nearby tenter went to sleep at the upper side of her tent and found herself in the morning rolled in a ball at the bottom -- the site blessedly existed, so we set up.
In general, the weekend underlined the utility of collapsible coverage. Besides a tarp for extra rain cover above the tent -- the layer that actually worked -- we rigged a tarp vestibule and probably had between us makings for a tarp solar-shower enclosure, if we'd had solar enough to shower. Cleverer still, our next-door neighbors found themselves a Sears Garden Oasis 12-by-15-foot canopy on sale for $50 (which they got knocked down to $40!), which they inserted their "four-person" tent inside. (I put "four-person" in quotes because, as everyone knows, a "four-person" tent fits two people with minimal gear.) The canopy had mosquito netting walls! Very de luxe. With rugs and tables, they had a site to envy. I was happy just to be dry, myself.
The sky only sprinkled as we staked our tent. Not so lucky were two friends of ours. They set up camp in the driving rain, and their tent interior was soaked. Puddled. They farmed out their granddaughter and slept in their car -- into which earlier they'd managed to lock their keys. A couple of friendly, burly Summerstar security folks helped pry open the door, joking, "It's great to know felons!" My friends swore their car seats made comfortable beds. It only took them until afternoon to stand straight again.
Tent raised, I immediately sliced my finger open cutting broccoli for stir-fry. I decided to make myself more useful by attending the village meeting for my tribe. The meeting gave me the basics and helped me identify, among others, festival director Miria, musical director Robin, security chief Bones, factotum and support staffer Johnny, operations manager Daniel, logistics manager Heidi and nurse Holly.
Soon after, only a bit later than scheduled, the opening ritual procession began, circling the perimeter with bagpipes, drums and other percussion. A Hindu elemental tattwa marked each direction's altar. We honored first the watery west, symbolized by the silver crescent, Apas, in the village camping area. Going to the family camping area, we called north at the yellow earth square, Prithivi. We called east by the marketplace, at the blue air circle, Vayu, and south by the drummers' village, at the red fire triangle, Tejat. We ended in the center, at the tattwa Akasa, spirit, a black egg-shape symbolizing the heart of the village.
Then Daniel lit the central fire. Starting a spark by striking flint, he lit tinder and placed it into a built pile of logs, slowly adding kindling. We shouted and drummed until the blaze went up. Volunteers kept this sacred fire burning through the festival. The ceremonial work of the festival had begun. (The festival site opened and workshops had started Friday morning.)
Besides the directional altars, the ritual spaces of the campground included a main outdoor ritual space and three temples, the Spirit Temple in a tent next to the ritual fire, the Tantra Temple in a camp building and the Oracle Temple, where a volunteer, Ahmed, laid out various oracles to let attendees perform readings for themselves. At the devotional Spirit Temple, festivalgoers could meditate with the elements, represented by colored altars and two masks each, later worn by ritualists. At the Tantra Temple, people over 20 years old could practice more active rites (or just have sex) on air mattresses in nooks curtained in sheer reds, purples, aquamarines and deep blues. Miria also led meditations there in the mornings. She'd planned to open the Tantra Temple ritually Friday evening, but this Summerstar seemed particularly infected by pagan time, and a handfasting couple performed the opening rite Saturday afternoon.
I didn't mind going by pagan time. Summerstar is a good festival for pagans who do too much, like me. I had no responsibilities. I sat in a camp chair, occasionally ate, kept my drink topped off, shopped, hiked nearby trails and wandered around. Workshops were many and mellow -- blacksmithing, bellydance, sari draping, sacred imaging on clothes, drumming, mask making and trance dance, among others -- but I felt no drive to attend. Some of our tribe even opted out of the rituals. No duties. No stress. It felt great.
It felt wet, though. Friday evening, our tribe and friends huddled around two hibachis, drinking wine (permitted at designated Washington state campsites). I asked for clearing the next day, invoking water as vapor -- the wind of course promptly splattered rain in my face. We tried to stay up until our last tribe members arrived, but one by one we fell asleep. Our last folk, stuck behind an accident, didn't arrive until 1:30 a.m., at which point they simply slept in their RV trailer just inside the camp gate.
During the night, evil struck. Two campsite raiders moved our chairs and put up their tent in the space we'd saved for our friend's trailer. Saturday morning, our chagrined friend had to park her camper next door to her nearly ex-husband's tent. Luckily, they're on decent terms, or we'd have had to immolate the raiders.
Or we could have done as young men and women did on our front lawn, and gone to battle with boppers. All afternoon, duels raged with double-bladed axes, bats and swords made of PVC tubing, foam rubber and duct tape. Meanwhile, my partner Bestia Mortale, some tribe members and I took two short hikes to scenic spots near the campsite; one an 848-foot-tall free-standing rock, the other a waterfall formed from a 50-foot drop from an enclosed pool, whose exit slot fills with wind, vapor and rushing white water. Mist splashed into the air; water spirits leaped down angled rocks to the dark-green pool below; the energy was exhilarating. We talked about relationships, and the water energy left us crying, opened up by the place.
Between hikes, I attended the main ritual discussion. The ritual centered around dedicating yourself to your personal path, and Miria suggested we each light a candle for one or more elements in the Spirit Temple or put together an elemental sachet from the herbs, cloth and yarn provided. Thinking of earth spirits and the warming earth, I left a sachet of herbs for all the elements on the Spirit Temple's earth altar.
I really liked Miria's approach to the ritual, on the mellow-anarchistic end of magickal working: let people opt in when and if they feel like it; encourage respect for the space and other people; apply as little coercion as possible. She drew people forward, rather than dragging them; the energy flowed outward from the center rather than requiring tight constriction to concentrate it. The downside of this approach is that some people never opted into the ritual but came to Summerstar only to camp and have fun. But are not all acts of pleasure the Goddess's rituals?
We returned
from our second hike at cocktail hour. My slinkily dressed friends had gotten
me a cocktail dress for $8, a dark-purple silk-velvet antique. A gracious
bartender, recently director of another
We gathered for the main ritual. Robin and his fellows drummed us into the circle. This part ran slow, but the rhythm picked up later. We cast the circle with hands linked; elementals danced out from ritual enclosures. (Female elementals seem to dance better than male ones.) During the heart of the ritual, those attending could go to as many enclosures as desired to connect with the elements, and to receive bread and water. These worked as cakes and ale, and Miria at the ritual meeting said in certain cultures bread and water can serve to seal an oath. I made my brief obeisance at the earth enclosure. We collected around the firepit at the ritual space's center and backed outward, recreating and opening our circle.
My companions and I returned to our campsite for more bourbon. Three of us tried rousing the boys to dance -- the bunny-eared ex slept, victim of too many beers, but we collected Bestia. But we reached the main ritual fire only to find the drumming stopped, while the camp staff and security searched the grounds for a lost 17-year-old boy. Someone muttered about "typical pagan drama." Miria, glancing at my companions and I, said that those who were inebriated could just stay at the fire and keep their eyes peeled.
Shortly, the searchers found the young man -- asleep in a bathroom, stone sober.
Far better to be awake and dancing for the Goddess, I think.
Copyright © 2006 by the article's author