That said, I found SMF's twelfth incarnation, March 27 through 30, strangely off-rhythm.
It began at opening ritual, which for me was mostly a wash. In this ritual, everyone attending was told to group in the direction of the element associated with their astrological sign, for example in the south for fire signs. Then each directional group was given a short speech to recite. Unfortunately, it seemed unclear to the first group when they were supposed to speak, with the result that only one person recited. Things didn't go much better for the other groups. Many of us in the south had memorized our snippet, and being fiery types we were chagrined when our time in the limelight nearly passed us by. We jumped in, but we felt miscued and misused. Furthermore, each element had an associated surprise, occasionally rude. Myself, I don't appreciate being hit with a water balloon on a cold, windy March evening. This must be because I lack a sense of humor.
That evening, too many heaters revving in the western rank of shrines (to Hecate, Baubo, Hermes, Athena and Pan) blew the power in those shrines, never to be restored during the festival. This accident was only a dress rehearsal for the next morning, when all the power went off at the site, an outage reaching as far as Port Townsend. This mishap can hardly be attributed to the festival staff; they and we took the outage in stride, and the electric company restored power by afternoon. But the power failure seemed an indication of the gods' tricky state of mind.
I had thought the Parade to the Sea untouchable, a moment that given adequate acting nothing could mar. I cannot fault the acting or god-presence of the performers (I particularly enjoyed Colleen Anderson as Aphrodite), but again, the scene seemed off-rhythm. As we stood on the beach, pauses fell while we waited for instruction. The crowd seemed to hang back; the return seemed almost as somber as the parade down.
Friday evening, I attended the skyclad circle, where the trickster gods, or fey, came out in force. Skyclad circles for me generally have a lot of power, and skyclad leader Queen Betsy Fox is superb, but I fear she was understandably a tad distracted by the presence of her infant daughter. This fact alone would not have hurt the circle, but her priest Fritz Muntean seemed seriously off-beat, forgetting liturgy and flubbing action in spots. Other mishaps plagued the circle, such as a dancer stepping in a group of candles. The ritual retained some of its usual power, but I couldn't help wondering if malign stars swung overhead.
Neither did the Lesser Mysteries draw me in as expected, though the cast performed excellently well - special kudos to Karin Feddersen (the Kore/Persephone), Terri Jones (Demeter), Greg Watrych (Hermes), and Jay Herrington (the Dark Lord), and also in a smaller role to Eric Lethe (Zeus). Partly this alienation came from the crowd's being kept waiting outside beforehand, chilled to the marrow, for 45 minutes, though through the wise suggestion of site nurse Jo Moran we spent the end of that time in a nearby building. Warmth wasn't lacking later in the larger Aphrodite shrine; as if we didn't have enough evidence of the gods' precarious temper, it caught fire. Luckily, the flames harmed no one.
I can say the Greater Mysteries broke the unhappy spell for me. I found them deep and in places moving, though not always in the places the director might expect. Sometimes a small touch can make the difference; torches in darkness have their own glamour.
Looking back, I think most of the factors that knocked the festival off-rhythm would have been hard to predict or control. The festival fell early, in March; the weather was as good as could be expected, but still chill and chilling to the energy. The festival has attracted more drummers in the past to help drive the return parade and the Lesser and Greater Mysteries. Furthermore, judging by the groups that separated out at opening ritual, at least a third of festival attendees were first-year visitors. Multiple-year epoptes jump in and participate more quickly; they can help keep ritual on track. Perhaps this year proportionately too few attended to draw the remaining crowd onward.
Not everything at the festival partook of the off-rhythm. I found the workshop "The Road to Eleusis," led by Debbie Hudson, Louise Greenleaf and Fritz Muntean, illuminating and its handout on the Greek ritual year invaluable, as this information is hard to find together in one place. Jay Herrington's turn as High Joan, talent show MC, proved almost the highlight of the show, but I enjoyed also the singing of Iseum Stella Maris and the incomparable Kari Callin's punning "Beverly Hillbillies"-based Bobbits ballad. And a stellar three-person musical group, whose name I missed and which shared one of the Iseum's singers, pumped the theater full of energy, getting calls for encores. I heard music just as good at the firepit; a fiddler of Irish tunes and a saxophonist there got me dancing.
Two background pieces I thought went well this year were the goddess and god shrines and the wedding feast, though I say so as shouldn't, being both a shrine-erecter and a feast-server. I did receive and overhear many compliments on both, so I don't think mine is a minority opinion. Each shrine shone in a different way; I laud all for ambiance and the presence of the gods.
I can't close my description of SMF XII without mentioning its aftermath, in which the air elementals stepped out for a party. Flying branches, downed and arcing power lines, high seas, stopped ferries, water-logged bridges, and washed-out highways kept travelers in fear and limbo until late.
Given the festival that had gone before, I couldn't help thinking, "It figures."
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