If you’ve seen the opening scenes of Outlander, you’ll understand the thrill I felt at being asked to participate in a summer solstice ritual on the Hill of Tara. Tara is an ancient ceremonial site in County Meath, Ireland. While not as well known as Stonehenge or Loughcrew, the windswept hillside has its own magic.
During the year I studied with an herbalist in Ireland, Tara was one of my favorite getaways. If I timed my visit well, the site would be empty. I could ghost through the tumbled stones of the old hall or sit quietly in the grass and listen to the crows. Eventually, the chill would drive me into the gift shop for tea and a scone: the perfect end to an oddly empty, and strangely full, day.
But when my teacher and I arrived on the evening of the summer solstice, the parking lot was full. We pulled up against the hedgerow and I shimmied out, trying not to get hung-up on the hawthorns. A bit of dread curled through my gut as I surveyed people pulling blankets and provisions from their cars with the boisterous vibe of folks attending a July 4th barbecue.
As a person who has never connected with organized religion, I find I still yearn for ways to celebrate the sacred. The solstices have become moments when I could mark time in a way that felt ancient and, in doing so, connect with the timeless part of my own being, as side of me that had always been silent, connected more to the elements than to other people. But suddenly I was surrounded by other humans in cloaks and Renaissance Faire finery.
I heard my name called from the door of the gift shop. Anya flagged me over. “Come on! We’re setting up in here!” Instead of her usual khakis and sweater, she was bedecked in a gauzy gown with a wreath of flowers woven through her hair.
I took in her clothes and those of the people around me, realization dawning. It seems I’d unwittingly agreed to be part of a reenactment.
So much for a sacred solstice, I thought, heading for the café.
As the sun set, we processed up the hill on a dirt track, now lit by torches. Cresting the rise, we each made our way to our assigned station on the circle that had been formed on the hilltop. From my spot in the West, I looked out and realized this was no small gathering: candles lit thousands of faces, like small moon orbiting us.
The master of ceremonies began walking the circumference of the circle. When he reached the eastern side, he turned to the crowd:
I'm calling the tribes of the East, the people of the Boyne and the Irish Sea. Will you come to council? Will there be war in the east this year?
The crowd to the East roared together, shouting back a resounding NO!
A little background for this: Ireland was once a country of tribes. In older times, they gathered together a few times a year to trade and work out treaties. A ritual like this one was a chance to bring everyone together.
I stood, stunned, as each quarter was called. The concept of “calling the quarters,” which is often used in pagan ritual, was one I hadn’t really understood. But this calling brought the practice into fresh focus as both the people and the land on which they lived were invoked.
In a flash I realized: calling the quarters was about calling in community.
It was a practice that called you to presence, not just with people, but with the land. It reminded you where you were in time and space and who was there with you. It asked you to come back into relationship.
This message has resonated through my summer solstices ever since. I use this moment when the sun is at its furthest reach, when the energy of growing things is stretched and attenuated to do three things: rest, reflect, and regather.
Rest
In Latin, the word solstice comes from two words: sol means “sun” and sistere means "to stand still." During the time of the solstice, the sun appears to stand still on the horizon. I take this as an invitation to also stand still, to rest, to pause.
Rituals of rest are often underrated: a nap, a bath, a walk in the woods. It doesn’t have to be fancy. But, at this time of year, when we have done the work of Spring—whether that’s getting ourselves or the kids through the school year, planting the garden, doing a big garage clean-out to honor the concept of spring cleaning—it’s important for our well-being to take a pause.
You don’t have to go on silent retreat (sometimes getting yourself to something like that is work in itself). Instead, think of small ways you can break your usual patterns and add in a moment of rest: a silent meal, a morning meditation, an afternoon lie in the sun.
Reflect
Instead of calling the quarters, I like to journal the quarters as a way of grounding myself and reestablishing presence in my current landscape. Simply take a journal spread, or a piece of paper, and divide it into four sections. Label these with the four cardinal directions–east, south, west, and north.
Now set a timer and spend ten minutes noticing and journaling for each quarter. The timer is important because it keeps you from rushing through the exercise, giving you time to go deeper in your noticing.
I often do one quarter a day. So if I begin in the east, I’ll focus first on what’s right close by to the east of me: sitting at my writing desk that would be a fuzzy stemmed philodendron, book shelf that holds my TBR stacks, and a few small orchids and crystals. I let my eyes wander over the plants, reacquainting myself with their presence. Then I reach beyond the house and envisioning the garden to the east—the oak leaf hydrangea and the witch hazel—and the woods beyond them. My mind travels all the way up to the ridge where we walk the dogs.
When the timer goes off, I sometimes keep writing, deep in a meditation of reaquaintance. When I feel done, I close my journal. The next day I return to “call” the next quarter.
Regather
My third ritual brings me back to the sense of community I felt that solstice night on the Hill of Tara: I gather my people.
It was surprisingly uplifting to look out at a sea of thousands of faces that solstice night and hear them affirm their presence with their voices. We’re here. We’re here in the East and we intend to be a peaceful part of this gathering. We are here in the West, and we are part of this community.
In my daily life, I'm inward in both work and spiritual practices. In the same way that I thrill at the a-ha! moment when a chapter I’m writing comes together, I love the solitary click of connection I feel when I lay my hand against a tree’s trunk or the sympatico moment when I unexpectedly catch the eye of a mamma bear walking her cubs through my backyard. There is no liturgy that can replicate these feelings for me. I don’t crave the trappings of ceremony.
So I don’t gather my friends for an obvious ritual. I gather them instead for mundane things: a cup of tea, a clothing swap, a bonfire, a dinner out. We celebrate the Solstice the way others celebrate July 4th: with laughter, libations, and a good playlist. Sometimes we light a candle and speak an intention, or reflect on where we are in the cycle of the seasons… But only if it happens naturally.
Very few of my friends know they’re an integral part of the restitching I do every solstice, the regathering and reaffirmation of community that has been an important part of my seasonal ritual since that evening on the Hill of Tara. While everyone else is chatting and storytelling, I find a quiet corner where I can look out at my people. I stand on my mental hilltop and I shout to the four quarters I am here with you, in this time, and in this place.
Each time I do this, a feeling wells up in me, something deep and eternal, a sense of connecting with something ancient and cyclical, stitched into the fabric of the human psyche.
And that’s not a reenactment at all.