The first of May. What does it mean to you? A reminder of the international distress call, “Mayday Mayday Mayday”? International Workers’ Day? The Feast of St Joseph the Worker? Or the Spring Festival, Maying, Beltane, Þrimilci-mōnaþ?
To me it has always meant the heavy sensual scent of mayflowers, and the hum of bumblebees – Bombus terrestris, earth-bees. The year’s new life rising in sap and flower-head, larks ascending, the irrepressible joy of sparrows.
The songs of Easter cling about us still. What was dead and cold is risen, new and warm and lively, bright-eyed in the promise of summer. New, sing the opening leaves, the uncurling flower-buds. Abundant life, sing the Pagan worshippers. New life, sings the Church – what are we going to do about it?
What are we going to do about it?
Love, love the land. Love the new life, the song of all that is born again. Unless we love, how can we care, how can we help heal the scars of greed – bluebells crushed in the wheel tracks, spring lambs loaded for slaughter, the hungry in our own streets? Only Love knows. Only in the silence of hearts that love can Love speak. Honestly. I don’t know what else to say.