08/22/2025
ππ₯π
βThere is a different kind of fire in Augustβ
Not the fierce blaze of destruction,
but the slow, steady sunfire that has ripened the world from within.
It lives in the gold of wheat fields,
in the warmth stored inside each seed,
in the quiet hum of bees moving through the last full bloom.
This is the fire that asks for patience,
for trust,
for the long view.
It is not just warmthβit is wisdom.
It has fed the roots, drawn sweetness from stone, and coaxed life from darkness.
Long before we measured time in months and hours,
we measured it in seasons of becoming:
the turning of the soil,
the planting of hope,
the waiting,
the tending,
the surrender.
Now, the Earth gives back what she has made of light and labor.
But harvest is not just receivingβ
it is remembering.
To gather what has grown is to remember: the effort it took to begin, the hunger that shaped the planting, the storms weathered in silence, the small, unseen miracles of growth.
And beneath it all, the Earth knows this:
Nothing is taken that is not also offered.
The grain gives itself to the scythe.
The fruit falls when it is ready.
The warmth of the sun becomes your bread.
This is Lughnasadh.
The first harvest.
A sacred threshold between abundance and decline.
Between full light and the coming inwardness.
It is not a celebration of achievement,
but a reverent pause:
to give thanks,
to take only what is needed,
to ask: What has ripened in me? What am I ready to share?
Let this fire be a teacher nowβ
not the fire that burns,
but the one that nourishes,
that gives without noise,
that teaches us how to receive with humility.
This is the element of sunfire.β βοΈ
π¨ & ποΈ (ig)