To speak
of the May is to speak of the seasons. The stars, including the Sun, enact
their performances without reference to humanity, yet our cycles chime the
turnings of earth and planets with religious attention.
Eve of
May, like All Hallows’ Eve, is a point of transition, a doorway. All Saints Day
follows the attempt of the powers of
evil to bar the entrance to Allhallowtide, remembrance of the dead, the
ancestors. Traditionally in the North, on May Eve the same powers try to hold
back the flowering of warmth and growth. What then of the South?
What does
it mean to live on ancient land, with different plants, different stars, even different
ancestors? On May Eve, is it the sinister powers of ignorance, greed and fear
that try to hold back the flowering of understanding and grace, the confession
of our manifold sins against the nature of place? Spring becomes autumn, a time of reflection. As
we walk over someone else’s land, we in Australia owe honesty and courtesy to our
(however involuntary) hosts, as to country itself. To ourselves we owe humility,
entering May knowing we do not know, becoming as little children, as Our Lord
requires.
