When I lived in Maryland I was deeply attracted to the concept of creating my own traditions. I was in a long-term relationship, and while I wasn’t hoping for a family or marriage, I had long since discarded the religion I was raised with and was hoping to create new forms of ritual celebration. It was 2011, and my roommates and I were renting a house in Rockville; and I invited coworkers and friends for a big solstice party. We lit a fire, threw a sweater on my cat, and made mulled wine. “This is what it can be like,” I told myself. Making my own path, pairing something modern and celebratory with something old and meaningful.
Within a few years I had fallen out of touch with everyone who was at that party. I hung onto the idea of observing the solstices and equinoxes. When you strip holidays down to their bare bones, that’s what’s left: The charting of time in accordance with the seasons. In the winter, we light fires and candles to ward off the dark. In the fall, we harvest that which we have spent the seasons toiling over. Always, we are celebrating with food and drink and gratitude and love.
Warmth. Rebirth. Growth. Endings. New beginnings.
In 2017 I moved back to Pittsburgh and took another stab at a solstice party. I invited all of my family members, my new coworkers, close friends, loose acquaintances. I wanted everyone to feel welcome. I was still so sure that I was going to revamp my mother’s house into a new space where I could jumpstart my life — blending the old and new, saving money, doing creative projects. I would fill the walls of my childhood with the people I love and colorful weird art. That’s not quite how things panned out. A few select people remembered the party fondly (the spiked cider was good!), but once again, connections fell apart, people fell out of touch, and at least one person complained to me after the fact that I had treated them rudely that night. So it goes.
For my last effort, I scaled down. Who needs a big party? I pitched to Angela that I wanted to plan a Mabon event to celebrate the autumnal equinox, and she agreed that we could host in her apartment. I dove into research: the colors, the symbols, the foods. I was spending one night per week at her place, and we spent a day taking a nature walk and painting rocks on her balcony. We set up an altar and invited friends from our job. It was a small, COVID-cautious group, and we enjoyed fruits, warm soups, and pear cocktails.
That was my last attempt at a Wheel of Year celebration. Humans live their lives struggling to create meaning. We want so badly for our little lives to matter; we want to adorn them with these hallmarks of importance. But you cannot force a family that will not have you, and you cannot exist to people who will not see you. Without that component, the celebrations are just empty traditions. That's always what I've felt around these celebrations, behind the food and games and laughter: the emptiness.
I know there is a way to do it correctly, to get it right. You share the things that are important to you, and you have to hope that over time, the people that you love will continue to share them with you.
I have been back in Pittsburgh for 7 years now, as another solstice passes. It is very hot here right now — oppressively so. I do not have a tradition that I complete for each of the seasons (other than burning my wishes for the winter solstice), so I spent a small amount of time (in air conditioning) painting a rock I scavenged on a previous birthday.
I do not know that I will stay in this city. I do know that you have to clear out old things for new things to grow. And, importantly, I know that one of the things that makes Earth so magnificent is that it keeps going, indifferent to everyone else. The seasons pass without our consent. The passing of time doesn't concern itself with the silly little things that we do - whether we stop and appreciate this life or not, whether we have a family or live alone. The planet will keep turning alongside whatever iteration of human celebration comes next.