There's something going on, a new spirituality afoot, right here, even, in the midst of what some people lovingly call, "Smallsbury." Long held as a bastion of patriarchal religions, there are souls breaking through that traditional wall of belief on Delmarva for a new look at ancient ways of celebrating and honoring the sacredness of life and finding Divine connection. At the core of this spiritual striving is a reverence for the Earth and cycles of nature. It is a woman-honoring religion. Earth, is another name for the divine female creator, the Great Mother.

My husband jokingly mutters something about my "coven" when I tell him of my plans to celebrate the Summer Solstice. It is true that my comrades in my spiritual journey are mostly women. It is with women that I learn the way of this journey. We go back to find the truth about female power and put together the pieces of ourselves torn apart by patriarchal doctrines, so we may move forward. Is it not women who have celebrated life through the miracles and magic of nature throughout the ages? We are the gatherers of herbs and potions, the witnesses and helpers at birth and death, the seekers and collecters of the mysteries of mother earth, the guardians of the seasons and holy cycle of creation. Are we not the "witches", the healers and conjurers?

"It's being held at dawn, in a woman's garden," I continue. His amazed look turns into a chuckle and I know he's picturing me getting up before five a.m., not my usual time of dragging myself out of bed. In truth, I questioned at first whether I could do that. But quickly realized in modern expression..."no pain, no gain." A little sacrifice is part of what gives a ritual power. That is the special time, when the sun rises, and it will be worth it to see the start of a new day, the beginning of a new season. It's been a long time since I have done that.

It is still dark when I rise on the morning of the 21st. Being practical, and hoping to be semi-conscious, I reheat some left-over coffee in the microwave and turn to the task of selecting what I will wear to such an occasion. I decide on white and lavender and a golden silk shawl to protect from the chill of dawn. I slip my faery earrings on my ears and head out the door.

The first light is just starting to break as I spot the big old farmhouse where the celebration is to be held. It's tucked back off the road, farm fields still bordering it from encroaching development. There are lights, soft and yellow coming from the windows and candles tucked here and there as I pull around back to the garden. It is wondrous, and mystical. A huge white furry dog ambles over to greet me as I step out of the car. He leads me down one of the many paths that separates flowers and herbs in bloom. The air is heady with their scents. The yard is full of candles illuminating cozy niches designed for enjoying the peace that a garden provides.

I greet some friends standing and chatting in a clearing, coffee mugs in hand. Another group of women I don't know, sit under an arbor where a table ladened with fruit and muffins and other tasty treats catch my eye. The mood is quiet and serene and yet there is an undercurrent of excitement in anticipation of the event we have gathered to honor, the passing of one season to another.

As it grows lighter, our hostess calls us to form a circle with the lawn chairs. We sit and look at her in expectation. She says she likes to remove her shoes so a part of her can touch the earth and suggests we may want to do the same. I push my toes into the wet grass and squish the dirt a bit. It feels cool and comfortable. About this time she and her father, the only man present, catch each others eyes and laugh. "My nieces and nephews call me Aunt Weird" she says. I can tell it's a term of endearment for her. "But," she adds, "they always become part of the circle, naturally drawn into it, when we celebrate other occasions. I think they like it", she concludes with a smile.

I think how my family would enjoy the name Aunt Weird. I take a quick survey of the women seated around me. You would never suspect, to see them anywhere else, that they would be here this morning to partake in a pagan practice. No one was painted blue or displayed any other sign of what our preconceived ideas may be of what women who celebrate the midsummer may look like. Some are dressed for work, others in casual summer attire. We are all ages, representing the three stages of woman; the maiden, the mother and the crone. The solstice is indeed, a celebration of the Triple Goddess.

Since it is her garden, her home, our hostess becomes our guide in our celebration. She begins by handing us all a copy of the Tarot card, The Empress. The Empress is the Earth Mother, seated in a blooming garden. She is the symbol of universal fecundity. The connection to the fertility of the summer season where all grows to its full potential is obvious. Several readings follow, on the power of the summer season, and its place in the cycle of life. We pause, as the sun rises, and take time to meditate and pray to be a part of the fertility of summer, to find in ourselves what needs to be healed and recognized to fit more fully into the universal one.

The communion is complete. We open our eyes and smile at one another, and exchange some of our own personal thoughts on the meaning of the day. We feel refreshed, our senses heightened. There is an urge to linger, but the duties of the day call. And, as instructed, before leaving we collect a small bouquet of herbs to hang in our home and remind us during the winter to come of the sweetness of summer.

When I return home, I find my family still asleep. I seldom beat them all up and decide to help them celebrate the day as well by cooking them a splendid breakfast. I prepare grits, for grain, and fry tomatoes for the fruits of summer.

"Well," says my husband groggily over coffee, "did you do your hoo-doo vodoo?" "I certainly did." I reply with a 'witchy' smile. Not even his skepticism keeps me from feeling the power gained that morning from my connection with Mother Earth.

By the way, the next date to celebrate is August 1st. It is the "Feast of Lugh," or "Loaf-mass." In Celtic belief, Lugh undergoes a shamanic death-rebirth initiation, and/or the Barley God, who dies and is transformed into beer. It is the festival of the First Fruits, or the first harvest.