Wine To Give To Hecate
Pouring one out for a real one.
It is a supermoon, and a blue moon at that, in Pisces. Today the torrid emotions of the past week or so are coming to a head, and I feel as though I’m at the eye of the storm. I haven’t had it particularly easy over recent weeks. I’m going through what could euphemistically be described as a “turbulent period of change” and what’s more—things aren’t slowing down. There’s more to come.
Two weeks ago I had a tattoo of a longbowman nocking a flaming torch inked on my right forearm as a symbol of strength, to remind me to step back from the melee and try to gain a wider picture of the battle at hand. Not easy to do when you feel like you’ve been flailing with a broken sword for months, the mud loosening your steps, arms and back tiring from the onslaught. I need a rest.
The universe has a sense of humour, I can tell, because all of the freedom and rest I have been asking for has arrived at once, in the form of both of my main jobs coming to an end. To seemingly underline the essential nature of taking opportunities when you can, a friend and Kibosh teammate died while racing at the Manx GP last week. I am being given absolutely no choice—I have to keep going.
So then, today’s full moon. It’s an important one to me for two reasons: the first that it means this period of unbearable intensity is almost over, and the second is that I’m getting to spend it with friends who also need to recalibrate, focus and strive.
Despite the tragedies of the past months, spending time with friends is always a celebration, and I intend to treat it as such. My main contribution to the evening’s events will be the wine we drink during feasting and the extremely technical/spiritual practice of “burning shit”. I need to choose carefully. It should be wine that’s good enough to change our fortunes and lift us up. Wine good enough to offer to Hecate, wine good enough to stir our souls and clear our minds. It also needs to pair well with a vegan barbecue.
The smoke, the flames, the moon, the tears—I’m thinking quickening darkness, like the peaty waters of the Yorkshire Dales. Loose and fresh, bracken and blackberries, woody and mossy and spiced. A Syrah, Côte Rôtie almost definitely, and if I can find one with mushroom intensity and umami bacon fat richness, so much the better for our Pagan godly tributes.
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