Only a few days now until the Fall Equinox. For many Pagans of European traditions, it is Mabon. Officially, Mabon begins on Saturday, September 23 at 2:50 a.m.
Our ancestors probably wouldn’t have been so persnickety about the time. While the wise folks of their tribe or clan could pinpoint the day, they wouldn’t have had the resources to mark the exact time, in all likelihood. Our European ancestors would probably have pinned their celebrations to the appearance of the fall full moon, the Harvest Moon.
Honestly, they wouldn’t have called this season ‘Mabon’ either. That name comes from Wales where the people there honored Maponos or Mabon or Mabon ap Modron (Mabon son of Modron). Normally those of us in the Northern Hemisphere think of this time as a season when the sun’s strength is declining. Mabon is a youthful sun deity. It’s hard to make the connection between him and the dying of the year.
I’ve seen some writers stretch to say he was imprisoned and forgotten for a time which makes him synonymous with a dying (and soon to be reborn) harvest god. Given his renown as a hunter, there is also a suggestion that, since our ancestors would be relying more on animals from the hunt for survival over the winter, Mabon is a good selection to symbolize this season.
Early on in my Pagan education, I read that the Pagan elders of the 1970s were looking to standardize the ritual celebrations as people of that generation were rediscovering various forms of Paganism. They had a lot of readily accepted terms for most of the spokes on the Wheel of the Year, like Yule, Imbolc, Samhain, Beltane and Lughnasadh. The names for the summer solstice, spring equinox and fall equinox were more elusive. They settled on Ostara for the spring date, Litha for the summer and Mabon for the fall.
These last three have the thinnest historical rationale. We know our ancestors marked this celestial happenings. We just aren’t sure what they may have called the celebrations. Let’s face it – most Pagans in the European countries, unlike those in the Mediterranean countries, didn’t write stuff down. Or, if they did, they wrote on organic material that has long since vanished. So we’re left with what invaders recorded. And those folks weren’t always keen on getting the information correct.
This may seem like a petty discussion. Who cares what we call the fall equinox as long as we are honoring the turning of the year? I guess, for me, it is an issue because I want to know that my traditions are, well, rooted in tradition. I don’t want to base my religious observations on the latest Tik-Tok fad.
I’ve also had discussions (or more correctly, arguments) with people who want to discount my traditions by pointing to discrepancies like the naming of Mabon to denigrate my faith. They get hung up on the name or more exactly the misnaming. It shouldn’t matter, I contend, regardless of what I call the season, I am still marking the time of the second harvest. You might as well say I have no business observing a harvest tradition because I’m not a farmer.
Needless to say, I don’t keep people with such narrow minds in my social circle. It’s just the kind of thing that gets started over a few beers that can escalate to a big brouhaha.
Still I do ponder the significance of our holy days and what it must have been like for people hundreds of years ago. Did their daily struggles to pull an existence from the land create this need in me to participate in their struggle by gardening a small plot every year? Did it get burned into my DNA? Even now, with a very busy schedule, I feel a strong pull to go out and spend time putting the garden to bed for the winter. Instead of working on my website or trying to meet a writing deadline, I find myself staring wistfully out the window thinking I should really be using the daylight hours to clean up the perennial border or mulch the rose bed. It is almost an animal longing to be outside.
I want to be there as Father God by whatever name we use, moves stoically into old age and soon to that journey through the Underworld. In seeing the days grow shorter and working to bring in the last of the harvest before nightfall, I want to nurture my appreciation for the bounty of the land. I don’t need my tiny garden plot for my survival. I can drive to a grocery store. But being a part of the turning of the season – even a small part – connects me to my past. It grounds me. It hardens me for the hardships of winter of modern life and softens me with a deep thankfulness for what I have.
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