Tag: seasonal practice

Lúnasa: The Irish Harvest Festival and Why It Still Matters

Lúnasa – the Irish harvest festival – falls on the 1st of August, or the Sunday nearest to it. In modern Ireland, most people know it primarily as a bank holiday. An extra day off, a long weekend, maybe a trip somewhere if the weather obliges.

That’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a bank holiday. But there’s considerably more to this time of year than a Monday off work, and I think it’s worth knowing what our ancestors were doing here – and why some of it still makes sense.

An image of sheaves of corn just harvested and propped up to dry. A traditional image from Lúnasa season in Ireland
This would have been a common sight in Ireland around Lúnasa in generations past. We still see it, jut less often!

What Lúnasa actually is

Lúnasa is one of the four great Irish seasonal festivals, sitting opposite Imbolc on the wheel of the year. Where Imbolc marks the very beginning of spring – tentative, hopeful, the first green shoots – Lúnasa marks the beginning of harvest. The work of the year is starting to show its results. What you planted, literally or metaphorically, is coming in.

In agricultural Ireland, which wasn’t very long ago at all, August was a serious month. The harvest had to come in. The work was physical and communal and urgent. And before it began in earnest, there was a moment of pause – of gathering, of ceremony, of acknowledging what the year had produced and what it had cost.

That moment was Lúnasa.

The GAA, the harvest, and Hungry July

For much of the twentieth century, the August bank holiday in Ireland was associated with the GAA All-Ireland semi-finals. That calendar has shifted – the All-Irelands are played in July now – but the cultural association between August and communal gathering hasn’t entirely disappeared. It’s just harder to see.

What is still very present, for the significant percentage of Irish people connected to farming, is the reality of harvest month. August is busy. It’s also, historically, the end of what was known as Hungry July – the period between the old stores running out and the new harvest coming in, when food could be genuinely scarce. The first fruits of August were not taken for granted. They were celebrated.

Most of us don’t experience Hungry July any more. But the housing crisis, the rising cost of living, the general sense of precariousness that many people carry right now – these are a different version of the same question our ancestors were asking at Lúnasa. Have we enough? What have we harvested this year? Is it sufficient to see us through what’s coming?

These are worth sitting with, even if your harvest is metaphorical.

Garland Sunday and Reek Sunday

The folklore records at Duchas.ie are full of Lúnasa traditions, and two in particular stand out.

Garland Sunday – the strewing of flowers, documented across many counties – connects to the idea of honouring the abundance of the earth at its peak. Reek Sunday – the climbing of mountains, most famously Croagh Patrick in Mayo but also mountains in Kerry and elsewhere – connects to something older and harder to name precisely. A landscape devotion. A marking of the high places at the height of the year.

Both traditions appear to carry traces of something pre-Christian underneath them. Both are still observed in various forms today. And both point to the same underlying impulse – to acknowledge, at this specific moment in the year, that something significant is happening.

The Lúnasa post I wrote a couple of years ago goes into more detail on the festival itself. And if you’re wondering how to navigate a time of year that belongs to figures other than your primary deity, this post on working with multiple deities might be useful.

What Lúnasa is for

At its heart, Lúnasa is a festival of stocktaking. It asks you to look honestly at what the year has produced so far – what has grown, what has been harvested, what has failed to come in and why – and to do that assessment before the darker half of the year begins.

That’s genuinely useful. Not as a spiritual performance, but as a practical act. What have you actually achieved this year? Are you still carrying something that needs to be set down? What do you have enough of, and what are you running low on?

August is a good month for these questions. The light is still long. There’s still time to adjust before the turn.

What’s coming

Over the next three weeks I’ll be writing about the three figures most closely associated with Lúnasa in the Irish tradition – Tailtiu, Crom Dubh, and Crom Cruach. Each of them has a course at Brigid’s Forge School for those who want to go into the lore properly. And each of them has something interesting to say about what this time of year meant to the people who understood it from the inside.

How do you mark the August bank holiday – or Lúnasa, if you observe it more deliberately? I’d love to hear what this time of year looks like in your practice.

Six Months from Imbolc: What the Opposite Side of the Wheel Teaches Us

Imbolc and Lúnasa sit directly opposite each other on the wheel of the year. Six months apart, as far from each other as it is possible to be.

If Brigid is your primary deity – as she is mine – that means that right now, in late June and into July, you are at the furthest possible point from her festival. Imbolc is behind you. It won’t come around again until February. And Lúnasa, which belongs to a different set of figures entirely, is approaching fast.

This is not a problem. But it is worth paying attention to.

A picture of daffodils in my driveway
Yes I know, daffodils aren’t July flowers – it’s the only pic of flowers I have! lol

What the opposite point on the wheel actually means

The wheel of the year (as much as I dislike the term, it is commonly used…) is not just a calendar. It’s a map of energies, of what the land is doing, of what our ancestors understood about the rhythm of the year. And every festival has its opposite – a point of tension and balance, six months away, that helps define it.

Imbolc is about beginnings. The first light after the dark. The earliest stirring of spring. Brigid’s flame lit against the cold. It’s tender, hopeful, and small – a green shoot, not a full harvest.

Lúnasa is its opposite in almost every way. It’s the height of summer, the beginning of harvest, the moment of abundance before the slow turn toward darkness begins. Where Imbolc is about potential, Lúnasa is about what has actually grown. Where Imbolc is Brigid’s, Lúnasa belongs to Tailtiu, to the old gods, to something that predates even the Tuatha Dé Danann in the layers of Irish tradition.

Understanding that opposite point doesn’t diminish your relationship with Brigid. It deepens it. Because you can’t fully understand a festival without understanding what sits across from it on the wheel.

What sent me looking at this time of year

I started exploring the Lúnasa figures – Tailtiu, Crom Dubh, Crom Cruach – because I wanted to know what my ancestors were actually doing at this point in the year. Not what the books said in general terms, but what people in Ireland were specifically doing, in specific places, in specific ways.

I found my way to Duchas.ie – the Irish Folklore Collection, which is one of the most extraordinary resources available to anyone interested in Irish folk tradition. And what I found there stopped me in my tracks.

Garland Sunday. Also known as Reek Sunday. The last Sunday of July, celebrated in two main ways across Ireland: the strewing of flowers, and the climbing of mountains. Both traditions appear in community after community across the folklore records, often with details that suggest something far older than Christianity underneath them. Far older, in some cases, than the Tuatha Dé Danann themselves.

The flower strewing connects to the idea of honouring the earth at its most abundant. The mountain climbing – most famously on Croagh Patrick in Mayo, but not exclusively – connects to a landscape-based devotion that predates any of the named deities we know. These are the traces of your ancestors’ practice. They’re worth following.

Brigid at this time of year

Brigid doesn’t have a specific role in Lúnasa – and I want to be honest about that rather than force a connection that isn’t there in the lore. She and Lúnasa belong to different layers of the tradition, and that’s fine. Not every deity needs to be present at every festival.

What she does offer at this time of year is continuity. The relationship you’ve built with her doesn’t go dormant because her festival has passed. She’s still there. The water aspect is still available to you. The forge still burns.

But Lúnasa invites you to expand your attention. To begin to know the other figures who belong to this season, to ask what your ancestors were doing in late July, and to let the wheel of the year be a genuine guide rather than something that only matters at Imbolc and Samhain.

What’s coming

Over the next few weeks I’ll be writing about the three figures most associated with Lúnasa in the Irish tradition – Tailtiu, Crom Dubh, and Crom Cruach. Each of them has a course at Brigid’s Forge School for those who want to go deeper into the lore. And each of them has something genuinely interesting to say about what this time of year meant to the people who lived here before us.

If you want to mark Garland Sunday this year, you don’t need to climb a mountain. Put flowers in the house. Go outside if you can. Remember that the last Sunday of July has been considered significant in Ireland for longer than anyone can fully trace – and that your ancestors were part of that.

That’s enough. It’s more than enough.

Have you ever marked Garland Sunday or Reek Sunday? Or discovered something in the folklore records that surprised you? Drop it in the comments – I’d love to know what you’ve found.

Brigid Beyond Imbolc: How to Connect With Her in Summer

Brigid in summer can feel like a contradiction. She is so strongly associated with Imbolc – with February 1st, with the first stirring of spring, with candles lit against the dark – that when the long days arrive and Imbolc feels months away in either direction, it’s easy to find yourself coasting.

I know this because I do it every year. April hits and my spiritual practice goes a bit quiet. I’m not abandoning anything, I’m just… less active about it. Less intentional. And then, at some point in early summer, something shifts.

The pull of the sea

It starts with an urge I’ve learned to pay attention to. I need to get to the coast.

Brigid in summer leads us to the sea - well she leads me there a lot! But this image of Tramore on a sunny summer's day shows why - the crowds, the balmy water, the blue sky - and it's almost on my doorstep!
The Irish seaside on a summer’s day

Not for a holiday. Not for a swim, necessarily, although if the weather is right I’ll take that too. Just to be near the water. To walk to the edge of it and let the sea do what the sea does. Wash my feet. Splash my face. Stand in the cold shallows and feel something settle that had been restless.

This year, with Ireland hitting 30 degrees – yes, you read that correctly, 30 degrees in Ireland – the urge arrived with extra urgency. And it delivered, as it always does.

What I’ve come to understand is that this is Brigid. Not Brigid of the forge and the flame, but Brigid of the wells, the rivers, the healing waters. The side of her that works slowly, patiently, wearing away at whatever needs to shift until it fits the shape she’s looking for.

Why fire doesn’t always suit summer

Brigid’s association with fire and water is something I’ve written about before. Fire transforms fast – it’s urgent, total, immediate. Water transforms slowly. It supports, encourages, and gradually reshapes. Both are Brigid. Both are useful. But they suit different moments.

In summer, particularly for those of us with more natural energy in the warmer months, the fire aspect can tip into overwhelm. There’s already heat, already momentum, already a lot happening. Adding more fire to that can be too much.

Water, on the other hand, meets you in the heat. It cools. Soothes. It holds you while it works. And Brigid’s water aspect is, in my experience, just as transformative as her fire – it just takes longer, and it tends to be gentler about it.

A note for those in wildfire regions

If you’re reading this from Australia, California, southern Europe, or anywhere that summer brings the threat of wildfire rather than an invitation to swim – I’d suggest working primarily with Brigid’s water aspect this time of year rather than her fire. Light candles carefully and with awareness. But let the wells, the rivers, the rain, and the sea be your primary points of connection with her until the season turns.

Brigid and the sea have a long relationship, and it doesn’t require living in Ireland to access it. Water is water. She finds you wherever it is.

What summer practice with Brigid can look like

You don’t need to overhaul anything. Small, consistent contact with the water aspect is enough. Some possibilities:

Seek out natural water where you can – the sea, a river, a lake, a well. St Brigid’s Well in Liscannor is one of the most significant, but every county in Ireland has its own, and if you’re not in Ireland, look for what’s local to you.

Bring intention to water in your daily life. The shower you take in the morning. The glass of water before you begin work. These aren’t just practical acts – they can be devotional ones, if you choose to treat them that way.

Let the season inform your pace. Summer is a good time for healing work, for the slower processes, for allowing things to be gently worn into a better shape rather than burned through quickly.

And if you feel that pull toward the coast – go. Trust it. In my experience, it’s rarely just a desire for a nice afternoon out.

Going deeper with Brigid

If the summer feels like a good time to learn more about her – who she actually is in the old texts, how she appears across Irish mythology, what the sources tell us that devotional practice alone can’t – the courses at Brigid’s Forge School are a good place to start.

The St Brigid of Ireland course (€37) is the accessible entry point, covering her historical and hagiographical legacy. And over the next couple of weeks I’ll be writing more about the lore courses specifically – the texts that mention her, what they say, and why it matters.

Have you felt that seasonal shift in your practice? Drop a comment below – I’d love to know how summer sits with you and Brigid.