1. Yule XV
We bid your company, to this handful of ashes held to the sun, this glint of silk and flashing anthem, this child’s tear shining before the grave. If your heart measures its meter by sea tide, if the razed earth cries out through your throat, if the moon tugs at your fingertips and the winter is to you a summons; migrate to our verdant rainscape, join us, as more than mere audience but as congregation, poised on the razor’s edge of significance, an ephemeral convergence of souls who might by our integrity participate in something grander than the amnesiac spell of this age. For our collective howl of beseeching and joy and weeping demands a mass to instantiate the sacrament, and thus your dedication means more than mere spectatorship—it is necessary to make meaning, to make our collective honoring of sun, dark, and the deeper things of mortal consciousness substantial.