It’s Midsummer’s Eve. A time when magic gathers thickly. When light is sugared and warm and the dark has an aura of what-if. The year’s waning begins, but not before the waxing gives one final flourish.
There is rumour of God leaping from branch to branch in the greenwood, fay and unpredictable—Christ-as-Puck, weaving spells upon the twilighted. You will be told unconvincingly that it was just a dream.
Who knows what you could become when Spirit is in his mood. Who knows what could burn away in Midsummer’s bonfire if you let it. Cast off; leap over; take that twinkle in your eye and run with it.
Grace is the Faerie Queen, sultry, seeking, tasting the air to catch the scent of your yearning so she can roll in the grass with it. Go now with hot daring. Go and be transformed.