Yesterday was May Day, and it rained. May Day, as both the pagan holiday (also known as Beltaine) celebrating fertility and spring and International Workers’ Day, is pretty big deal around these parts. As a queer anarcho-socialist pagan household (to put the most accurate labels on us as possible) we cannot escape the weight or the joy of the first day of May. May Day is the height of spring, literally the very center of the season, and it throbs with potential and hope. And it is also filled with history, hung in the solemnness of those who died to make the world just a little bit safer and kinder and fairer.
Lots of years we have participated in an annual May Day bike ride in our city. Many of those years it was my first bike ride of the season, because I’m not a very dedicated cyclist and almost never ride in the winter. I remember the familiar burn in my legs, their confusion at being asked to do something they had almost forgotten about. One year a girl who had apparently just moved to our city found our gaggle of weirdos riding and just tagged along. She said “I was just singing old union songs to myself and thought I wouldn’t have anyone to celebrate with.”
The year the spouse and I fell in love, we battered and fried dandelion blossoms. Then we walked around our old neighborhood delivering them to friends and neighbors.
Oh, and I usually shave my head.
I rarely write about May Day, it’s such a busy, high energy, time of the year. I feel like I don’t have time to catch my breath and reflect. I feel like my head is spinning and then the holiday has passed and its not really relevent anymore. But today is only the second day of May, and my baby is outside playing with his Ma, and all the dishes from last night’s massive May Day meal are still in the sink. Today I can spare a moment to think about the wheel of the year and the march of time and the slow slow crawl of progress. Because if ever there was a day to challenge the nuclear family, the absurdity of the idea that we could live separate lives cut off from one and other in our separate and private homes, the stupidity of the notion that we could own our children, that day is May Day.
This May Day, like all May Days, I had more things I wanted to do than actually happened. We chose to stay on our block, which felt right, it felt like celebrating with our own community. These are the people we share with, the people who watch each other’s kids in a pinch, who will loan each other a cup of flour or help plant a garden or help you bring in a heavy box because you were stupid enough to think you could buy that ikea bookshelf and move it all by yourself (ahem). These are the people I am fighting isolation with right now.
So we made magic wands for the kids, and some neighbors had a May Pole in their yard, and we somehow managed to pull off a big dinner that included both fried dandelions and violet lemonade. I shaved off most of my hair. I baked a cake my favorite way, which is without a recipe or a measuring cup. Oh, and I built a bookshelf, because I just couldn’t stand hating my living room anymore. And all of our books were in piles on the floor since I impulsively decided to take the old (hated) bookshelf out to the back yard for a garden bed last week. The rain let up for enough of the day, and in the evening there was a small neighborhood bonfire.
In three weeks the baby turns two years old.
So today I am sitting in a bright room, with the sunlight pushing through the clouds, thinking about the spring and the coming summer and the fallen heroes. There is a lot of hope in May Day, even the tragic kind of hope is still hope. Our clover seeds came in the mail, and the garden looks happy from all the rain, and I feel (for once) like maybe I’m doing my best and it’s good enough.
Like this post? Consider supporting my patreon! Your support helps make my writing possible, and will give you access to more posts like this one, about the day-to-day life of a full time writer and queer housewife.