A Re-Discovery of Hope

A shaft of sunlight caresses my cheek, the warmth making me smile as I open my eyes. “Happy Summer Solstice Day dear sun,” I murmur, my breath fogging in front of me. It might be officially summer, but the mornings could still be frosty.

It had been a long and cruel winter for our small village. A stretch of abnormally cold weather had taken the lives of many of our livestock. Our cupboards were nearly bare.

Spring had been slow in thawing the earth, so our crops were late going in and thus our harvest would be late as well.

The elders had sent a carrier pigeon to our sister town on the other side of the mountain pass, asking for help, but we’ve received no response to date. The deep snows probably still made that route impassable.

Many were worried and their fear coated the town like a thick paste.

Our hunters have been out tirelessly, with little to show for it. It would seem winter hadn’t been kind to the wildlife either.

But today was full of new possibilities! The magic that infused the longest day of the year would be a turning point for us. I felt it in my bones.

Throwing my heavy quilt off, I jump out of bed and dress with a speed that only the very chilled can accomplish.

Tying my brown locks into a simple bun, I don’t bother with lighting a fire as I’ll be leaving right away.

I grab up the bulging satchel stuffed full of coloured cloth scraps, placing the strap over my shoulder before heading out the door.

This year I thought we should try something that we haven’t done in many generations. Take the entire village to the Grove.

The Grove was a sacred site filled with ancient trees and potent energies. Because of that, only the most spiritually connected visited the area regularly.

It hadn’t always been that way. Our ancestors had gathered for marriages, new births and solstice celebrations in the Grove for years. I’m certain that their songs and laughter infused the blessed place and replenished that power.

I believe it’s time we take up those long-lost rituals once more.

The morning was heating nicely and turning the ground, and the hem of my dress, into a muddy mess as I make my way to old Hilda’s place. Stepping up to her door, I give it several firm raps.

Her cloudy blue eye peeks at me as she cracks open the door. “Tessa? Why are you at my door so early?” she snaps.

Taking no offense at her tone, I just smile and hold out a strip of yellow fabric to her. “Good morn, Hilda. Here is a wishing weave cloth we spoke about the other day.” When she just continues to stare at me without taking it, I add a gentle reminder. “We’ll all be meeting at the Grove in an hour. Each of us will hold our piece of wishing weave close to our hearts and make a wish, then tie it to a branch of a tree.”

“I remember what we talked about. I’m not daft!” she scolds, snatching the scrap from my hand before slamming the door closed.

“Daft was not the word I was thinking,” I mumble before heading off to the next neighbour.

No one else is quite so… feisty as Hilda and most seem to be looking forward to our new/old tradition. Soon, my bag is empty, and I hold my red coloured wishing weave cloth close as I make my way to the Grove.

Our village isn’t big, but when everyone gathered in one place, we sure take up a lot of space.

Friends greet friends, but the chatter is hushed as we enter the cool forest, the sunlight dampened by the thick branches overhead.

My heart pounds with the hum the Grove radiates. It’s a hum that’s felt more than heard.

Silence envelopes us as we spread out among the enormous trunks, and I swear I feel the trees' excitement. I think these ancient beings have waited for us to come back to them.

Others must feel this too, as I hear gentle weeping from some.

“We’re here. I’m sorry it’s taken us so long,” I whisper as my own tears slide down my cheeks.

I’m unsure how long we stand among them before someone breaks from the group to tie their wishing weave cloth to a limb. She kisses it before wordlessly turning and moving back to town.

Gradually, the rest follow suit until I’m the only one left.

The air is practically vibrating with renewed energies as yellow, red and orange scraps flutter among the boughs. I close my eyes as I take it in. Holding my slip of fabric to my heart, I send my wish into it and into the universe.

Stepping up to a gnarled branch, I carefully secure it.

The influx of a herd of elk in the coming weeks, could have been coincidental. But when a laden caravan from our sister town showed up a month after the Solstice, it was apparent our wishes hadn’t gone unheard.

Never again did we neglect the Grove. Besides the Solstice and our wishing weave ritual, our town held celebrations of every description in that blessed space.

Did the occasional harsh winter months still test us? Of course they did. Did drought and famine visit our town in the coming years? Yes, those trials bent our will at times.

But the Grove bound our small community ever tighter. Our re-discovery of hope and the power it holds, strengthened our connection with each other, and we thrived despite hard times.

And, miracles of miracles, old Hilda—ornery as ever—even gave me her recipe for her famous spiced apple tarts.

Who says wishes don’t come true?