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The Holy Days of importance.

Are not commercial or trumpeted loudly throughout the lands.
Not to me at least, I have different standards for Holy Days and times of me the religious seem lost, the wander away from things and times and peoples of far more importance.

We, my family my neighbors, and good friends from overseas, we have the Celebration of Welcome, were we insist they sample the years Homebrew beers (the Smoked Coffee Porter was a hit), and tempt them with the latest in outdoor cooking (Dutch Oven Western Creole Chicken with Basmati rice is always popular), and gift them with Idaho treats for the eventual return to foreign lands and their hearth and home.

We, my family and neighbors, have the Holy Day of Dutch Oven Dinner to celebrate yet another year of gameful employment...a celebration of the foolishness of economy and the importance of purposeful work instead of just profitable work. Here we toast our good fortunes, reset our financial sails, and seek wisdom for our communities many problems...we review and we plan for ourselves and even for those that throw us fierce glares (we laugh and give back good cheer....more harsh than curses that is).

We, my clan, we have our monthly holy day of celebration, a gathering of good cheer, new wines, fine meals (sometimes simple, sometimes by Dutch Oven, some times complex), and the cheerful recognition that another of us has safely seen another year of life. Age? Who cares, open that Merlot and pass me that stinky French cheese...please.

We, my clan, have our Holy day of "All Goblins and Ghoulies" in the crisp late days of October when, costumed, we launch egg avatars from the trebuchet at castles made of planting pots, we perform the ritual of the donut salmon dance attempting to snatch the goods from the bobbing pole of harmless humor, and we burn the mallows around a fire in the chill of the later night, sipping on cocoa or coffee or my fine home made Cherry liqueur (your choice or have all three...combined even).

We, my clan have our gatherings and celebration of The Eve of Gifts, and The Day of Sloth, and our Boxing Day, and the Day of Leaf Collection, and the BBQ of Planting of the many celebrations of importance which require no set religion or mutterings or attendance at dictated gathering places...and these Holy Days mean far more than any dictated by soothsayers and pundits.

I have my Holy Days also; the monthly campout and the hike in the wonder of nature, the weekend of winter snow camping (a Holy Day I have not missed since I started) where the quiet of winter is broken with the moaning sound of brother and sister wolf as they ghost the winter landscape. I have my Holy times of river cleanup, and highway cleanup, and Yurt maintenance, and trail building, and even the ones of voting against the herd (at least the local one :)).

And most important to me is the Holy times I observe, sadly not often enough, of wandering down to the hidden spot, the watery spot, that old scar that birds and beasts are quietly reclaiming and calling home. This old gravel pit, tucked between subdivisions, where water reeds and water weeds have returned, where ducks squabble as ravens give sardonic calls, where Herons still wade and quick Ospreys can snatch their meals. This place just over the canal, and hidden from sight by recovering piles of old tortured earth, this place of quiet repose. I wander there and sit awhile, watching the busy muskrats, the statue still Herons, and listen, just listen as the wind softly moves the cattail reeds making the small sounds of creaks and clacks....listening, straining to hear the voice of my lands, this hidden place.

I visited there last eve, I heard the geese sing me fare thee well.

I left too soon, only gifting it with cleaning what litter as doesn't belong in such a place. Not much I admit, yet this Holy place and time asks only for such little gifts as care and quiet and chance to just exist.

These are my holy days.

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