**Consider that in 1980 no other Ren Faires existed yet (viably), we
feared for the end of our Celebration...no more Ren Faires ever.**
IN CELEBRATION
This year I have returned to the faire after nine years of absence, save one visit three years ago, and I find this distance has imparted some perspective to the Faire that may actually lend hope and validity to what we're all attempting here.
I attended the very first Faire in 1963, and participated as a craftsperson and actree for the years thereafter, until my move to Oregon in 1971. From then to now, I have lived simply and in relative isolation with my family of four children in the Northwest woods, attempting to re-enter the world of direct and honest reflections of self and earth. From this experience has issued great torrents of creative stuff, and I return selling my jack-in-the-boxes, filled with music and sculpture and knowledge of myself that only quiet knowledge can impart. I follow with some personal reflections in celebration of what is here.
AS I move through the nearly done Faire, I am struck with wonder at the sameness of everything. How joyous the colors,thethe rustic, the impulsive. Crazy squirrels scamper like kittens about me; blackbirds fill trees like raisins in a rich cookie, and the tree itself sings along. It's all here! I've come here to meet myself and I'm still here!
The sky sings above me and I am home again, to golden oak strewn hills, to sunlight dancing on my pillow, to smiles, and people trying, trying to make it new. Old friends are here, and I look long and hard into their eyes. Yes, we're here, and somehow it still works. We've grown up now, it's not fantasy anymore; dead-serious life-stuff here.
The Faire is its own world, a tiny replica of us all. We grapple amongst ourselves, trying to understand the elements, the grinding gears, the girdles and trusses encasing the ecstatic, elastic body of this place.But it's life we're dealing here, it's real it's valid, and we ARE going somewhere. The dream's still here, covered with receeipts and yellow jackets and melted ice-cream cones. It's still here, and I see it in all eyes somewhere.
The girl is still there selling chai; gypsy skirts, wild hair, mother smile. The warm place to hide, to curl into at night, to gather and sing. The wise men amongst us, the elders, thinning hair, wizened eyes, anger aimed with sharp tongues sparring dissect for us this realits, while children scamper about, begging backlava. Faire brats, blooming now, ready to face life and each other with new eyes, new bodies, walk round and round one another, fear and longing tugging at their breasts. And the women...they smile, humming softly, knowing, knowing.
At night, the moon, the moon is here. She came, she came, and I dance, arms raised in ecstatic prayer to forces that be...for me...for us...for it.
Take heart, oh wondrous gathering, for you are still alive, and are a searchlight
in the skies of change.