August 2025 Ritual: The Offering
August 1st marks Lammas on the wheel of the year — the ancient festival of first harvest, and a sacred turning point in the rhythm of the seasons. It is a time suspended between sun and shadow, the peak of summer and the earliest whispers of autumn.
In the vineyards, this is the moment before the madness.
The grapes swell with heat and sugar.
The fields hum.
Harvest is near — not yet, but close enough to taste.
And what better way to honor this threshold than with bread?
The name Lammas comes from “Loaf-mass” — a ritual of baking and blessing the first loaf from the year’s first grain.
Now, I won’t ask you to thresh the wheat yourself.
You need not bake. You need not even eat gluten.
But you should slow down. Break something open. Taste the moment.
Your August Ritual
You will need:
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A glass of earthy wine (something that smells of soil, skin, or stone)
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A slice of bread (fresh, imperfect, torn by hand)
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A patch of dirt (a garden, a potted plant, a trailhead)
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A journal
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A scrap of paper and pen
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Bare feet, if you’re brave
1. Prepare your space.
Find your chosen patch of earth.
Bring only your wine, your bread, your tools.
Leave your phone behind.
This ritual is meant to be unhurried and unplugged. No content. No noise. Just you, the land, and the coming harvest.
2. Reflect.
Pour your wine. Sit with your bread.
Let the warmth of August touch your skin.
In your journal, reflect on the season so far — what has ripened? What is unfinished? What do you want to gather before the light begins to wane?
3. Taste.
Eat the bread. Sip the wine. Slowly. Sensually.
Feel how both are ancient — made from fermentation, time, and transformation.
You are part of this magic.
4. Plant your intention.
On your scrap of paper, write down one thing you wish to call in this month.
A desire. A harvest. A whisper of what you want more of.
Dig into the dirt with your hands.
Bury the paper.
Sprinkle a few drops of wine over the soil as an offering.
Then rise. Brush off your hands.
Go gently back into the world.
And trust — the earth knows what to do with buried things.
With soil-stained palms and ferment on my breath,
— Esmé
Witch of the Wilds
