This is not the secular mundane, when beauty is wholesome oat groat grey. This is when we do the things that won’t do for daily: gild the lily, paint a face, bake crazy cakes with three bottles of booze, and ice them, and stack them and eat, plan hoopla and jubilee, carousal and revelry, all in the name of religion or rest or something more ludicrous, like love.
Even ascetics observe feast days. They obey that rhythm where work comes to work and rest comes to rest and if we do the same our bodies so relax our souls well up and spring out in celebration. It could be simple: set our hoes down in the dirt and dance. It could be grand: nod our heads in the blackened direction of something greater than our own two hands. Some call it the collective.
Whatever you name it, feast is prayer shaped like a candied kumquat, look how bright it is. Look, how beautiful. But it is hold in the palm small, sweet like only bitter rind and sour juice can be, balanced, hopefully, smelling of citrus, sugar-soaked and boiled so long. Even ascetics observe feast days, sometimes with food, but they know best, feast is more than eating. It is moments set apart like sacred trays lifting quotidian times up. Some celebrations involve an extra reading, a special color, a public kiss. And those ascetics, and we the profane lovers of this blessed world, and our feasts, some even allow for halleluiah.
Amanda Hawkins writes about food, place spirit and the connections between the three. She posts often on Enchanted Fig, a food site with stories and recipes that pendulum swing from highbrow cakes to humble feral offerings.