Category Archives: Grape harvest

All My Divine Ones are Wine Deities

Oh yes, Isis is Lady of Wine and Beer. And yes, Osiris is Lord of Wine. And yes, Isis’ Philae temple owned vineyards. (Indeed many ancient Egyptian temples had their own vineyards, producing both white and red wines.)

But today…today, it’s harvest time at the Hallows in our backyard vineyard. And we, along with a glorious gaggle of all our beloved friends, are picking and crushing the Syrah grapes from our backyard arbor. We are feasting and dancing and gathering around the fire.

We are making wine.

We are making wine in honor of the Hallows’ other household God: Dionysos, Lord the the Vine and Bringer of Ecstasy. And so, right now, I am busy testing the grape must and measuring the sugars and adding the yeasts and feeding the ever-so-magical tiny transformers of juice into wine. I am up to my ears in hydrometers today. So, instead of a long post, I shall share with you some Bakchic inspiration.

From our Divinely mad harvest to yours—may all your harvests be rich, in this season and every season.

We hand harvest with baskets and clippers
He always shows up
Yes, of course, we look exactly like this
We DO actually look like this
We are drinking the 2021 Hallows Dionysian Syrah
Accurate
May all your wine be delicious

The grape harvest & dancing with Dionysos

Today I serve not Isis, but Dionysos. 

For He is my other Divine love. And here at The Hallows, today is the day we celebrate His harvest.

It is October and the vineyard smells sweet—too sweet—and oh so ripe. Amber and scarlet is just beginning to blaze in the leaves of trees. The decayed-honey scent of fallen foliage is in the air. Sugar-dusted grape clusters dangle from the vines in our grape arbor. At the time when night just outweighs day and the world has entered its slow roll toward the darkness, the empurpled grapes are finally ready for harvest.

All of our Pagan beloved ones—Bacchants for a day—ply their sweet labor among our vines. Oh yes, we shall make wine.

Our Wine Mistress, Priestess of the Hydrometer, fusses. The children giggle as they rip grapes from the stem, toss them into the barrel (and at each other), and run screaming around the yard in a fine, Bacchic frenzy. The adults drink last year’s vintage as they work. They joke and gossip with each other. Then, we begin The Crush. As the grapes are stomped into juice beneath our purified, bare feet, we sing. We invoke Dionysos, the God of the Vine, the Bull-Horned One, the Mad, Honey-Sweet God of Divine Intoxication.

As we crush His purple flesh, our song is as sad and sweet as October itself. Once all have danced upon the grapes, we strain the fresh juice into the “must bucket.” There, the God’s holy blood will ferment into His own Divine wine, making our kitchen smell like grape-y bread for two delicious, heady weeks.

But tonight…tonight, when the grapes have just been picked and crushed and the juice secreted away in the must bucket, we shall dance. We shall dance, entranced—drums thundering—in the sweet thrall of the God, breathing the breath of the Wine Muses and loving, loving, loving the mad, human beauty of every single one of our friends.

Our Bacchanal

 

I’m taking this weekend off from the blog, for this weekend there is a festival at our house: the Hallows Grape Stomp & Bacchanalia. And so I offer these thoughts on the harvest, early this year, as we have had a very hot summer.

Today I serve not Isis, but Dionysos. For He is my other Divine love. And today we celebrate His harvest…

It is sweet, sad September. Amber and scarlet just beginning on the leaves of trees. The decayed-honey scent of fallen foliage. Sugar-dusted grape clusters dangling from the vines in our grape arbor. In this golden month, at the time when day equals night and the world enters its slow roll toward the darkness, the empurpled grapes are finally ready for harvest.

All of our Pagan beloved ones—Bacchants for a day—ply their sweet labor among our vines. Oh yes, we shall make wine.

Our Virgo Wine Mistress, Priestess of the Hydrometer, fusses. The children giggle as they rip grapes from the stem, toss them into the barrel (and at each other), and run screaming around the yard in a fine, Bacchic frenzy. The adults drink last year’s vintage as they work. They joke and gossip with each other. Then, we begin The Crush. As the grapes are stomped into juice beneath our purified, bare feet, we sing. We invoke Dionysos, the God of the Vine, the Bull-Horned One, the Mad, Honey-Sweet God of Divine Intoxication.

As we crush His purple flesh, our song is as sad and sweet as September itself. Once all have danced upon the grapes, we strain the fresh juice into the “must bucket.” There, the God’s holy blood will ferment into His own Divine wine, making our kitchen smell like grape-y bread for two delicious, heady weeks.

But tonight…tonight, the grapes have just been picked and crushed and the juice secreted away in the must bucket; and so, we dance. We dance, entranced—drums thundering—in the sweet thrall of the God, breathing the breath of the Wine Muses and loving, loving, loving the mad, human beauty of every single one of our friends.