Unfurling Day

Spring creeps delicately across Maine. From the coast to the deep northern lakes, a whisper of hope carefully makes its way through the woods and begins to sparkle in late afternoon sunshine. Days begin with frost on the windshield and end with discarded jackets on playground fences. 
 
Sailhouse takes a while to defrost being hidden beneath the canopy. Moss returns to its spongy state before the roots thaw and relax into their supple form. The sail bag remains frozen in form to the log even after the pussy willows sigh open their fuzzy paws. But there comes a week with days that are a notch above freezing. Then there is a blessed turn towards “almost warm,” followed by “wow, it’s not quite winter anymore!” While this is beyond relief, it’s a tease. 

Every year, I am concerned for the early croaking frogs because they always get snowed on one more time before the bugs hatch. I have learned these subtle signs. I wait for the earth to be properly soft, the lichen to remember its deep colors, and of course the song birds to fully return. Only after much anticipated prancing back and forth on the path can I feel that Unfurling Day is approaching. 
 
Unlike calendar holidays, this event is determined by the woods and the gracious rush of Spirit. The first winter saw barely a pause between Days Aloft and In The Bag. I fretted through every snowfall and gale to have Sailhouse open in the days between. The next year I was more selective, holding ceremony for Equinox, Solstice, New Year, First Light (which is when the days finally gain light again) and onto another Equinox which finally led to Unfurling Day. Then came the Spring of Rejoice.

I was terrifically sick one winter and by the time it melted, I felt like a battle worn soldier trudging up to Sailhouse with determined steps, leaning on trees occasionally. It took several days to launch but it culminated with a Blessing Bowl song and much deserved rest in the sweet shade of the first hot day. 

This year brings a steadiness to the rhythm and the predictability of tradition. Without much snow, I was checking the woods for signs of spring back in February. Some deeply sheltered plants stayed green through it all and were the ones to rise during the heavy rains of March. But however much I am ready for the season, nature teaches patience. The smell and sound of the sail birthing from its winter storage stirs in me something more than nostalgia. Sure it is all the reminders of childhood camping, but with an elevated hope for miracles. 

​I welcome the sun back to the canvas. I thank it for the shadow dances which will inspire ideas. I welcome critters to seek shelter. I enjoy the breath of a breeze as it tests the billowing capacity once more. 

Let the seasons turn. Hear the prayers of the people. Return to the sacred. May we live another day.

Deep in my mind there are ancient songs playing while I sort the cross beams. I lay out the corners and stretch the fabric into place. I climb up to ease it over the center pole. I startle up a flock of birds when I jump around in celebration. But the stillness of sunlight and the way the spring air holds me speaks of the layers to unfurl. 
 
If the sail bag is the cocoon, then Unfurling Day brings the butterfly. All the winter ideas can breathe now. The dark corners are vanquished in the golden light of Sailhouse. My extra protection can be sloughed off and cast to the sky while the woods come alive again. In the kingdom of Sailhouse, children collect first flowers for the feast table. Families gather to share the last of winter stores and swap seeds for new planting. Drums and ribbons, whistling competition followed by lullabies, and of course the sacred Tending of the Peak. This is where the center post is inspected and repaired. A shield is placed to protect the sail from splinters. Everyone comes forward to thank the relic for support and inspiration. 
 
While I do these things by myself, I am never alone. When the day is complete and I’ve admired Sailhouse from every angle, I return home with a full heart. Whatever the season brings now will be channeled through the magical field of Sailhouse. All moods, ideas, objects, and people can be shown to her and healed.

​From my bedroom window, I can almost see where Sailhouse lives. The shimmering white catches the eye of animals, maybe hikers, and issues a gentle statement of peace. I know this ripples out continuously, but when the full presence of Sailhouse is on display, I like to think the leaves’ applause is just for me. I allow myself a moment of humanity before tucking in with my satisfaction. “Goodnight, Sailhouse. Happy Unfurling Day! It was a good one.” I say aloud and my kids agree. They may not understand until later in their lives, but Sailhouse is for them much more than it ever was for me. In my own unfurling, I’ve become a better parent. I hold the peace of the woods in places I couldn’t before. My cocoon gave liberating wings to heaviness and transformed my life with hope. 
 
Beneath the celebrating and fantasy is a reverence for the procession which must be performed with an open heart and mind. There is deep surrender to the unknown when casting things to the wind. There is also deep contentment with my connection to the island. Unfurling Day unites the Things that Are to the Miracles to Be like mycelium. The sparks of energy from my hands become intentions for the world to discuss. 
 
Let the seasons turn. Hear the prayers of the people. Return to the sacred. May we live another day.