Lughnasadh: The First Harvest & The Sacred Art of Letting Go

The wheel turns again.

Lughnasadh — also known as Lammas — marks the first harvest, the sacred midpoint between summer solstice and autumn equinox. It’s a time of gathering, of gratitude, of beginning to let go.

It’s a time of noticing what’s ripening… and what’s ready to be released.

For me, Lughnasadh is more than just a sabbat. It’s a return to ancestral rhythms, a sacred connection to my Celtic roots. The name itself comes from Lugh, the god of craftsmanship, skill, and oaths. In ancient Ireland, entire communities would gather for Lughnasadh fairs—there were athletic competitions, matchmaking, offerings to the land, and grief rites for Lugh’s foster mother, Tailtiu, who died clearing the fields for planting.

There’s something in that story that sticks to my ribs. A maternal spirit laying herself down so the crops can rise. A harvest born of sacrifice. A god who doesn’t just demand loyalty—he earns it through artistry, wisdom, and presence.

What Does a Harvest Have to Do with Death?

Everything.

Every harvest begins with death.

The cutting of the grain. The ending of growth. The sacrifice of time, care, and seed for nourishment.

Lughnasadh reminds us: we cannot reap without release.

And sometimes, we don’t get what we planted. Sometimes the season surprises us — with abundance, with loss, with change we didn’t see coming.

This is true in the field.

And it’s true in our lives.

What Are You Reaping?

We plant seeds—literal and metaphorical—all the time. Lughnasadh asks us to pause and take stock. What has been growing quietly under the summer sun? What are you finally ready to gather, claim, or acknowledge?

Maybe it’s creative momentum.

Maybe it’s clarity after a long fog.

Maybe it’s boundaries you finally set.

Maybe it’s letting go of what you thought you wanted.

Whatever it is, it matters.

Lughnasadh reminds us that even small harvests are worthy of celebration. You’ve been showing up. You’ve been tending. And now—ready or not—something is ripening.

The Tension of the Turning

There’s an ache to Lughnasadh, too. The golden light is softening. The shadows are longer. We know the warmth won’t last. Just like fruit bruises after it’s picked, or bread goes stale if uneaten, this season carries the truth of impermanence.

But that’s where the real magic lives.

Lughnasadh isn’t just a celebration of what’s thriving. It’s a space to honor the ephemeral beauty of becoming. The act of harvesting is also the beginning of letting go. That’s why this time is powerful for grief rituals, ancestral offerings, and reckoning with cycles of birth, growth, death, and rebirth.

When I celebrate Lughnasadh, I’m not just honoring the land—I’m communing with the bones and breath of those who came before me, the ones who spoke to the stones and sang to the barley fields, who lit fires and told stories beneath the stars. Their blood runs in mine. Their grief, their wisdom, their hunger for sacred cycles—it’s all still here.

Ways to Celebrate Lughnasadh

You don’t need a scythe and a field of wheat to mark this day. Here are some simple, soul-deep ways to honor the first harvest:

• Bake something from scratch — honor the grain with intention.

• Light a candle at sunset and thank the sun for all it has grown.

• Write down your harvests: big, small, messy, or incomplete. All of it counts.

• Make an offering — a flower, a slice of bread, or a prayer for what is leaving.

• Tell someone thank you — especially if they’ve helped you grow.

• Speak to your ancestors — even if you don’t know their names, they know yours.

Ritual for the Threshold

This Lughnasadh, ask yourself gently:

• What am I harvesting right now — emotionally, creatively, spiritually?

• What feels full enough to gather, thank, and release?

• What didn’t grow the way I hoped — and how can I mourn that, too?

Not every harvest looks like celebration.

Some harvests are quiet. Tender. Marked by absence more than yield. That’s okay.

Light a candle and write a letter to something you’re letting go of — a version of you, a plan that didn’t root, a dream you’re composting.

Then burn the letter or bury it under something that’s growing.

A Journaling Prompt

“What have I quietly outgrown — and what might that loss be making room for?”

Remember: Grief is part of the cycle.

The earth shows us this again and again.

Even in celebration, there is change. Even in sunlight, the shadows lengthen.

Let this be a time of slow release.

Let your grief and gratitude sit side by side.

The harvest honors both.