Pagan Celebrations: An Urban Mystic’s Introduction to the Wheel of the Year

What does it mean to live in rhythm with the Earth — when you barely have time to water your plants?

I first stumbled across the concept of the Wheel of the Year when I was just 15. I wasn’t yet juggling work, bills, and burnout — I was still navigating school days, teenage angst, and an unshakable feeling that something was missing. While others were prepping for exams or obsessing over their first crushes, I found myself drawn to something older, deeper, and strangely familiar: the cycles of the seasons, the phases of the moon, the quiet wisdom of nature.

Back then, it started with curiosity. The idea that time wasn’t just linear, but cyclical — that the Earth moved in sacred rhythms, and that we could honor those rhythms — lit something in me that I didn’t yet have words for. I read books, printed rituals off sketchy websites, and celebrated sabbats in secret with a single candle on my windowsill.

Over the years, that quiet spark grew into a deep-rooted practice. One that’s followed me through early adulthood, burnout recovery, and the balancing act of modern life. And somewhere along the way, I stopped just following the Wheel — and started reshaping it to match the world I actually live in.

Picture from Freepik

A Sacred Patchwork: The (Re)Construction of the Wheel

Let’s start with something important to be aware of: the Wheel of the Year, as it's known today, is a modern construction. Rooted in reverence, yes — but also in reconstruction. It was popularized in the mid-20th century by Wicca, especially through figures like Gerald Gardner and Doreen Valiente, who wove together elements from ancient Celtic, Norse, and British folk traditions with ceremonial magic and modern mysticism.

Some of the festivals in the Wheel — like Samhain or Beltane — do have solid roots in pre-Christian Celtic calendars. Others, like Mabon or Ostara, are much fuzzier. Ostara, for instance, is loosely inspired by a mention of a goddess “Eostre” in the writings of Bede — but there’s no archaeological or folkloric evidence that this was a widespread celebration. It’s poetic. It’s symbolic. But it's not ancient in the way many assume.

And that’s okay.

Just like languages evolve, so do spiritual practices. The Wheel of the Year was never meant to be a carbon copy of the past — it’s a tool. A compass. A living rhythm that we’re invited to adapt, question, and reclaim. That said, it’s important to stay honest about where things really come from. There’s a tendency, especially in some New Age and pagan circles, to mythologize origins — to present something as more ancient than it actually is, as if age alone makes it more valid or sacred. But meaning isn’t measured by how old something is. It’s measured by how deeply it resonates — now. And for spiritual practices to truly nourish us, they need to be flexible. They need to grow with us. The Wheel of the Year only remains alive if it stays connected to real, modern life — evolving with our cities, our seasons, our struggles, and our selves.

The Traditional Wheel — Wiccan Wheel of the Year

Here’s the basic structure of the modern Wheel of the Year — eight sabbats spaced throughout the year, often described as marking the turning points of the seasons. Four of them are solar festivals, rooted in astronomical events: the solstices and equinoxes, when the balance of light and dark in the sky visibly shifts. The other four are known as cross-quarter days. These fall roughly halfway between the solar festivals and were historically observed in agrarian and Celtic cultures as seasonal turning points tied to the land: the return of milk, planting time, the first harvest, and the ancestral new year.

While these cross-quarter festivals aren’t directly tied to astronomical events, they are deeply seasonal — often connected to the lunar cycle in modern practice. Many witches and pagans (myself included) choose to celebrate them according to the nearest full or new moon, which feels more intuitively aligned with the energetic tone of each sabbat.

The Eight Sabbats

• Yule (Winter Solstice, around December 21): Rebirth of the sun, returning light

• Imbolc (February 1 or 2nd full moon of the year): Brigid’s flame, stirring of the soil

• Ostara (Spring Equinox, around March 21): Balance, fertility, awakening

• Beltane (May 1 or 5th full moon of the year): Fire, sensuality, union

• Litha (Summer Solstice, around June 21): Power, fullness, the height of the sun

• Lughnasadh (August 1 or 8th full moon of the year): First harvest, effort, gratitude

• Mabon (Autumn Equinox, around September 23): Second harvest, balance, letting go

• Samhain (October 31 or 11th new moon of the year): Death, ancestors, end and beginning

Together, these eight spokes of the Wheel mark a rhythmic dance between sky and soil, sun and moon, and outer light and inner shifts — reminding us that time isn’t just something to manage, but something to move with. This, let’s call it the classic Wheel of the Year, is beautiful — poetic, rich in symbolism, deeply intuitive. But for me, something shifted once I started asking not just what I was celebrating, but why. That is why, after more than two decades on this path, my Wheel doesn’t quite match the Wiccan model anymore. It’s messier. More intuitive. More… alive.

My Personal Take: What I Actually Celebrate

Over the years, my celebrations have become less about following a fixed map and more about responding to the energy of the season — in real time, in the real world. I don’t observe every sabbat just because it’s on the calendar. Some pass quietly. Others arrive with a bang of ritual, reflection, or even just a long walk and a hot drink under the full moon.

For example, I no longer call the spring equinox Ostara. Not because I don’t honor the turning of the season — I absolutely do — but because the name itself feels more like a modern invention than an authentic part of my practice. I simply call it what it is: the spring equinox. Light returning, days growing longer, life waking up, a balance between light and dark.

Lughnasadh, on the other hand, has taken on a unique flavor in my life. Celebrated around the same time as Swiss National Day, it blends harvest themes with modern festivity — BBQs, community gatherings, the smell of grilled vegetables in the air. It's not textbook, but it’s meaningful. It lands.

And while the traditional Wheel places specific sabbats on fixed solar dates, I find myself aligning more with lunar rhythms — celebrating Imbolc, Beltane, or Lammas when they feel present. Often it’s a full moon, sometimes just a quiet, unmistakable sense that the season is shifting. For me, these moments aren’t always tied to a specific day, but to a certain quality of time. A feeling in the air, a shift in energy. When it feels right, I celebrate.

So no, my Wheel isn’t tidy. It doesn’t always follow the rules. But it’s mine — rooted in intention, guided by experience, and always evolving with the life I’m actually living, not an idealized version of what pagan practice “should” look like.

Paganism as a Living Practice

What I’ve learned over the years is this: paganism isn’t a performance. It’s not about how many herbs are in your apothecary or how many sabbats you celebrate perfectly. It’s a relationship — to the seasons, the land, your body, your ancestors, your gods, and your own truth. The Wheel of the Year is a beautiful framework. But like any framework, it should support you — not confine you. It should root you, not restrict you. And it should grow with you, as all living paths do.

What’s Next?

Over the next few months, I’ll be sharing personal reflections on each of the sabbats — how I celebrate them, what they mean to me, and how you can shape them to fit your own urban, modern, messy, magical life. The first one is already live and it's all about Litha — the high heat of summer and how it plays out beyond flower crowns and bonfires. Because whether you’re dancing barefoot in a field or lighting incense between Zoom calls, you deserve a spirituality that meets you where you are.