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To remember that some forms of brilliance are inseparable from their briefness.**
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London based artist: Sarah Morgan
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Each August Sunset till morning Montréal — address shared privately with confirmed guests
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Sunset: 8:10 PM EDT Nautical twilight ends: 9:25 PM Astronomical twilight ends: 10:08 PM
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Guests arrive: ~8:00–8:30 pm Twilight rituals: 8:30–10:00 pm Night settles: 10:00 pm onward Best meteor viewing begins: after midnight, as Perseus climbs higher in the northeast. Sweet spot: 2:00–4:30 am. This is when we’ll likely see the highest rates. Dawn tea & breakfast: 5:30–6:30 am
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Each August, Earth finds its way through an ancient river of dust left behind by Comet Swift–Tuttle. Tiny fragments the size of a single grain of sand, and some older than our planet, become briefly luminous as they cross our atmosphere. Their brilliance is born through friction. Their appearance lasts only a heartbeat.
This year, we meet them beneath a new moon. With the moon hidden from view, the night offers some of its darkest skies, allowing even the faintest visitors a chance to be seen.
A mountain can become dust. Dust can become light. Light lasts less than a second. And yet someone remembers seeing it years later.
The Perseids remind us that not all beauty is meant to endure. As we keep vigil beneath a falling sky, we borrow the wisdom of these visitors.
Some things arrive only once. We will welcome them with reverence for:
Transformation
Brilliance is sometimes born through friction.
Thresholds
They exist for us only in passing. A meteor is an event, not an object.
Witnessing
No one can predict exactly where to look. Wonder asks for devoted attention, not certainty.
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Bring what helps you be comfortable and open:
nesting supplies: blanket, pillow, blow up mattress
warm layers, slippers for traversing the spiral stairs
a thermos or cup for tea
anything else that supports your ability to meet the night
toothbrush, journal, etc.
desired breakfast toppings
a sonic offering
poem story blessing question song spell silence you wish to share
Offer it only if the moment asks for it.
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We'll share a simple breakfast at dawn: warm oats, & yogurt. Bring along fruit and toppings to share.
If you feel called to tend the breakfast, let us know.
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You're welcome to remain completely sober or to invite a substance into your own experience. Whatever supports your way of meeting the night is welcome, so long as it expands your capacity for presence, care, and respect for those sharing the roof.
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This gathering is held by many hands.
Once you’ve said yes, you’ll be invited to choose how you’d like to help weave the evening.
Perhaps you’ll become a Threshold Keeper, tending one of the night’s crossings. Or perhaps you’ll dream up something we haven’t imagined yet: a ritual to share.
Every thread matters.
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We invite you to steward one threshold. Share a ritual of your own making, or one you’ve gathered from others and wish to share.
Please choose one place in which to tend to the night or make up your own:
( __ ) Arrival Keeper - welcomes each person into the gathering.
( __ ) Twilight Keeper - tends the moments as daylight disappears.
( __ ) Midnight Keeper - invites a deeper settling into stillness.
( __ ) Dream Keeper - offers final gestures before sleep.
( __ ) Dawn Keeper - welcomes the morning.
( __ ) Return Keeper - closes the vigil and helps us cross back into day.
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Small places to wander toward.
Nothing required. Everything optional.
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This is a witchy gathering. A place for curiosity, care, and reverence. The sky is falling: come witness it’s becoming.
Artist: Unknown
Leo New Moon and solar eclipse, the Perseids falling through the darkness, the beginning of eclipse season. And then the clouds came.
The thin veil obscured the stars. But slowly we realized the cloud cover was making something else visible: bats. So many bats. They had presumably been moving around us all along, hidden only because our attention had been fixed farther away.
It became the teaching of the evening.
The eclipse had already interrupted the Sun’s usual way of knowing: illumination, visibility, I see because there is light.
Then the bats offered another: creatures who orient through darkness, sending themselves outward and listening for what returns.
Snuggling in a warm bed on the rooftop, looking toward the heavens for radiant cosmic dust; the sky became illegible and asked us to look closer.
What becomes perceptible when what I came to see is obscured?
And perhaps: What has been moving close to me all along, hidden only because I was looking far off?