Do crows have accents?
That may seem like a poor attempt at humor, but hear me out. The crows in Ireland seem to sound different than the ones you find in the Great White North.
In Ireland, their voices are softer, higher pitched. In Canada, they are harsh, loud, and seem to be accusing us of forgetting. Unlike Ireland, rich in history, mythology, and all the stories that go along with it, I find that we have cast aside the past in favor of progress.
Are they screaming? Using their harsh tone in an attempt to remind us? Begging us to reconnect with the land and all who came before?
Airmid's Cairn
Bones of the Ancients
lie undisturbed
within the heart
of Airmid's Cairn
Message from the Crows
Put down your fancy gadgets
the "distractors"
your escape from reality
with their false light
put pen to paper
and remember
Knock Knock
Artwork by Scott Brundage
I don’t know exactly how to put into words what working with Baba Yaga is like. I am not of Slavic descent, nor had I invested any time researching Slavic Paganism. The only connection I can offer is a few years of Ukrainian dance and that was a lifetime ago.
She showed up out of nowhere, in Ireland of all places and while I was elbows deep in a Morrigan pilgrimage. It seems that Baba Yaga likes to catch you off guard, your defenses down and open to whatever energies or deities come forward. Cerridwen and I had a long term relationship, having put things on hold so that I could focus on my work with The Morrigan. I met the Cailleach at Loughcrew and it wasn’t long before I sensed another presence. It definitely wasn’t The Morrigan, I was certain of that. No, this was someone new. Because I was in Ireland, I assumed it was Maeve, but the energy seemed off. So I decided to wait it out and just let things progress because there was no point in doing otherwise.
So she followed me home, Old Bony Legs. She made herself known and also made it clear that there was much Work ahead. She doesn’t need you to be Slavic. She doesn’t need you to be anything but yourself. But I will offer you this bit of advice. She does need you to be honest. Don’t even think about bullshitting her. She won’t hesitate to call you on it and she won’t be gentle when she does.
When the Gods retreat
The Morrigan’s Cave, Ireland 2015 photo by Sidhe Writes
I was a member of the Sisterhood of Avalon when the Morrigan arrived at my door. Not so much knocking gently but hammering mercilessly, demanding to be heard. My time with the Sisterhood was coming to an end and I made the decision to accept the Morrigan’s invitation. The work before me was beyond challenging. It was frightening and I spent most of my time up to my eyeballs in shit, for lack of a better term.
I knew better than to formally dedicate myself to her because she is notoriously tough and, as I would soon learn, unforgiving. I was tasked with a pretty major project, requiring a great deal of my time and energy. One afternoon, I was grumbling and acting like a child. I tripped and fell, resulting in an immensely painful hairline fracture. The lesson? Acts of service must be done without complaint.
I returned to Ireland and the cave. I was fully prepared to venture down and deepen my relationship with Herself. Much to my dismay, that was not her plan. I was to wait outside, holding space for those who made the journey within. I asked myself why I was deemed unworthy. What did I do wrong? What didn’t I do right? Her answer was that I was doing the Work that she needed. I was indeed worthy or I would not have been asked to hold space and ensure the well-being of those whose own Work lie within the cave.
One day, not long after my return home, the Morrigan told me that I was to clear off my altar. I assumed this was in preparation for more Work and did as I was told. I waited for further instruction as to where we were going from here. Nothing could have prepared me for her answer. Our work together was done.
Even after two decades, I find my practice as a polytheist to be a delicate balancing act. My time with the Sisterhood helped tremendously, as I worked with 5 Welsh Goddesses for a period of three years. Experiencing the ebb and flow of their presence in my life and as a focal point of my practice was enriching and stabilizing for me. But at no point did I consider that any of them would end our relationship. I foolishly believed that I was at the helm. So when the Morrigan left, I experienced a tremendous sense of loss and overwhelming grief. I couldn’t understand why she would abandon me. I see now that was part of the Work I was meant to do with her. To learn that the Gods are not at our disposal. They are not obligated to us in any way and are free to leave at any point, if that is what is needed.
I realized that this entire experience would not have happened at all if I were not open to it and capable of dealing with it, regardless of the pain it caused. I now understand that the reason the Morrigan had to leave was to make way for someone else, who would build on what we started and change my life in ways I could never have imagined.
Corvids
Corvids take to the sky
surveying the landscape
as only they can
with generations of understanding
Stone walls
cascading down rolling hills of green
Cottages
changing hands
through the generations
Crumbling ruins
still withstanding
the test of time
The trees
whispering stories
hidden language
Corvids return to their home
to ponder the world
as only they can
through the eyes of ancients
October 1887
“October 1887” by Frank O’Meara on display at Hugh Lane Gallery Oct. 2016
She calls to you, beckons you forward
Speaking to you in whispers, she shares her secrets
Perhaps a prophecy, things yet to come
connected to things that have been
Some threads need to be pulled
the tapestry will not unravel
You can mend it, stitch together the torn edges
That is part of the work, you see.
Not many people visit
Some don’t even notice me.
Quiet reminder
A small smudge
the brightest green
a souvenir
from Heapstown Cairn
My manifestation quartz pendant, charging among the moss at Heapstown Cairn.
Where is Wisdom to be found?
"Here the Seeker, as a hawk, flies into the heart of their own darkness. Into Aisling, dream-vision. There to seize the nut of wisdom and exit with the dream-secret intact."
This statue was carved out of sycamore by Michael Quirke, the Woodcarver of Sligo. I met Mr. Quirke in 2015 and had the honor of an hour-long visit, during which time I watched him work and listened to him retell the myths. Upon my return the following autumn, I spent yet another hour with him and requested this piece for my sacred space. It remains one of my most treasured belongings.
Heapstown Cairn
Very much alive
untouched
laying in slumber
Energy builds
to be experienced
by those who
do not visit
with the intent to take
but rather
to share
in a moment
The Other Crowd are strong at Heapstown. They're all around you, luring you into all the little nooks and crannies.
Time seems to have no meaning. What feels like just a few moments is actually 30 minutes. What feels like 30 minutes is over an hour. What seems like an hour is closer to three. Everyone seems to have the same reaction. They feel themselves fading into the Otherworld and go willingly. There isn't any amount of time that is long enough and when we finally accept that it is indeed time to leave, we do so very slowly, pausing every few steps to take it all in.
I was pulled into a small grove, bathed in green. I stood there, dumbstruck. Uncertain what to say, I broke the rules.
"Thank you."
I regretted it as soon as the words left my lips. That is the number one thing you NEVER say to the Good Neighbors. To thank them indicates an acknowledgement of debt and if there is one thing you do not want, it is to be indebted to them.
I searched in vain for something to say, some way to make it right. I removed a piece of Labradorie from my pocket, placing it on a branch. The intent was to photograph it in this beautiful setting. The moss would be a gorgeous backdrop.
It remained there for only a second before tumbling to the ground. this unintended gift, lost to me forever, but hopefully well-received.
IN ORDER FOR AN OFFERING TO HAVE VALUE,
IT MUST BE A SACRIFICE.
You're only as strong as you are at any given moment
Even stone fences
when pushed
will fall apart
What a difference some orange juice and a megalithic site can make
I climbed the stairs to the cairn at Knowth and took in the view. There it is. Ireland. The wind was strong but soft and seemed to wash away whatever was keeping me stuck. How could anyone stay in a funk when surrounded by all this beauty?
On to Newgrange. They didn't allow any photos in the passageway itself. I still was feeling jetlagged and rather out of sorts, so I don't know if my experience would have been different if I felt otherwise.
We waited our turn outside, taking photos and chatting. Once it was time, we fell into line and proceeded inside. It wasn't nearly as large as I thought it would be. I allowed everyone else to leave and in doing so, had the inner sanctum to myself for a few moments. It was quite impressive. I asked a few questions and marveled at the space. Then, I made my way out through the passageway and back into the open air.
10th Century Riddle concerning the manufacture of vellum
Photo by Photos.com/PHOTOS.com>> / Getty Images
One of my enemies ended my life
sapped my world strength, afterward soaked me
wetted in water
set me in the sun, where soon I lost
the hairs which I had
and then the hard knife edge cut me
Fingers folded me, and feather of bird
traced all over my tawny surface
with drops of delight
Then, for trappings a man
bound me with boards, bent hide over me
glossed me with gold, and so I glistened
wondrous in smithwork, wire encircled
Say what I am called
Useful to man
Mighty my name is
A help to heroes, and holy am I
Author Unknown
A day at Trinity College, Dublin
Each footfall carried her further into the past
the cobblestone under her feet
grounding
Ancient vibrations
circulating
filling her with a sense of awe
Willing herself
to still her mind
and absorb
Microscopic brilliance
left behind
but not abandoned
Companions and adversaries
grand inspirations and hushed conversations
echo through the ages
Monastic manuscript
spiritually inspired artistry
calfskin transformed
Survivor of raids and wars
decorated with indigo, lead, and copper
now speaks quietly from beneath a class enclosure
The human tide
moving ever forward
building up momentum
Once again
stilling her mind
wishing them away
She stands among
the ancient texts
piled to the ceiling
Carefully guarded
by marble busts
and the spirits of those who once were
The circuit completed
she steps out into the sun
forever changed
At The Ford
Photo - actress Rachel O'Byrne. https://dublintheatrefestival.com/Online/At_The_Ford
Not someone you’d want to meet, the Washer at the Ford. The Bean Nighe. Certainly not someone you’d want in charge of your laundry. For if she sets to washing for you, it is your burial garb she’s fretting over. It is said that the Bean Nighe are the spirits of women who died in childbirth, cursed to this work until the time when they would have died naturally.
Playwright Gavin Kostick uses themes drawn from Celtic Mythology to bring forward a story that takes place in contemporary Irish society. A brilliant, raw, visceral portrayal of a family both brought together by tragedy and torn apart tragically.
“A dead man’s room overlooking the sea. With bruised hearts and shredded reputations, three siblings sift through the rubble of their crumbling family empire, each attempting to steer their own course to survival. Putting fortunes at stake and with no one to trust, family bonds are pushed to their limits. Do we shape our own destiny, or are the sins of previous generations – and their repercussions – an inescapable fate for those left behind?”
I am no stranger to live theatre, having seen everything from small local shows to expensive, full scale productions. “At The Ford” takes its place among some of the best performances I’ve seen. Even those unfamiliar with the mythology will identify with the underlying themes, brought to life by Aonghus Óg McAnally, Rachel O’Byrne, and Ian Toner.
The New Theatre is located in the old Temple Bar area of Dublin. You access it by walking through Connolly Books, an amazing bookshop that I wish I’d taken the time to return to. I am sure if I had, I would have made some marvelous discoveries.
A collection of thoughts, lasting impressions, a gift to Ireland
Trad night at Clancy's Bar.
One night, as we gathered for supper, Thorn asked us to choose a line from something we'd written that we felt best represented our personal journey to Ireland. Something that spoke to us and that we would carry with us.
Each of us wrote our chosen line on a sheet of paper. Thorn took the sheet back to her cabin and in the quiet hours of the night, combined those lines into a shared poem.
A stream at St. Brigid's Well.
I keep trying to photograph things that can’t be photographed.
I came in search of lush green land and found instead Fae Magic’s hand
This is a basilica of life
This is a place of truth, fierceness and hard edges
The trees talk louder here
Rocks have stories, ancient and bold
They sing to those who listen
Silent, resting, awaiting resurrection
The stones are a witness across time
storing memories
The thistle calls out to me
The poet’s voice interlaced with threads of Ireland’s troubles
On the hills and in the caves, gnosis lies hidden, but we know truth
The sun winked through the clouds at Loughcrew Cairn
red as an Asian poppy in the equinox sky
I thought I couldn’t be happier
then Tiffany danced
Scones, lovingly made by Claire.
Path to St. Brigid's Well.
I am the land, the land is me
These rocks, these stones
this wind and loam,
this sky
These rocks, these stones
this wind and loam,
this sky
I am the land
the land is me
(land is me)
Every forest
and every sea
(every sea)
We are vast and shining
filled with light
Life is flowing
Life is moving
Life is rising now
Life is flowing
Life is moving
Life is rising now
Written by T. Thorn Coyle
Sunset at Riverhaven.
The song was written by Thorn, who taught it to us as we sat on the bus. Soon, it became our anthem, with Thorn both leading the song and keeping time on her Bodhran as we travelled along.
Sheep, watching the Pilgrims ascend the slopes of Carrowkeel.
Cottage down the road from the Hill of Tara.
The entrance to the Tree Labyrinth at Carrowcrory Cottage.
At Heapstown Cairn
A Promise at the Well
We stood
calling to Brigid
Asking nothing
for ourselves
But rather
offering to leave
something behind
A soothing balm
Not to replace
But to bring balance
We were told the story
of the sacred stone
now part of
some posh foreigner’s
art collection
To be ripped from the ground
and transported
so far from home
to be possessed
instead of appreciated
honored
shared
Thousands of stories
such as this
Thousands of
bits and pieces
taken
for no other reason
than the assumption
they won’t be missed
So we stood
calling to Brigid
Making an offering
from our hearts
To sooth the pain
To heal the wounds
An attempt to bring balance
For far too much has already
been taken
The Hare in the Moon
She sat making notes about where she was heading, when to meet for lunch, and (most importantly) what time she needed to be back. She didn't want anyone to be waiting on her, much less a bus full of Pilgrims.
As they stepped out into the morning sun, they surveyed the area and headed toward their predetermined destinations. Some would remain on the bus and head to Yeat's Grave. She had decided to explore Sligo with the others, taking advantage of a shopping day.
The woodcarver's shop was easy to find and once they stepped inside, they were greeted with a smile and a friendly hello.
Two wooden statues were chosen from the window and he was more than happy to treat the Pilgrims to a retelling of the myths that inspired them. Taking a piece of paper from his cluttered workspace, he wrote down the story as he spoke, so that they would remember.
"The Girl of Many Gifts" - photo by Sky F https://skyaisling.wordpress.com/
Photo by Sky F https://skyaisling.wordpress.com/
An hour had passed and it was time to go. She wanted to be certain not simply to wave and say thank you over her shoulder as she left, but to look him in the eye.
"I wanted to be sure to tell you that Vyv sent us. She said to say hello but wasn't sure if she'd be able to drop by today."
"Well then, you'll need something to prove you were here. What is your favorite animal?"
"A hare.", she replied.
He moved to his saw and cut a small square of wood from a plank. Turning to the vice, he clamped it in place and began carving, telling another story as he worked.
"It was thought that hares weren't very common here in Ireland. But the truth is, they are so good at hiding, they are rarely seen."
Photo by Tiffany Lazic, author of "The Great Work". http://www.hiveandgrove.ca/
The carving finished, he removed it from the vice and handed it to her.
"Here you go. Thank you for coming to see me."
It wasn't simply the gift of the carving, but the opportunity to hear him tell the stories and to experience the passion with which he told them. The heart and soul of Ireland resides in those stories and in the people who are kind enough to share them.
