Remembering our skills at Lughnasadh

In 2005 I was lucky enough to attend one of Tim and Steve's performance/readings of the book, which involved projections of the photos, Tim reading, and great musical performances by Martin Hayes, Dennis Cahill, Mairtin O’Connor, Iarla O’Leonard and Karen Casey. Perhaps this has something to do with the deep impression the book has made on me, but the quality and content of the writing, and Pike's stark images are enough in themselves. One of the most memorable and popular parts of the book is a short chapter which begins with the phrase "What I could do". It is the central character's recollection, by way of a simple list, of his abilities and accomplishments as a young man still in Ireland.

What I could do.
I could mend nets. Thatch a roof. Build stairs. Make a basket from reeds. Splint the leg of a cow. Cut turf. Build a wall. Go three rounds with Joe in the ring Da put up in the barn. I could dance sets. Read the sky. Make a barrel for mackerel. Mend roads. Make a boat. Stuff a saddle. Put a wheel on a cart. Strike a deal. Make a field. Work the swarth turner, the float and the thresher. I could read the sea. Shoot straight. Make a shoe. Shear sheep. Remember poems. Set potatoes. Plough and harrow. Read the wind. Tend hens. Bind wyndes. Make a coffin. Take a drink. I could frighten you with stories. I knew the song to sing to a cow when milking. I could play twenty-seven tunes on my accordion.

"Who are you yourself?" said the door-keeper. I am Lugh, son of Cian of the Tuatha de Danaan, and of Ethlinn, daughter of Balor, King of the Fomor," he said; "and I am foster-son of Taillte, daughter of the King of the Great Plain, and of Echaid the Rough, son of Duach." "What are you skilled in?" said the door-keeper; "for no one without an art comes into Teamhair." "Question me," said Lugh; "I am a carpenter." "We do not want you; we have a carpenter ourselves, Luchtar, son of Luachaid." "Then I am a smith" "We have a smith ourselves, Colum Cuaillemech of the Three New Ways." "Then I am a champion." "That is no use to us; we have a champion before, Ogma, brother to the king." "Question me again," he said; "I am a harper." "That is no use to us; we have a harper ourselves, Abhean, son of Bicelmos, that the Men of the Three Gods brought from the bills." "I am a poet," he said then, "and a teller of tales." "That is no use to us; we have a teller of tales ourselves, Erc, son of Ethaman." "And I am a magician." "That is no use to us; we have plenty of magicians and people of power." "I am a physician," he said. "That is no use; we have Diancecht for our physician." "Let me be a cup-bearer," he said. "We do not want you; we have nine cup-bearers ourselves." "I am a good worker in brass". "We have a worker in brass ourselves, that is Credne Cerd." Then Lugh said: "Go and ask the king if he has anyone man that can do all these things, and if he has, I will not ask to come into Teamhair." The door-keeper went into the king's house then and told him all that. "There is a young man at the door," he said, "and his name should be the Ildánach, the Master of all Arts, for all the things the people of your house can do, he himself is able to do every one of them." "Try him with the chess-boards," said Nuada. So the chess-boards were brought out, and every game that was played, Lugh won it. And when Nuada was told that, he said: "Let him in, for the like of him never came into Teamhair before."

Then the door-keeper let him pass, and he came into the king's house and sat down in the seat of knowledge. And there was a great flag-stone there that could hardly be moved by four times twenty yoke of oxen, and Ogma took it up and hurled it out through the house so that it lay on the outside of Teamhair, as a challenge to Lugh. But Lugh hurled it back again that it lay in the middle of the king's house. He played the harp for them then, and he had them laughing and crying, till he put them asleep at the end with a sleepy tune. And when Nuada saw all these things Lugh could do, he began to think that by his help the country might get free of the taxes and the tyranny put on it by the Fomor. And it is what he did, he came down from his throne, and he put Lugh on it in his place, for the length of thirteen days, the way they might all listen to the advice he would give.

In honour of the season of Lughnasadh, I'd like to offer you an idea. You might like to use it as a journaling exercise, turn it into a meditation, or use it as part of a Lughnasadh ritual. Sit down and make a list of "What you could/can do". You can make the list long, and divide it into categories, if you like, or you can limit it to a set number of the things you're proudest of.

Some thoughts on the coming of Lugh.

He raced the waves along the strand; he gathered apples sweeter than honey from trees with crimson blossoms: and wonderful birds came to play with him. Mananaun's daughter, Niav, took him, through woods where there were milk-white deer with horns of gold, and blackmaned lions and spotted panthers, and unicorns that shone like silver, and strange beasts that no one ever heard of; and all the animals were glad to see him, and he played with them and called them by their names.

"I see a kingly harp within reach of your hand," said Lugh.

"That is the harp of the Dagda. No one can bring music from that harp but himself. When he plays on it, the four Seasons--Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter- pass over the earth."

"I will play on it," said Lugh.

The harp was given to him.

Lugh played the music of joy, and outside the dun the birds began to sing as though it were morning and wonderful crimson flowers sprang through the grass--flowers that trembled with delight and swayed and touched each other with a delicate faery ringing as of silver bells. Inside the dun a subtle sweetness of laughter filled the hearts of every one: it seemed to them that they had never known gladness till that night.

Lugh played the music of sorrow. The wind moaned outside, and where the grass and flowers had been there was a dark sea of moving waters. The De Danaans within the dun bowed their heads on their hands and wept, and they had never wept for any grief.

Lugh played the music of peace, and outside there fell silently a strange snow. Flake by flake it settled on the earth and changed to starry dew. Flake by flake the quiet of the Land of the Silver Fleece settled in the hearts and minds of Nuada and his people: they closed their eyes and slept, each in his seat.

Lugh put the harp from him and stole out of the dun. The snow was still falling outside. It settled on his dark cloak and shone like silver scales; it settled on the thick curls of his hair and shone like jewelled fire; it filled the night about him with white radiance. He went back to his companions.

The sun had risen in the sky when the De Danaans awoke in Nuada's dun. They were light-hearted and joyous and it seemed to them that they had dreamed overnight a strange, beautiful dream.

"The Fomorians have not taken the sun out of the sky," said Nuada. "Let us go to the Hill of Usna and send to our scattered comrades that we may make a stand against our enemies."

How can we hold the knowledge we gain?

I will not dream another's sweet musings
when the truth is only partly known
the fruit is so sweet but of another knowledge

but face my own full on
naked in the darkness
and recognise that which has never been shown before
and dream it as my own

I will not share you with another
I cannot
for their knowledge would lack the spice of experience

I am the silver salmon driving out of the peat black water into the
daylight
Rising rising
Timeless and heavy 
Falling backwards into the darkness

    ~ from the poem Leaping Salmon by Anthony Dalby

This is part one of a two-part piece which I originally published as facebook notes in April of 2012. To the right, you can see one of the "prayer posters" I put on my bedroom wall at the time. Right next to a mirror by the door, where I couldn't miss it! It worked really well for me -- so much so that it became the inspiration for the meditation and prayer cards I now sell in my webshop. (They are quite a bit nicer than this poster, but I still hate to take it down.) Part two coming soon!

How we too easily get spooked when divining from nature.

Arthur Rackham's illustration for the ballad The Twa Corbies

This kind of thinking often comes into play, I find, when people are looking at cards in a reading. We've all heard it a thousand times:  the Death card in Tarot rarely refers to death, it usually refers to change. When working with my own oracle deck, which is made up of plants, animals and aspects of the landscape and weather, I often see people jumping to the conclusion that everything from nettles, to foxes to ruins must have negative connotations. My answer to this is that everything follows it's nature. It is not good or bad. A fox is just being a fox, a rook is just being a rook. What can we learn by observing them? That is the important question! As for the Twa Corbies. They are not evil birds. There is nothing spooky about them. After all, they didn't kill the knight, you can be sure. They are just helping to clean up, and putting his remains to good use in the process.

Go Deeper Reading

In depth reading by email.

$

40.00