Old gods like Bel, or Belenos, who may or may not be Beli Mawr, have no story left at all. It sounds like a good bet to honour Him at Beltane, but that is only a guess. Like Don, and Lir, and Anu, there is nothing remaining of their stories. They are merely the first in lists. A distant point of origin. So how is it that we can still sometimes feel them?

Lugh, who was once Lugos in Gaul and Iberia, but it is in Ireland that His story is so rich. Hero, foster-son. Son of both the Tuatha De Danann and the Fomorians. Lugh, who killed his own grandfather in battle. The many-skilled one, leader of a skilled people. He returned to father Cú Chulainn in a dream, and returned again to confirm the sovereignty of Conn of the Hundred Battles. Or so they say. He may somehow be Lleu. Their stories are different but nothing is impossible here.

Nothing is impossible and nothing is forgotten, as they say. It’s just a bit kaleidoscopic. Fragmenting and re-forming into beautiful, light shattered images, which your soul immediately recognises, while your mind rebels at the strangeness, and you reach out for something solid to hold onto.

These were the first deities I knew, and they were hard to know, partly because I had no point of reference. No sense of how or where to read their stories or not-stories, I went forward, mostly blindly, for years. It’s a wonder I didn’t lose interest completely, but even the thread of their names, an occasional sense of their presence was something.

They are woven gently through the landscape of their homelands. Don’t only look for them in the stone circles and under dolmens – you can find them all over. Go to any path that follows running water. Between two hills with beautiful curves, or in a hazel copse. Tread the same path repeatedly, and the very energy raised by your footsteps will awaken them. Or so it was for me.
 
These are the gods who went into the hollow hills. They receded into the very atoms of the hollows of nature. They are in the here-not-here. They are right beside you.

And their stories are a thread along which they travel. Along which so much is communicated, is transmitted.  A thread along which they feel their way toward us – into our time, and along which we find our way through the dark to Them. When we speak their names and tell their stories – when we think about them, they glow a little brighter, become more solidly here. They have more agency in our world again.

I began to find their stories. Mostly the tangled web of Irish stories, and from this emerged Manannán mac Lir, the beautiful, wise, generous god of the sea. He may be named for the Isle of Man or the island may be named for Him. He must, somehow, be one with Manawydan fab Llyr – son of Beli Mawr, second husband of Rhiannon. It’s just that we don’t know how they are one.

Do not enter the realm of the Celtic gods if you want black and white answers. There are no certainties here. They are mist. They are sunbeams. They will not get their stories straight in order to reassure you. It’s all hide and seek through a maze of texts, manuscripts, and recensions. Genealogies that go in circles, and cognates that don’t quite work. Ducks that don’t walk like ducks, and swans that may be princesses.

Don’t get me wrong. Scholarship is rewarding here. Just temper it with patience, and with mysticism. Allow imagination. Give it all time. You can’t know it quickly, no matter how high an achiever you think you are.

The next I encountered was Epona. Having been shepherded along for years by the three or four I’ve mentioned, I was playing it pretty casual. Epona began to show up, letting me know this was real. Glorious Epona, horse goddess.

When I was pointed to Rhiannon, I knew they were not the same. Rhiannon, who they say, linguistically, might once have been Rigantona, if there ever was a Rigantona. And Teyron – who may have been Tigernonos. But Rhiannon and Teyrnon are enough, surely? But, oh, the Mabinogi! I have learned so much, keeping that under my pillow – a copy in every room of my house.

So much makes sense now. I can almost lay the cards out straight sometimes. Almost. I think back to that encounter I had with Mabon. I get in touch with Maponos. “Divine sons of divine mothers,” they say to me in slightly out-of-synch stereo. I’m fine with that. I’ve been under the earth, seen the prison. I understand the healing there, and the importance of setting it free.

I hear from Macha. Macha of the many Machas. Queens, warrior women, land goddesses – swift, shining ones. Macha of the triple Morrigan (although exactly which three of the four …). Macha, horse goddess, who is not Rhiannon, who is not Epona. I see them travelling together more and more, these days. Herd mothers. Mare mothers. Horse queens.

Macha is looking over my shoulder. Reminding me that we have things to do. Mabon wants us to unblock the healing springs. To unblock the dammed up door to the gods. The door of myth. There is help, and healing, and wisdom behind that door!

There is always more. Ogmios. Who, they say, linguistically, cannot quite have become Ogma. God of poetry and eloquence. God of strength and writing, and a sunny countenance. He leads his followers by silver chains from his golden tongue to their enchanted ears. They follow him willingly, as I follow this misty path – preferring beauty to logic, every time.

One morning last week I decided to do a candle meditation, instead of my usual "eyes shut" style. No sooner had I begun to gaze at the flame than I received this message/download or whatever name you want to give it. When it came to an end, I wondered whether I would be able to recall it to write it down, but that also seemed to be fairly easy. I am thinking about maybe recording it as an audio, later on. Let me know if you think that would be a good idea!

As my regular readers know, I have spent a lot of time thinking and writing about Bride and The Cailleach in Scotland. Over the years I have learned just how rich and varied the material we have about cailleachs is, but the more I read, the more I come to the conclusion that no folklorist has really made sense of things, and it isn't something that you can do justice to in a blog post, no matter how many citations you might include.

The modern Pagan practice of talking about "The Cailleach" as if she is one entity is prone to reduce her to a sort of archetype. (Archetypes aren't my favourite approach to spirituality and I consider them something of an insult to deity.) When I started looking at what both early and modern folklorists have to say about her, not to mention modern Pagan writers, I decided that attempting an overview would be a tangled mess I don't have the patience for. One that enough writers have either struggled with or glossed over. However, I have provided a plethora of links, both in the text and at the end, in case you want to explore further. 

If Celtic mythology is fragmented and confusing, folklore is even trickier. One reason it challenges us in these times is that by its nature folklore is more localised. People have always moved around, but the scale, frequency and distance are all increasing too fast for highly localised folklore to keep up. And cailleachs tend to belong to specific points in the landscape. Does that mean that cailleachs are an endangered species? I don't know. I don't think so, but I don't claim to understand their seeming resilience, and I am uncomfortable with the idea that human belief has the power to change the essence of the gods/not gods. All I can say is that perception of cailleachs/The Cailleach is certainly changing. Where a few centuries ago she was a character who was generally respected but dreaded, she seems to be moving inexorably toward something a little more benevolent. That's easy to believe, from the comfort of a 21st century lifestyle, where winter storms are no longer a threat to life or livelihood, but I think it's a long way from the truth.

My first encounter with The Cailleach was in folklore concerning The Island of Jura collected by Iain Og Ile (The folklorist John Francis Campbell of Islay). These, and the stories of The Cailleach washing her plaid in the Corryvreckin whirlpool off the coast of Jura were of special interest to me because I used to frequently visit Islay, which is very close to Jura, and from which one constantly sees The Paps of Jura. Then of course there were stories of The Cailleach and Bride, so elaborately told by D. A. Mackenzie, but very likely not an original piece of folklore in the form he published. Over time I came to know more folklore connecting cailleachs to deer, the weather, creation of the landscape, and so on. I came later to know about the Irish folklore of cailleachs, and it's fascinating, too.

Most people today first encounter cailleachs on the internet. A picture of a winter hag, a well or badly written blog post, and a general assumption that all cailleachs are just facets of The Cailleach. It is in the landscape that you will find her. Or Her. The one, the many. Perhaps that is cailleach nature - to be in many landscapes. To be there whether you recognise her or not.

So what of March 25th as Latha na Caillich (Day of the Cailleach)? This date has been important as The Feast of the Annunciation or Lady Day since at least medieval times, and was even used as the first day of the legal/taxation year for several centuries in England. It is an English "quarter day", but not a Scottish one. However, it is very close to the Vernal Equinox, no matter what religion or government you recognise, and this is generally a time of heavy spring storms in coastal Britain and Ireland. If the battle between winter and spring seems to begin in February, with a mixture of warmer days and harsh storms, the the final blow-out of the equinoctial gales of late March is the end. A few days after the actual date of the equinox usually sees more settled weather, and this is probably how Lady Day came to be Latha na Caillich.

You only have to read my poem Cailleach Rant to know that I feel great admiration and respect for her. And so I will honour her today, even though I'm not entirely sure that it is particularly traditional to do so. Like others, I have a tendency to conflate different cailleach stories and to honour a figure who was traditionally only feared. In Scotland, she has always been a personification of winter storms, and perhaps now that we have stupidly overheated our world we realise that we need her. I question, though, whether she has much interest in the desires of humanity. Before you paint her as a mother goddess, know this: She has always been a misanthrope. A guardian of deer and boar, of high, wild places, a fighter for wildness, a lover of stone and ice. We could use her on our side, indeed, but we would need to be on Hers, first.

Links
Some of these are also linked in the text above, but it seemed better to repeat them here.

Latha na Caillich A discussion of this day as a holiday from Brian Walsh

La na Caillich An in-depth look at the day from the excellent Tairis site, with many citations

Fools, Cuckoos, The Lady and The Devil - another discussion of La na Caillich, this time from Scott Richardson-Read, including citations

Cailleach folklore in John Francis Campbell's Popular Tales from the West Highlands, including the story of MacPhie and the Cailleach, set on Jura

Beira, Queen of Winter - D A Mackenzie's possibly fanciful telling of the story of Bride, Angus and The Cailleach

Bride and the Cailleach - a good exploration of their possible relationship, with many citations, at Tairis

The Cailleach, or Hag of Winter - a very interesting collection of cailleach stories from folklorist Stuart McHardy

Cailleach Beinn na Bric - translation of a Gaelic poem concerning the Cailleach, interesting for the concepts it contains.  You may need to scroll up one page for the introduction.

The Book of the Cailleach - this is a scholarly review of Gearóid Ó Crualaoich's book of the same name by folklorist John Shaw. Included because it provides an interesting discussion on Cailleach folklore in Ireland

The Witch of Jura - a brief telling of the MacPhie legend

Coming of the Cailleach in the British Isles - a mixed bag of information from Rachel Patterson

It's starting. Can you feel it? The light has already changed so obviously here in Oregon. Something is waking up in me. I am not usually depressed around MIdwinter. I love the dark and the long nights, and don't mind being alone at this time like some people do. But I have been deeply depressed recently.

Yesterday morning was not the first day I noticed the change in the light, but it was the first morning that it broke through my gloom and touched me in some physical way. Got through my skin. As often happens around Imbolc, a new poem for Brigid came to me.

Yes, Imbolc is coming. We think of snowdrops, and increasing light, of Brigid and the Cailleach. Some consider it a time of ascendency for the Rowan tree. I have been wanting to share a little something about this poem, called "Song" by Seamus Heaney for awhile now.

I love this for many reasons.  Each mention of tree and flower seems to bring the spirit of that plant to me. The red berried rowan which has associations with witchcraft and protection, the alder which so often has its feet in the water, the rushes, the immortelles - which is another name for Helichrysum, those little button-like flowers that dry so beautifully. Then there is birdsong and "mud flowers" and dialect. It's a lot in eight lines! And the music of what happens. What about that? Well, it's referencing this:

So now you know. It's a bit Zen, isn't it? I find myself so frustrated by what is happening in our world. But I can only do what is given to me to do. Sometimes I have to accept that I am caught up in events much greater than myself, events not of my making. In the story, Stephens goes on the say that Fionn loved what happened and "would not evade it by the swerve of a hair". We spend a lot of time thinking about how to evade what might happen, not stopping to think that our energy is better spent dealing with whatever is before us. That we are better off responding to life with all the strength and beauty we can muster. That was always Fionn's way.

As the season of Imbolc comes, and Brigid walks the land, I always feel Her fiery inspiration. There is work to do.

I have recently created a chapbook of some of my other poems about Brigid and the Cailleach, written over the years. This little book is a handy size to use in rituals and devotional work.

These must be among the first verses I ever read from the Carmina Gadelica. They are two of many verses which have to do with Bride's Day, or Imbolc. If I'm honest, living here in Colorado is getting me down. Rather than looking forward to spring as I would wish to, I find myself merely dreading another summer that will be too hot and dry, and so I've been struggling to muster enthusiasm for the coming holiday of Imbolc. But a couple of hours ago, something quite small and wonderful happened. I found this:

He or she was neatly folded between two flakes of hay, in a bale I opened to feed the horses. It felt like a sign. If anybody ever needed a sign, it was me, so I'll take it as so. I already had the beginnings of a poem in my head, but it had been refusing to form. My little serpent muse did the trick, however. So here is my poem.

This card came up as my personal daily draw recently, and I thought I would give this essay an airing on the blog - although I wrote it some time ago. It seems appropriate to the season, as many  celebrate Latha na Caillich (Day of the Cailleach) on March 25th.

Imagine standing, looking at a mountain, knowing you are going to have to climb it. Okay, for some people, mountain climbing is an enjoyable sport, but if you fall into that category, chances are you have still felt daunted by the prospect at times. Perhaps you thought "I'm afraid the weather is against me today," or "It looks scarier than it did in the guidebook," or "I wish I'd brought more rope." However, the seasoned mountain climber knows that you can only climb one step at a time, so all you can do is begin, and see whether you can do it. Very often, it's those of us who stand at the bottom making up stories to frighten ourselves, or who simply feel like we can't be bothered, who suffer the most. We are afraid of failing, afraid of falling, prefer not to leave our comfort zone, and yet, somehow we know that until we make the attempt, we are going to be a little bit miserable, knowing that it's still ahead of us.

The Paps of Jura- J Samara
Mountain - Resistance and perceived difficulty. The results of bad temper or anger.

In the 1960s, Donovan wrote the song There Is a Mountain, about illusion and perceived reality. The refrain went

The thing is - this card is about perceived difficulty. It's about our fears and our excuses, and our million and one avoidance techniques. After all - what is "difficulty" but a transient experience, a brief challenge or unpleasant period. While we can spend months, years, even an entire lifetime, sitting at the bottom of the mountain eaten up by our emotions, losing respect for ourselves, dreading it. It's enough to make us very angry.

Anger, of course, is the other aspect of this card. In Scotland in particular, and also in Ireland, many mountains have associations with a character known as the Cailleach. There is no simple tale that I can tell you, to explain the Cailleach. The stories are quite varied and often very local, and in areas where Gaelic was not the common language she is sometimes known as the "Carlin" (old woman or witch). She is also usually a giant.

As well as her associations with many high mountains, such as Ben Nevis and the Paps of Jura, the Cailleach is associated with deer, with winter and bad weather, with holding prisoners (including the goddess Bride) and other general mayhem. The very dangerous, and very real, Corryvreckan whirlpool is also hers. She may have existed in some form before the coming of the Celtic tribes, as a weather goddess, perhaps, whose story was later interwoven with the Celtic pantheon at a local level. A common theme in her stories is her anger at being old and ugly, and her desire to make others suffer, too - by keeping them in the grip of winter, by holding them prisoner, by raising storms and so on. At the same time - there are many stories telling how she created aspects of local landscapes. I guess she was able to put that anger to good use!

I believe the Cailleach, with her anger and frustration exists in all of us. The prisoners we hold are often ourselves. The anger is really aimed inward, although we may make life unpleasant for others by expressing it. The more negative aspects of the Cailleach are a great example to us of how not to live our lives - in anger and, bitterness, trying to control others and cause them trouble. We do not make things easier for ourselves with this behaviour, we just trap ourselves in a discouraging and repetitive cycle. Every time we do this, we make the mountain a little higher - or at least we think we do. 

Even if we have what looks like a mountain to climb, even if we feel we didn't  create it, even if it was created by someone else's anger or controlling behaviour, or forces of nature, none of that really matters. The Mountain is no big deal. Things probably look better, even from 100 metres up. The big deal is our perception.

If you enjoyed this, you might also like We Need to Talk About the Cailleach.

At the recent winter solstice, I heard Damh the Bard's wonderful Colloquy of the Oak and Holly Kings for the first time.  While some think of the changing of the light or of the seasons as a battle between warmth and cold or dark and light, I love how his poem acknowledges the process of gradual change. At every point in the wheel of the year which we mark as important, I see it more as a day to pause and take note of the changes that are ongoing, or a day to take heart, knowing that they will occur. Winter and spring need not always be seen as enemies. They are also partners, who each have their part in turning the wheel. This poem came to me at Imbolc two years ago. I hope you enjoy it!

But I can yet dance
Climb the trees
laugh
and raise a wind
to throw last years leaves
into a dervish circle

I can tease a gentler climate
up the valley
to moisten the loins
bring thoughts of some lustier dame
Only to tumble you
onto the ice
What were we thinking!

I cackle again from the treetops
raising a storm that sends the cattle
lowing and bucking in indignation
from sleet like knives
to the shelter of the dyke
The ponies
lower their heads to the ground
tails plastered to their legs

I will jig and reel down the beach
entangled in seaweed
Enraged
I will blast your windows
and tear your thatch
You must regard me!
I will rip your hat off
slap your face
and make you look at death squarely
We must discuss this
however briefly

Cailleach painting by Mairin-Taj Caya     Girl with Flowers painting by Belmourida

Poems for the Season of Imbolc

I'm a bit worried about the Cailleach these days. She is not a simple character in either Scots or Irish folklore. You will not find the Cailleach in the great sagas and cycles of Irish or Welsh gods and heroes. You will find other "hag" figures, and if you like to take the view that all hags are just re-workings of one archetype, then I guess you can run with that. However, let's just stick to the Cailleach, for now. I said that she is not simple, but rather than being the opposite, which might be complex, I'd say that she is diverse. We don't find many variants of one Cailleach story, so much as we find a number of pretty dissimilar stories whose common thread seems to be weather. Perhaps we should introduce our stories in future, by saying "Here is a tale of a cailleach."

In Scotland, tales of weather hags which include the Cailleach Bheur, various carlines and witches and a figure known perversely as "Gentle Annie" abound, but most of these tales are very localised. Generally, the local Cailleach lives up the nearest large or barren mountain peak, or somewhere similar. She seems particularly associated with the rough weather that is common in late winter and early spring. Many regions experience a sort of false spring around the beginning of February, when lambs are born and a little fishing might be possible, only to find that the weather regresses into wildness around the time of the equinoxial gales. Scottish and Irish weather is unsettled at the best of times, but this unpredictability is particularly frustrating, challenging and dangerous at this time of year, when people were traditionally running out of foodstuffs as well as patience.

The Cailleach tales are many, but there are several general themes. In one, we find the hag holding spring/summer prisoner - usually in the form of a maiden, who may be called Bride, or Brigid. Through cunning, or with the assistance of a helper (in one case Angus Óg) Bride is able to defeat the Cailleach or escape, and spring is able to progress. However, it seems that most of these tales are modern variants of just one story collected by one folklorist, which got spread about in the folklore revival of the 20th century. This in no way devalues this story, but it is an oversimplification to say that "This is the Cailleach story." The theme of the Cailleach holding a prisoner also comes up in some local tales where a hunter or fisherman is imprisoned by an amorous Cailleach. In these tales, it may be that if the fellow is willing to kiss or make love to her, she will be young again. Meanwhile, other variants on the Cailleach/Bride theme have them as one and the same entity, where the Cailleach cyclically grows old and is renewed annually by a well of youth or some similar device.

There is also a famous poem from around the 9th century, known as The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare. This is the complaint of an old woman who has lost her beauty and wealth. Almost a kind of female Job. She says things like, "When my arms are seen, all bony and thin, they are not, I declare, worth raising around comely youths." and "My hair is scant and grey; to have a mean veil over it causes no regret." This atmosphere of bitterness and anger is one of the things which runs through the different tales of the Cailleach. Inevitably, she is portrayed as ugly and misshapen, often a giantess. Her skin is blue, she has only one eye, red teeth and other horrors - and she is not happy about it.

The Scots have a talent for irony, and the name "Gentle Annie" is a great example of this. Gentle Annie is the Cailleach figure known to fishermen of northeast Scotland, where "Gentle Annie weather" refers to the rough seas and gales of spring, which begin around the equinox and may continue until the end of April.

I'm deeply indebted to "Seren" for her article on this topic on the Tairis website. It's well researched and well presented information helped to remind me of what I already knew, as well as giving me one or two new snippets of information. This helped me get my thoughts in order and made writing this piece much less of a chore. I also looked at the Cailleach from the angle of my oracle work in First there is a mountain... some months ago.

I've always loved the "lake of beer" prayer attributed to St. Brigid. It speaks of natural enjoyment of life's bounty, of the joy of good company and great hospitality. It seems to bring the gods and saints to earth in a gentle and wondrous way. So when I thought I'd look it up, once again, I was surprised to find several quite different versions floating around in cyberspace. Not really concerned with "authenticity" and lacking much in the way of citations, I'm not going to comment on which one is the "real" one. They are all real now! What fascinated me was how as I compared them, some lines could easily be different translations of the same original, but then other lines would appear in only one version. For me, they seem to have more depth and impact taken as a group. One seeming to balance what another lacks. So here they are, and if I have stepped on anyone's copyright toes, please let me know, and we'll fix that.

St. Brigid is so mixed up with the goddess Brigid that trying to separate them is a bit like trying to separate conjoined twins. I'm not going to attempt surgery here. Brigid, we are taught, is associated with home and hearth, domestic agriculture - especially cattle and lambs, fire, smithing (and by association with all creativity), springtime and the turning of the seasons, and much more.

This first version is from Lady Gregory the Irish writer and folklorist. I don't know her source, or how much she may have embellished it. I will give the others after it, without comment, because I think it's nicer to read them without that interruption from me. Enjoy!

artist: Br. Mickey McGrath, OSFS

Poems for the Season of Imbolc

Introduction
In meditation, like many other people, I have constructed through imagination a place. In my case, I take a ritual walk to a beach where often I enter at a door, to be greeted by a mysterious and kindly nun-like figure. She guides me through a beautiful spiral building to where I have something like an apartment of rooms, where I may meditate or meet guides and Gods. I may also go outdoors into a magical world. At other times, having reached the beach, I may choose to remain out of doors where I have also had many literally wonder-full experiences.

Most of the experiences, or visions, have felt quite personal. I may have shared them with a few friends. However, very recently I had three visions which I feel compelled to share. I don't claim that they necessarily contain any great message for humanity. I don't claim anything. They are what I saw when I meditated. Are they just the product of my imagination, or something more? I leave that to the reader to decide. Maybe it's not important to answer this. However, I feel that they did not come simply from my imagination. I feel that there is more to this - but I make no claim beyond "I feel". When the great Christian mystics had their visions, they were often in the awkward position of being accused of heresy or insanity. As a Pagan, I have no pope or bishop to approach for permission to publish, no panel of inquisitors. In this day, I am more likely to be accused of the heresy of belief. Ah, well!

I was on land again with the Lady, and she showed me the beautiful woods and pastures not far inland, where black horses ran and frolicked - and she said that this was for me.

Next she showed me that my body/spirit is a shrine, and this was represented by a kind of gothic chapel. She gave me a bright candle and showed me how this one bright light is all I need to illuminate this space.

I puzzled a little about Bride, Manannán, Epona - which goddess is earth, which is sky? I don't really think that the question can be answered but I understand that Bride is pure light.

Continue to part 2...

Update: You might enjoy this video I made about Bride, and Imbolc.