Category: Lugh

In Praise of Celtic Gods

28/10/2019

I am looking forward passionately to teaching this upcoming course about the beautiful Celtic gods and goddesses, and their mystical, magical stories. I wanted to write something, to say how much I love them - the deities and their stories. Well, this is that something. The teaching, of course, will be more coherent.

If I begin, it will be with Brigid.

Did my journey start with Her? Saint or goddess, Bride, or Brighid, or Bridget – for all Her wide appeal, She’s a slippery one. Hardly featuring in the old texts at all, She has only the faintest of mythology as a goddess. Much more as Saint Brigid of Kildare, of course. (There are fourteen other St. Brigids in Ireland– but never mind!) Shall we speak of Brigando, and Brigantia? Shall we return to the keening mother of Ruadhán, to the goddess of poetry and smithcraft? Goddess-saint of healing wells.

St. Brigid's Well, Loch Dearg, Co Donegal - Louise Price

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.

photo - S Pakhrin

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.

Tumulus de Poulguen, Brittany

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!

St. Brigid's Well, Brideswell Big, Co Wexford - Goreymurphy

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.

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Honouring Macha at Lughnasadh

26/7/2019

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I’m hardly the first person to honour Macha at Lughnasadh, but the reasons behind that might not be clear to everyone. First, honouring Macha does not mean that I am rejecting the tradition of honouring Lugh and Tailtiu at this time. I think Lughnasadh has room for all of them, and more deities, besides, if you want to bring them in.

According to old Irish texts, Lughnasadh was instituted by the god Lugh to honour his foster mother, Tailtiu, who died clearing land for agriculture. The agricultural aspect, particularly harvesting grain, would make sense for a festival at this time of year. Lughnasadh/Lammas was a time of important agricultural fairs all over Britain and Ireland until the mid-20th century. Once the grain was harvested, rents had to be paid, agricultural workers might look for a new position, marriage bargains were often struck, and people were looking for a bit of fun, too.

In Ireland, Lughnasadh fairs, or óenacha, might also include athletic games or horse racing. Two of the most famous of these fairs were held at Emain Macha, near Armagh, in Ulster, and at Teltown, County Meath. The fair at Teltown (Irish Tailtin) is the one said to have been instituted by Lugh in honour of Tailtiu.

Tailtiu is portrayed in Irish myth as daughter of the king of Spain, whose name is given as Mag Mor (Great Plain). She is married to the exemplary Eochaid mac Erc, king of the third wave of settlers in Ireland, who were known as the Fir Bolg. After the Fir Bolg were defeated by the Tuatha Dé Danann, Tailtiu paired with one of their number, and in time was given Lugh to foster, by his father, Cian, also of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Lugh’s true mother was Eithne, daughter of Balor of the Fomorian race, who was an arch-nemesis of the Tuatha Dé Danann. It appears that the Fir Bolg never went to war against the Fomorians, so Tailtiu would have been an ideal choice to protect the child, as well as being of noble rank.

When Lugh was older, Tailtiu is said to have cleared the wood of Caill Chuan, creating a large clover-covered plain, ready for agriculture. This work was so arduous that she died from exhaustion. On her deathbed she asked that Lugh hold a fair with games in her memory, which became Lughnasadh. You can read the passages from the Irish texts which tell this story at this link.

This story is used to explain both the origin of Lughnasadh and the naming of Teltown/Tailtin, but there are two other stories in Irish texts which are uncannily similar. One refers to a shadowy goddess called Carman (or Carmun), in whose honour a fair was held every three years in Leinster, possibly at Carlow. Carman came to Ireland from Greece during the time of the Tuatha Dé Danann. She was an evil sorceress, and brought her three equally evil sons, who plundered and pillaged. The Tuatha Dé Danann drove the sons away, keeping Carman as a hostage against further invasion.

According to the Rennes Dindshenchas, “Their mother died of grief here in her hostageship, and she asked the Tuatha Dé Danann to hold her fair at her burial-place, and that the fair and the place should always bear her name. And the Tuatha Dé Danann performed this so
long as they were in Erin.”

At the End of a Harvest Day by Willem Carel Nakken

Which brings us to Macha. While the fair at Teltown was associated with the high kings of Tara, the one at Emain Macha was associated with the Ulaidh, or kings of Ulster. The Dindshenchas associate the naming of Emain Macha with several of the different Machas we know from the Irish texts. First, Macha the wife of Nemed, who had a vision of the sorrow which was to come because of the Táin Bó Cúailnge (Cattle Raid of Cooley). This vision causes Macha wife of Nemed to die of sorrow, after Nemed clears twelve plains, the twelfth being Magh Macha (the Plain of Macha), where Emain Macha is located. The story seems to be eating its own tail, since it is the curse of Macha, wife of Cruinniuc, which makes things so difficult for the Ulstermen in the Tain. A curse which is delivered at the fair at Emain Macha.

The story of Macha Mong Ruadh (red-haired Macha), daughter of Aed Ruadh, is also given as a reason for the naming of Emain Macha. This Macha won and held the kingship she inherited from her father, variously killing, marrying, and enslaving those who opposed her rule. It was said that she forced the cousins she enslaved to build Emain Macha.

So, we come to Macha, wife of Cruinniuc. This is the Macha who appeared mysteriously at the home of Cruinniuc, a wealthy widower and cattle-lord, and without a word took over the duties of wife and housekeeper. Her presence brought prosperity, and in time she fell pregnant. One day, Cruinniuc decided to attend a fair. Macha told him not to mention her to anyone while he was there, but before long he had carelessly boasted that his wife could outrun the king’s horses.

The king was angered, and Macha was brought to the fair and forced to prove her husband’s claim in order to save his life. Macha felt her labour pains starting and asked to be allowed to give birth with dignity before she ran, but the king and his assembled men refused. The race began and Macha won, giving birth to twins as she crossed the finish line. She then cursed the men of Ulster, that they would be helpless and feel the labour pains of a woman whenever they were required to do battle. This, as I mentioned above, had grave implications in The Tain.

Inis Meain 5 Hooded Crows by Roland LaVallee

The video below might help you make sense of these tangled strands.

It should now be easy to see why the goddess Macha has a strong claim to be honoured at Lughnasadh. Her associations with horse racing, with Emain Macha and its fairs, have deep meaning for me. I also feel that the story of Macha, wife of Cruinniuc, provides us with much to think about as far as how we treat the goddesses of sovereignty and the land they represent. Are we showing them respect? Are we treating them well, or using them thoughtlessly?

Another name for Lughnasadh is Brón Trogain, which means something like “sorrow of the earth” and includes implications of the pain of giving birth. In each of these stories I have shared, we see sovereignty goddesses ending their time in pain, sorrow, or bondage. As hostages. As work horses. What is the real message of these tales for us today? I can’t help feeling that we are too quick to apply a story of almost Christ-like sacrifice to these goddesses of the land, who die in pain and grief so that the people can eat. Are we okay with sacrificing women’s sovereignty, nature’s sovereignty, for this? Or should we be reading these myths as cautionary tales?

detail: A Rest in the Fields by Jules Breton

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Links to most sources are in the texts, but for further reading on Brón Trogain I recommend these blog posts:

A Dream of Lughnasadh - Morgan Daimler
The Victory of Lugh - Blackbird Hollins

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Contemplating Lughnasadh

26/7/2018

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As most Pagans know, both Lammas and Lughnasadh are associated with grain. Lammas comes from the Anglo-Saxon "loaf mass" - a time when the first loaves made from the new wheat crop were taken to the church and blessed. The season of Lammastide had, and still has, all sorts of grain harvest customs associated with it. I remember when I moved to Scotland in the 1980s being amazed to see "Lammas (Scottish quarter day)" printed on the appropriate date, in the appointment diary I bought. The Lammas fairs of Scotland were once major points in the agricultural calendar. With the grain harvest in, it was a good time for agricultural workers who didn't like their current positions to look to "fee" with a different farmer, and Lammas fairs became important hiring fairs. It's not unusual, even now, to hear older people say "It's like a Lammas fair!" when a place is unusually crowded or busy.

The Irish name for Lammas is Lughnasadh (or Lunastal in Scottish Gaelic). This refers to the funerary games which we are told the god Lugh initiated to honour his foster mother, Tailtiu, who died after the labour of clearing the land around Telltown, County Meath, for agriculture. Telltown is said to take its name from Tailtiu, and gives its own name to Lammas fair customs like Telltown marriages, which were year-and-a-day trial marriages performed at fairs. Another tradition was that of young people agreeing to be sweethearts just for the duration of the fair period. These couples were then referred to as being Telltown brother and sister. Since the quarter days were important in the Scottish legal calendar as starting and ending dates for legal contracts, it's natural that these informal romantic contracts would be struck at this time.

More generally, both folklore and neo-Pagan lore at this time of year is full of harvest customs, corn maidens, and fancy loaves of bread. Increasingly, I'm feeling a bit disaffected when it comes to this. The more I study human history, and the more I look at the mess our human sprawl has made of our home (planet Earth), the more I begin to regret that the human race chose to take up the plough in the first place. The taming of grain allowed humans to settle down and raise more children, who in turn raised even more children. All those children who grew up and needed more land to clear, conquer and plough for ever bigger fields of grain, and so the dominos began to topple. Forests, wildlife, indigenous people -- all stood in the way of this process we called progress. The progress that enabled us to build cities and sit still long enough to create the industrial revolution and the population explosion, which in turn influenced the tendency to factory farming and vast, destructive monoculture grain plantations.

Although I know we will never intentionally turn the clock back as far as I might wish, there is a part of me that feels reluctant to celebrate what my ancestors started. I've spent most of my life living in agricultural communities. It's not a distant, hazy dream for me. I understand its cycles of arable and stock rearing tasks and celebrations. I also love the deities of the Celts. They are my own deities, and many of them are deeply bound up with agriculture, as is our neo-Pagan wheel of the year. I'm not going to throw that away. For one thing, it's reality. I still like to eat. I like to drink beer and whisky. Throwing John Barleycorn and The Corn Maiden out with the irrigation water seems a little ungrateful. However, at the same time I trust that the reasons for my current feelings are also valid, and like my ancestors before me, I'm not afraid to begin to look at things through a new lens, and place more weight on what is important now. And right now, preserving the unploughed natural world is more important to me than whether me and my tribe have enough to eat over the winter.

Lugh, we know, was not only a successful and clever warrior, but was known for his many skills. Skill at crafts and music, at gaming and healing. After the second battle of Magh Tiuragh he and his wise men refused the offer of four grain harvests per year and cows that gave milk perpetually. Gifts offered by Bres, the defeated king who had taxed and worked his people into utter misery. This may have been Bres' idea of a good thing, but to the Tuatha De Danann is was unsuitable. They preferred to keep everything in its natural season.

Tailtiu, meanwhile, died in bondage after clearing the land for agriculture. I think it has long been the general assumption that she is honoured for having made a great sacrifice, and that is a reasonable reading of the myth, especially in a wider context. However, I see her also as representing the land put under the bondage of the plough, and of the loss of the hunting grounds which were destroyed in the process.

What will I be thinking of at Lughnasadh rituals this year? I'm not sure yet, but I have plenty to be going forward with. The making of experimental or short-term agreements, considering how best to use my skills, honouring the natural cycles of nature and not asking her to work overtime on my behalf, and supporting animal rights and wild nature. I will also be thankful and mindful of where and how my next bowl of porridge and bottle of beer will make their way to me.

Tailltiu daughter of Mag Mor king of Spain, queen of the Fir Bolg, came after the slaughter was inflicted upon the Fir Bolg in that first battle of Mag Tuired to Coill Cuan: and the wood was cut down by her, so it was a plain under clover-flower before the end of a year. This is that Tailtiu who was wife of Eochu son of Erc king of Ireland till the Tuatha De Danann slew him, ut praediximus: it is he who took her from her father, from Spain; and it is she who slept with Eochu Garb son of Dui Dall of the Tuatha De Danann; and Cian son of Dian Cecht, whose other name was Scal Balb, gave her his son in fosterage, namely Lugh, whose mother was Eithne daughter of Balar. So Tailltiu died in Tailltiu, and her name clave thereto and her grave is from the Seat of Tailltiu north-eastward. Her games were performed every year and her song of lamentation, by Lugh. With gessa and feats of arms were they performed, a fortnight before Lugnasad and a fortnight after: under dicitur Lughnasadh, that is, the celebration or the festival of Lugh.
Lebor Gabala Erenn - R.A.S.MacAlister, traslator.
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Taltiu, daughter of gentle Magmor, wife of Eochu Garb son of Dui Dall, came hither leading the Fir Bolg host to Caill Chuan, after high battle.
Caill Chuan, it was a thicket of trees from Escir to Ath Drommann, from the Great Bog, a long journey, from the Sele to Ard Assuide.
Assuide, the seat of the hunt, whither gathered the red-coated deer; often was the bugle first sounded east of the wood, the second time on the edge of Clochar.
Commur, Currech, Crích Linde, Ard Manai where the spears used to be; the hounds of Cairpre killed their quarry on the land of Tipra Mungairde.
Great that deed that was done with the axe's help by Taltiu, the reclaiming of meadowland from the even wood by Taltiu daughter of Magmor.
When the fair wood was cut down by her, roots and all, out of the ground, before the year's end it became Bregmag, it became a plain blossoming with clover.
Her heart burst in her body from the strain beneath her royal vest; not wholesome, truly, is a face like the coal, for the sake of woods or pride of timber.
Long was the sorrow, long the weariness of Tailtiu, in sickness after heavy toil; the men of the island of Erin to whom she was in bondage came to receive her last behest.
She told them in her sickness (feeble she was but not speechless) that they should hold funeral games to lament her—zealous the deed.
About the Calends of August she died, on a Monday, on the Lugnasad of Lug; round her grave from that Monday forth is held the chief Fair of noble Erin.
White-sided Tailtiu uttered in her land a true prophecy, that so long as every prince should accept her, Erin should not be without perfect song.
A fair with gold, with silver, with games, with music of chariots, with adornment of body and of soul by means of knowledge and eloquence.
A fair without wounding or robbing of any man, without trouble, without dispute, without reaving, without challenge of property, without suing, without law-sessions, without evasion, without arrest.
A fair without sin, without fraud, without reproach, without insult, without contention, without seizure, without theft, without redemption:
No man going into the seats of the women, nor woman into the seats of the men, shining fair, but each in due order by rank in his place in the high Fair.
Unbroken truce of the fair the while through Erin and Alba alike, while men went in and came out without any rude hostility.
Metrical Dindshenchas - Edward Gwynn, translator
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"The cows of Ireland will always be in milk," said Bres, "if I am spared."
"I will tell that to our wise men," said Lug. So Lug went to Maeltne Morbrethach and said to him, "Shall Bres be spared for giving constant milk to the cows of Ireland?"
"He shall not be spared," said Maeltne. "He has no power over their age or their calving, even if he controls their milk as long as they are alive."
Lug said to Bres, "That does not save you; you have no power over their age or their calving, even if you control their milk. Is there anything else which will save you, Bres?" said Lug.
"There is indeed. Tell your lawyer they will reap a harvest every quarter in return for sparing me."
Lug said to Maeltne, "Shall Bres be spared for giving the men of Ireland a harvest of grain every quarter?"
"This has suited us," said Maeltne. "Spring for plowing and sowing, and the beginning of summer for maturing the strength of the grain, and the beginning of autumn for the full ripeness of the grain, and for reaping it. Winter for consuming it."
The Second Battle of Mag Tuired - Elizabeth A Gray, translator

Lugh Lleu

A collection of prose and poetry about two intertwined gods. This is a literary approach based on scholarship, so I have included bibliographical notes for those who want them.

8.5" x 5.5"

28 pages

See product page for details.

8.00

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What I Could Do

25/7/2013

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Remembering our skills at Lughnasadh

One of my favourite books is a slim thing called "I Could Read the Sky" by Timothy O'Grady and Steve Pyke. O'Grady wrote the text, which is accompanied by Pyke's black and white photography. It is an odd, poetic novel - disjointed death bed recollections of an Irish labourer at the end of a life passed mostly in England.

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.

Steve Pyke, I Could Read the Sky, hands, what I could do

this and following photos by Steve Pyke

A list of skills valuable in a particular time and place, and a list to be proud of. Skills of the sort handed down through generations, and so often undervalued. Skills of the ildanach. Ildanach, is an Irish word which means many-skilled, or perhaps skilled-in-all-things. In the story of The Coming of Lugh, there is a famous scene where the young hero-god arrives, unknown, at the gates of the castle of Nuada, a king beset by the Fomorians. Lugh is there to offer his help, but first he has to gain entry and acceptance. The gatekeeper questions him as to what skills he offers. Lady Gregory's "Gods and Fighting Men" tells it this way:

"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.

What a fine thing it is to be many skilled! Most of us long to be able to do things we don't know how to do. We've all had the experience of people seeing some skill we have and saying "I wish I could draw/make a souffle/play the guitar!" Yet when we tell them it's simple enough once you know how, they often reply, "Oh, no, I'd never be able to." Perhaps we've had the same feelings ourselves: we don't have time to take up gardening, we were told at school that we weren't musical, or we're afraid to attempt tennis because we'll look silly.

Steve Pyke, woman knitting, Irish kitchen

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.

When you've made your list, think about who taught you those skills. I think maybe one reason that Lugh was so skilled was that he had so many mentors. Not only was he fostered by Taillte and Echaid, as mentioned above, but he was also fostered by the god Manannan mac Lir, who gave him several magical gifts. Take time to note who you learned skills from. In some cases this may not be a person who taught you directly - you can also say "I taught myself" or mention the name of an influential role model or author, etc. Now, think about what skills you would like to pass on, or have passed on, to others. Make a note of these, and of who you taught (or will teach) them to. There may also be things that you would like to learn to do, and that you have an intention to learn to do. Write those down, too.

Here's part of my list:
- I could knit a jumper without seams. I could tame a horse. I could understand cats. I could teach people how to play music. I could play for a ceilidh dance all night and call the dances while I was playing. I could build a straight fence. I could drive a tractor. I could make a poem. I knew lots of ways to meditate.

I might then go on to remember the ladies at the knitting shop in Santa Cruz who patiently taught me to knit. How hard I studied horses, and some of the people I passed a bit of that knowledge on to. I remember my father pointing out to me what cats feel in different situations, and how they show it, I've continued to study them. I remember the many wonderful music teachers, mentors, and "inspirors" who made me the musician I am, and the many wonderful students I had the privilege of teaching - some even went on to play for dancing. I taught myself fencing and poetry writing. Mark taught me a lot about the ways of old tractors.

I hope that you will have a wonderful time thinking about your skills!

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Of Oracles, Wonder and Inspiration

24/7/2013

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With Lughnasadh nearly here, I thought I would share this piece which I originally published on facebook in March 2012.

Some thoughts on the coming of Lugh.

I've just been reading a wonderful retelling of the Irish story "The Coming of Lugh" by Ella Young. Myths often contain a passage of "wonder" which particularly moves me. This story has such a passage, but first, let me set the scene.

The Irish sea god Manannán mac Lir, whom you may remember from my post on The Voyage of Bran, takes the young god Lugh to Tir na nOg (The Land of Youth) for his upbringing. Here -

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.

Meanwhile, back in Ireland, the people of the land, the Tuatha De Danaan, were having a hard time of it. They were subjugated to the not-so-nice Fomorians, and Nuada, the king of the De Danaan, was unable to defeat the Fomorians in any decisive way. Things dragged on, with Ireland constantly at war. Manannán knew this because he'd been putting on his cloak of invisibility and checking up on things at night.

When Lugh came of age, Manannán gave him a magical sword, and Lugh decided to head back to Ireland and see what he could do to straighten things out. Of course, when he got there, nobody knew who he was, so he had a little trouble getting into Nuada's castle. Through a dialogue of boasts and challenges, he was finally admitted, and proceeded to best Nuada at chess and other games.

Seeing Lugh's many talents, Nuada then asked him to play the harp -

"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.

Photo by Shelley Newton-Carter

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."

aturally, Lugh and Nuada were able to defeat the Fomorians in short order after this. So what changed everything so suddenly? I think it was the inspiration of beauty. The "strange beautiful dream" that Lugh's playing had induced, the inspiration of the beauty of nature hadn't just intoxicated Nuada and his men, it had inspired them. They hadn't so much fallen into a dream as been awakened. Joy, sorrow, and ultimately peace, inspired them. The snow, here a symbol of peace, which physically settles upon Lugh's hair and cloak, that fills the night with radiance. Pure inspiration.

Music, art, symbolism and nature are potent magic. When we are asleep, sometimes it is the dream that truly wakes us. Particularly when the sleep feels like being stuck, as Nuada was. An oracle reading is just one way to dream yourself awake. You might prefer to read a myth, go into nature or experience music or art. All are potent.

At this point in the story, Lugh was Nuada's oracle. Yet he never said "Go, fight the Fomorians, and this time you will win!" Instead he sang of joy, and sorrow and peace. When each man awoke the next day, he knew what to do. And so they all showed up for the battle. The battle they could not win before. Of course, Lugh and the army of Tir na nOg showed up, too. How could they not? They were the embodiment of the inspiration the De Danaan awoke with that morning. For there are three parts to inspiration - there is the dream, then the awakening, and finally the doing. The inspiration of the oracle is in all three.

To arrange a reading, or ask a question, you can send me a message via the form at the bottom of this page.

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In Praise of Celtic Gods

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Honouring Macha at Lughnasadh

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What I Could Do

Remembering our skills at Lughnasadh

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Of Oracles, Wonder and Inspiration

Some thoughts on the coming of Lugh.

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In Praise of Celtic Gods

Subscribe to my monthly newsletter and never miss a blog post. In return, I promise to keep newsletters short and limit them to one per month, and of course, never to share your details!

Honouring Macha at Lughnasadh

Subscribe to my monthly newsletter and never miss a blog post. In return, I promise to keep newsletters short and limit them to one per month, and of course, never to share your details!Subscribers also get access to special offers in the shop.

Contemplating Lughnasadh

Subscribe to my monthly newsletter, and never miss a blog post again. In return, I promise to keep newsletters short and limit them to one per month, and, of course, never to share your details!

What I Could Do

Remembering our skills at Lughnasadh

Subscribe to my monthly newsletter, and never miss a blog post again. In return, I promise to keep newsletters short and limit them to one per month, and of course, never to share your details!

Of Oracles, Wonder and Inspiration

Some thoughts on the coming of Lugh.

Subscribe to my monthly newsletter, and never miss a blog post again. In return, I promise to keep newsletters short and limit them to one per month, and, of course, never to share your details!

Archives

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Subscribe to my monthly newsletter and never miss a blog post. In return, I promise to keep newsletters short and limit them to one per month, and of course, never to share your details!
Subscribers also get access to special offers in the shop.