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Honouring Manannán at Midsummer
Midsummer is days away, and I'm having trouble mustering enthusiasm. I don't like the heat, and summers are very hot here is SE Colorado. However, I really want to "pay my rent" this year.
As you may know, there is an old tradition in the Isle of Man, of paying rent to Manannán mac Lir on Midsummer Eve. The rent? Just a bundle of rushes. That's the traditional rent he requires. I've spotted plenty of rushes growing along the road on the way into the local village, and I am planning to cut some and do something meaningful with them. I wondered about visiting one of the local lakes, but they are all reservoirs and there is a drought on. It might be a little depressing. We'll see. I might just go to my little "grove" here on the farm.
Barrule hill fort on the Isle of Man. A site associated with the rent paying tradition.
As I was poking around the internet looking for information about Manannán's Midsummer rites on the Isle of Man -- looking for inspiration, really -- I came across this wonderful poem on a blog called Stone of Destiny. It's by a fellow called Shaun Paul, who lives in Texas, and it expresses much in common with how I'm feeling. He has kindly allowed me to share it here.
...and the rent is due
I would bring him bundles of rushes from the waters edge.
Carry them by hand to the high place, stony Barrule, overlooking the sea.
For Midsummer Eve has come and Manannán awaits his payment.
Only, I am far from those shores.
Arid winds bend prairie grass like waves on an earthen sea,
I am stranded here, landlocked — and the rent is due.
Standing on the very brink of thundering wave and stone,
I have opened my arms, buoyed by winds sweeping from far Emain Ablach.
Lifted a moment, from the rocky cliff, like the Heron King taking flight.
I cling to memories of a rugged coast,
As I choke on the fumes of engines going nowhere.
I am stranded here, landlocked — and the rent is due.
As the rising tide sends plumes of white foam into the air,
The sea god’s wife approaches, her soothing kiss, lingering upon my cheek.
They call her Fand, which means “teardrop”, and she tastes like the sea.
We carry the ocean, like a memory, flowing within us.
Weeping, we give it back again, carried home on the Summer breeze.
I am stranded here, landlocked — and the rent is due.
- Shaun Paul
If you enjoyed this post you might also like The Hills of the Sky.
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