A Celtic Christmas

When I was little I used to think that the lights on the far shore of the Clyde were in fact the lights of Bethlehem. On nights towards Christmas I could be found in the back garden, with the dog, searching the night sky for a certain star in the East. The closest I probably came was the headlights of planes on their approach to Glasgow Airport.

Now living in the Appalachians of North Carolina I return to Scotland in my mind to the shores of a little windy little island off the West Coast. Iona is set between worlds of our reality and the other world. It is here the myth is set of Brighid who entwined the worlds of Paganism who embraced an ancient figure of Christ in the  form of Celtic Christianity.

In my mind my feet step carefully between rock pools reflecting the light of the waxing moon between the ancient outcrops of ancient green marble. So ancient it is cracked and fissured from many ice ages which have scraped over it maybe hundreds of miles thick. It is here that Brighid once walked on a Christmas Eve. Wrapped in her blue green mantle that little girl is who is a Pagan Goddess and both Christian Saint saint becomes Mary to the Gael.  Transported by angels to Bethlehem she is lifted high above the little island, over the darkening seas to Bethlehem where she is Muime-Chriosd (foster Mother) to the Newly born Christ.

‘In the story when Brighid is breastfeeding the Christ there was a reciprocal feeding going on, that somehow Christ is feeding her. As the milk is issuing from her breast to the Christ and is growing his body the light from Christ is going into her heart and in some ways the story ends with Brighid walking through the world carrying this light’*.

Brighid is a fire goddess and Fiontullach recalls that she walks into the world carrying his light, offering his light. Celtic Christianity explores Christ Consciousness through the spirituality of these islands, through the elements of nature in a cyclical path. Past the place of gods and goddesses hinting on to a place of ‘nearst’ where all gods become one. To that place of the beloved, to the great mystery to that energy beyond male and female.A Christianity which remains pure untainted by the Imperial Church of Rome.

So here is to Brighid, offering the light of Christ as incorporated by the Druids. Here’s to the peace of that Westerly Isle as it sits in it’s location cloaked in luminality, between the worlds.

* Taken from personal interview with Fiontullach, of the Ceile De Order.

The Ghosts of Winter Solstice

Since the nights have grow longer and darker so have the shadowy ghosts of the passing year. Wishes once dreamt up somehow disappeared sliding down the back of the chair, issues between friends only half thought out got scrunched up and ended up in an overlooked pocket. That set aside time for me always somehow got interrupted.  When such things get overlooked and shoved aside, hidden and ignored it can take us further and further from the true path of ourselves.

Such ghosts emerge at this time of year, weave themselves together like a thick glutinous scarf that feels too tight and strangling. But this is all my doing and it’s the winter’s darkness which calls them out. I can no longer ignore then these unresolved things, although I do my best to hide them they are old familiars…

As we cycle around to the shortest day with the earth in it’s furthest position from the sun, appearing as far south as it ever journeys I feel a deepening need to somehow deal with these ghosts. The solstice offers us a chance of rebirth, of looking at everything anew, another chance. Today’s darkness after all is tomorrows light.

Yesterday I headed out to the woods to build a small fire but all I could feel was this gaping hole, brimming with anger, frustration and disappointment. I felt like crying, but no release came. I lay down in down in the snow. The tall trees swayed above me and I felt wrapped up in a deep silence. With the heat slowly draining from my body, I let go.

I will try again today to light that fire – whither it’s a candle or the wood stove and I will name a few of these things that haunt me. Some I will make promises to attend to; others I will throw into the fire and let them burn as they throw up sparks of protest high into the sky.  But most of all I will acknowledge what I want from life, consider what qualities I need to start me off on that path and plot a map – scratched out on a piece of paper. I’ll make several copies, one to keep in the side pocket of my boot, one to keep up my sleeve, another I’ll hid in my hair and a few others dotted around so I won’t loose my plan!

So as the warming spiced apple shakes off the days chill I raise my mug to the rebirth of the sun. The Oak king reigns again! The spirit of Yule is within each other, the friendships we share to make it through the darkness.

Here be monsters (a halloween tale of the downtrodden ex-librarian)

Bet you didn’t know i live in a real haunted house? In the dead of night you can hear the evil cackle of the frightful witch in the attic as she eats children for a midnight snack! In the basement lives a Frankensteinesque hulk whose has taken up the self appointed role of guardian of the threshold, I imagine the basement scattered with the decimated remains of those who tried to get to the washing machines. Long lost children (like those from the Village of the Damned) make circuits on the hallway staircases uttering eerie cries for help and endless woes. Occasionally i bump into a ‘Master of the Universe’ he man adorned with five foot swords whose out to save the world in his ongoing campaigns. There’s the trickster, i swear I saw a bushy tail sticking out of the leg of his tweed trousers, he is very entertaining but his advice is always a little riddled. I’d quickly pretend I’ve dropped something very important that i’m earnestly scouring the floor for if I see the good faery approach. She’s a little sickly sweet and i never quite know what she’s after, but I presume like everyone else she’s got some hidden agenda. With so many residents it’s hard to know if your coming or going and you might as well give up on a good night’s sleep.

Yet their character costumes line my wardrobe, today I pick out the downtrodden ex-librarian. She harbors shamanic vision but is beaten down by the English business man, pin stripe suited with  bowler hat,  who follows her around telling her that she is useless, pathetic and every idea she dreams us is in fact a complete waste of time. He nearly had a heart attack when she left her job and moved across an ocean. Funnily he came too, and yes she recognizes him even though he swapped his bowler for a cowboy hat and briefcase for a fat smoking cigar. But today (as with many other days) she’s had enough! Even though she has said this several times she’s never quite put that sentiment into more than words but today she’s realized that you need more than words, you need action to follow through with intention.

And action she did take up – just as she stepped out the elevator she quickly pressed the basement button and slammed shut the metal lattice door which caused the fat cowboy to reel back into the and with the bell pinging at the basement she heard the old boy being ripped apart by the guardian of the basement.

Slaying for the day complete she stepped into the autumnal morning, fully realizing she’d been under the English business man/old cowboy’s spell. This is no ordinary spell just cast on downtrodden ex-librarians but the same ancient spell that has affected secretaries, bank workers, artists, farmers, cashiers, dentists ….and not just women, it effects men too. In fact it’s held itself up as the backbone of the civilized world! Forget the grail, secret brotherhoods etc this is the greatest secret story – to create a world made in the image of man and have women not as equal but down there with nature and animals. But that backbone is crumbling as i am not the only person no longer  wanting to live in that society, just as I no longer want someone whispering such lies of my abilities into my ears before i even open my eyes in the morning.

In 19 something or other Carl Jung had a conversation with Ochwiay Biano (translates as as Mountain Lake) who explained that he thought the white race were all completely mad. With thin lips and sharp noses and staring expression he explained they are always seeking…and most of all we were mad as we think with our heads. Surprised Jung asked what the chief thought with thought to which the wise chief put his hand over his heart. The business man and the cowboy are big head thinkers, nothing is thought through in it’s effects of anyone else. They exist to make money and money and power is king for the majority in our modern civilization. You might say no – not for me, but what of your bank of those you do business with? Do they have a heart never mind listen to it?

And so the not so quite downtrodden ex-librarian realised she’d cracked the secret of breaking the spell – acknowledging that these characters exist! As it turns out the witch in the attic isn’t so wicked, she only devours to make way for the new, she only strikes down to allow new growth. Her way is ultimately the way of balance. The lost wailing children really only need empathy and healing. The trickster only shows us both sides gently questioning our view of reality. These are the teachers in the way of the heart, but there is another way, the way of our heart, of intuition, of balanced thinking, of employing ancient knowledge that teaches us self respect, community, gives us wise teachings and tells us stories of the lands we live in. Such tales are often wonderful fantasies but it doesn’t matter that they aren’t true as they contain truths.

So my plan in this new year, on Samhiem, (the Celtic new year) is to have tea with the mad old witch. To play ball with the scary lost child, go help the guardian clean up the basement and work with the hero to take out the trash. They are all part of me and I aim to hear out their stories and learn their truths and somehow from deep inside I have a feeling that  this will reconcile the downtrodenness of the ex-librarian.

Me and Cailleach Bheur

“All through autumn we hear a double voice: one says everything is ripe, the other says everything is dying’. Gretel Ehrlich. The solace of open spaces.

The land is in transition. Exploding with colour,  a last blast, a fanfare before winter. The trees are shouting their silent celebration of everything that this ending cycle has provided. Such points are great times for reflection, and as the leaves swirl I’m just finding my feet as the dizziness (that’s crazy mood swings) subside I begin to feel a little more rooted.

Autumn is my favorite time of year, it holds promise for so much potential. As small creatures store food for the coming winter I store the half made plans and, half baked ideas. Some I plant in the soil, some i stuff into holes in trees and others I hide amongst clouds. In the dead of winter I will dream of them and birth them into life a little more. I feel the urge to go lie down in the forest and sweep up carpets of leaves and wrap them like blankets around me.

I have made my migration from the West coast of Scotland which is a far more unsettling process than I could have imagined. So much work in preparing and ticking things off lists yet I forgot to write that list which cared for the body, the spirit and the soul. Yet the only constant thing we have is change and slowly Cailleach Bheur is coming alive within me. She is the blue hag, the goddess of winter. She comes into being at Samhain (Celtic new Year) and as the fertility of the land begins to wane she returns to the whirlpool of Corryvreckan to wash her great plaid. Wringing it out to dry she shakes it spreading it out over the mountains of Scotland which are then dusted in the first sprinkling of snow.  She is our very own Kali, my Baba Yaga a needed goddess who brings death as without death neither ourselves nor the land can be cleansed and be able to make new life.

Since I was a kid and each year as the whole family sat down to watch ‘The Wizard of Oz’ at Christmas I can remember having nightmares about the wicked witch of the west which continued up until around march. Baba Yaga terrifies me. Yet with Cailleach I have an understanding. We have a relationship her and I. I know it’s a part of me i have to somehow embrace. Just beacuase I got rid of a flats worth of ’stuff’ I think I’ve a diploma in letting go. Not so. With the Cailleach and I will work to let go, to let things die allow a cleansing over this winter until she returns to Tir Na Nog (The land of eternal youth) and with a sip of those flowing waters she emerges as Bhrighde (and she’s another story).

So here’s to a years end, to Samhain (Halloween), to letting those things that fester finally die…let’s be cleansed this winter and allow cleansing for new life to flourish.

A magical process

‘Fulling is where the wool gives up it’s secrets. You can never predict exactly how a wool will speak…I enjoy a kind of meditation when i get tot he fulling process. [It is] is a conversation between you and the wool..You may be using the same wool used by thousands of other felters, but it is a new conversation each time. Christine White ~ Uniquely felt.

I’m not the sort of crafter that buys lots of glossy books on felting. In fact I have just one. There isn’t lots of short cuts and 15 minute projects. This book speaks about your relationship with the wool, it’s about understanding the process which is happening under your hands. Diving into it’s pages I feel i’ve got so much to learn but I’m ready for an apprenticeship.

My shoulders and arms sometimes dread the fulling process  – throwing out alarm bells in memories of physiotherapist visits from years of bad typing posture. But this time I didn’t want to just throw it in the washing machine to finish it off  I wanted to feel what was going on.  With the purple towel laid out and the little copper cauldron with soapy water it seemed I was preparing for some sort of ritual. To me feting is a ritual, it’s a little bubble of time outside of time. Time set aside. A time for inner dialogue where thoughts bubble up.

As my hands guide the wool to shrink, I know I’m not really in control. It is a conversation, yet one which always throws up  an element of surprise, the unexpected, magic. It’s like life ~ how we deal with outcomes, how much work we put into where we want to go.

And so after much rubbing and pushing, rolling, soaping and soaking … it was as if the as if the vessel was always there it just needed the fibers to take shape.

Dirty dog

How do you tell a nice old lady that she stinks. It’s more slight wiff, but an unwanted perfume all the same. It’s not old lady perfume that smells like a toxic cocktail last made in the 70’s it’s more of an earthy hue that she picked up while rolling around on the grass.

This is an old lady in wolfs clothing.  On our trip north to Maine at pit stops someone would come up and ask if she was part wolf, or perhaps coyote?  Or just stop to say hi to the puppy. This puppy is 16 years old! But back to today’s task of the dirty dog – and once in your senior years it’s a bit undignified to have a wrestle in your humans bathroom just to get washed so we took her out to ‘The Soapy Dog’ in downtown Asheville.

As well as wash they run doggie day care too, so we were serenaded by a chorus of barks, howls and yaps. First you select your shampoo – she seemed pretty keen on eucalyptus and tea tree, turned her nose up Moroccan mint but in the end opted for mango tango.

Even with an apron and an army of towels it’s impossible not to get soaked and of course she pretended that she hated every minute of it. After several rinses and dog hair showers she was ready to retire to the dryer room. No photos here as it took all available hands for this procedure. There was enough dog hair swirling around to make a reasonable dog hair scarf and after the final torture of a couple of fluffy towels she was out the door in a shot.

Even this old dog was off running feeling lighter from shedding several pounds of grime – I’m up next….

The Equinox Medusa

A lot of the time I feel very much the stranger in a strange land. This is hardly Mongolia or an under the sea culture. This is America. There should be similarities. Yet everyday things can confound me. Each time i use a public bathroom the taps are different, I imagine people looking at me weirdly as i wave my arms about like a mad Medusa trying to get the sensor to work  – until I notice someone turning it just like a regular tap. Oops. I’m a bad comedy routine at the grocery store where Scottish person is seen in a tug of war with the cashier over who packs the bags. I’m daren’t even venture to the self service aisle.

In the garden I make up little planters with succulents and put in a bed of broccoli, with my fingers deep in the tilled soil I pull out old narly roots. I’ve been thinking about roots a lot. There’s no new growth without roots. I need to reach down into the darkness, a little space to dream out possibilities and tap into that ancient spiritual bedrock.This is what builds a sense of place, a sense of self. There’s been so much change lately i’ve fogotten the simple stuff.

This time of the autumn equinox  it is a time of transition and a chance for transformation.   As the broccoli grows so I also I also must put roots down into this rich soil and slowly grow into this new life. I need to grow new shoots yet ones which are fed from an ancient spiritual bedrock. Roots which are fed from an all sustaining spiritual source.

* Photo taken from Flickr Creative Commons

The Seasonal Detective

I am a hunter. I’ve been gathering clues, so far this is what i’ve come up with:

* Leaves falling from trees

* Said leaves having changed color from the traditional green

* Temperatures have dropped about a nano degree on consecutive mornings

* Trees have been dropping spiky casings out of which chestnuts emerge

* I have a desire to look out boots and wear a heavy coat. Find gloves, hats and think about knitting a new scarf

So with it being september, and naturally you would think fall, but the evidence remains inconclusive ……The constant backdrop of cicadas mixed in with the lint of Southern accents reminds me I’m not in Scotland anymore.

So while i await the temperature to drop ~ here’s to the changing season, to my brother (it’s been a year since he died), the cycle of life…and to the joy of living.

Starlite nights and fireflies

I have arrived, the body is here and the soul is in transit to this new life across the ocean.

As the plane soared thousands of feet high over the water thousands of feet deep i thought of those cleared from their highland homes making way for an influx of sheep, who were rounded up and shipped off to these lands in the west. Their arrival was from a journey that took weeks in disease ridden cramped conditions (US Airways is just marginally better) the ships were often refused entry and continued down southern ports to be allowed entry into NC where some made their homes in the Blue Ridge mountains.

My arrival in Asheville, NC was like pulling open the doors of an arboretum, being bodily embraced by a tropical humidity, which felt even stranger in felt even stranger in the dark of night. The next day brought tropical storm descended violently – winds wildly chasing themselves around the small grid of downtown – hurricane like to uninitiated.

As we headed home fireflies magically blinked in secret code in the dark meadows, the stars of the milky way shone in their thousands as we swam in the pool. Here’s to the red cardinals, hummingbirds, mockingbirds, fireflies, woodsmoke, early morning mist ….. and to the man who i travelled over ocean to be with – all these things will weave me into belonging to this new life in this new land.

* Image taken from Wiki CC

Slowly coming back to life (giveaway)

     

 Yeah i’m a winner of a Grey hare card ~  Thanks to Annette of Dragon House of Yuen who has very kindly included my ’Unfurling green fingers across birch bark’ nuno felt scarf on her ETSY Treasury  ‘On the Side of a Mountain’ . You can see more adventures of her amazing hares at her blog . 

I’m finally getting back to the blog with 3 main things to celebrate ~ finally getting my US Visa, speaking at my first ever conference at Edinburgh University and surviving the flu!  

In celebration i’m giving  away a layered fabric brooch, to win just share a summer story about something you’ve celebrated!