Beltane

   It’s almost Beltane, a time of passion and renewed light and warmth.  This Beltane sovereignty has been on my mine a lot.  Beltane is a time of beginnings, a time of blooming before the fullness of summer, and the perfect time to claim our own inner sovereignty. 
   Take a moment to think of an aspect in your life that needs reclaiming.  See the Morrigan standing before you, she placed her hands upon your shoulders and fills you with strength, she wraps around you a regal cloak.  Know the Great Queen lives within you, claim sovereignty over your life, your destiny, your happiness, your creativity, etc.  Take a cleansing breathe and say:

“Great Queen guide us this day toward inner sovereignty and self-mastery.
Crown us with the knowledge of self, and the power to forge our own destinies in life”

Morrigan and the Nine Thieves

   They made their way to the mound as darkness fell.  Within the horseshoe of stones they could see the hag hunched over her fire, the hot flames licking the prize they sought.  It towered over the old woman, nine pieces of iron linked together.  On one end a hunk of red raw meat, in the center a hunk of dressed meat, and on the far end a wedge of butter.  It might have been the cooking fire of any poor herdsman or farmer, and not a Goddess.  But the thieves knew that food from this cooking fire was unending.  No matter how much a man ate more appeared, and to eat from it was to gain the wisdom of the Morrigu, the raven mother, lady of battles.

   The boldest of the thieves crept closer, not noticing the old crone tilt her wrinkled head as if listening to the wind.  Closer now he saw the woman’s eyes were glazed over, blind.  Her hands curled and knobby with age.  Taking such a magickal treasure should be a simple task.  But as the man reached out, hand ready to claim his prize the woman spun towards him and stood.  The woman who looked at him now was not the hobbled old hag, she stood talk and imposing, her dark raven hair billowing in a wind in an unearthly wind,  her limbs young and strong, her face terrible and unimaginably beautiful all at once.  He coward, unable to move in the presence of such a being.  “If you had only asked Me for my treasure I would have freely given it, but instead you approached me as an outlaw in the night.” she said.  Her voice was as sweet as the notes of a harp, as harsh as the cry of ravens upon the battlefield.  

   Slowly the Morrigu raised the spit form the fire, with the end still hot from the fire she prodded the foolish thief in the side.  The pain of his burning flesh startled him into action, leaping to his feet he fled down the mound, his companions following behind.  The woman smiled to herself, calling after the thieves she said. “Let your brand be a reminder of Me, and that my wisdom cannot be stolen, only earned!”   

Symbols of the Morrigan

   Symbols are important, they speak to us on a primal level.  They embody the essence, character, and mysteries of a deity.  In our worship, whether it be designing a ritual or creating an altar, we use them to further our connection to deity and to draw upon their power.

   Many of the Morrigan’s symbols we already know.  Crows, ravens, cattle and horses being the most well known.  As a Goddess connected with death ,skulls (animal or otherwise) are also a popular symbol connected to Her, as well as the cauldron (such as the one Badb stirs) representing transformation and rebirth.  I would add the torc to that list, as I often use it in rituals dedicated to the Morrigan as a Goddess of sovereignty.

  But one symbols in particular that is connected to the Great Queen in her myths is often overlooked, the Morrigan’s cooking spit.  At first this seems like an odd symbol to connect with the Morrigan, but it appears several times in her mythology.  This magickal cooking spit was said to hold three types of food on it, a piece of raw meat, a piece of dresses meat and butter.  In Gods and Fighting Men Lady Gregory recounts a story in which nine outlaws beseech the Morrigan for the spit (or steal it from her).  The spit could be broken down into nine pieces and each man carried a section of it during the day, while at night they gathered together to reassemble it.

“As to the Morrigu, the Great Queen, the Crow of Battle, where she lived after the coming of the Gael is not known, but before that time it was in Teamhair she lived. And she had a great cooking-spit there, that held three sorts of food on it at the one time: a piece of raw meat, and a piece of dressed meat, and a piece of butter. And the raw was dressed, and the dressed was not burned, and the butter did not melt, and the three together on the spit.

Nine men that were outlaws went to her one time and asked for a spit to be made for themselves. And they brought it away with them, and it had nine ribs in it, and every one of the outlaws would carry a rib in his hand wherever he would go, till they would all meet together at the close of day. And if they wanted the spit to be high, it could be raised to a man’s height, and at another time it would not be more than the height of a fist over the fire, without breaking and without lessening.”  (Gregory, Gods and Fighting Men)     

  The spit appears again in her interaction with the hero Cúchulain.  Before Cúchulain’s final battle the Morrigan appears to him along a roadside as a hag cooking dog flesh on a cooking spit.  There are several versions of this encounter and how she tricked him into eating the flesh of his namesake, the dog.  In one she attacks the hero with the spit, perhaps to goad him into taking action.     

   The Triads of Ireland (number 120) makes mention of the three appliances of a blacksmith, which are "Three things constitute a blacksmith, Nethin's spit, the cooking-hearth of the Morrigan, the Dagda's anvil."  In County Tipperary we find a fulachtas mound called by the same name, Fulacht na Mór Ríoghna or “The Cooking Pit of the Mórrígan”.  Fulachtas (FULL-ahk FEE-add) or burnt mounds are found throughout Ireland, England, and even Scotland.  They are low horseshoe shaped mounds with a depression in the center, accompanied by heat shattered stones and charcoal enriched soil.  It is uncertain exactly what purpose they served but it is generally believed that they were used as outdoor cooking areas. 

   Who exactly these outlaws are is debatable.  Rouge warriors? Thieves?  And why does she give such a magickal item to them?  Why does she use the spit to attack Cúchulain?  Some have suggested that the spit and its unending supply of food represent the Morrigan’s function as a fertility goddess.  Dagda who is also connected to fertility and abundance possesses a similar spit.  But the fact that Morrigan uses this magickal tool as a weapon should also not be overlooked.  She uses it to prod Cúchulain into action, into accepting his destiny and the path he has chosen for himself.  The Great Queens lessons are often hard, and it does seem a fitting tool for her.  She is using a proverbial cattle prod to get us off our spiritual butts.  And in truth sometimes we need this.  All too often we are afraid to take those crucial steps forward in our spiritual development, or to move forward in our lives.

   The items on the cooking pit are intriguing.  The raw meat, the dressed meat and butter may symbolize abundance, as they are constantly replenished.  Another interpretation could be that they represent the stages of transformation, the raw meat being a state of raw beginning, the dressed meat the process of learning, and the butter transformation or attainment of knowledge.       That the spit brakes down into nine pieces is also no surprise, as the number nine is connected to the Morrigan several times, again hinting at a connection to transformation.   Eating or drinking from magickal items, or eating the flesh of magickal animals is often a vehicle of attaining wisdom in Celtic myths.  Drinking from holy wells, eating the Salmon of Wisdom, were all ways to attain such wisdom.  In other stories gods or spirits shape shift into animals and are swallowed (usually as flies), their spirits entering an unsuspecting woman in this manner and the god then reincarnated as the child of the mortal.  Etain is reborn in this manner, she is transformed into a beautiful fly which is swallowed by a mortal queen who soon becomes pregnant with the Goddess’s mortal incantation.  Morrigan’s spit and the food on it may have had a similar function, granting wisdom, or another of the Morrigan’s attributes, to those who ate from it. 

The Myth of Macha

                                             

   Some prose about the Goddess Macha who cursed the men of Ulster.....


    The dappled mare beside me stomps the ground impatiently just as the child within my womb begins to kick. She eyes me wearily, perhaps knowing better than the men who gather around us what I am. Another kick from the life within me, the mare dances nervously in place kicking up clumps of packed earth with her hooves, and I run a hand over my swollen stomach. Although I know it is pointless I call out to the crowd again. It is too close to my time, will they not wait till after I have brought this tiny life into the world to test my husband’s foolish bragging? But my plea is met with laughter. I look at the bearded faces around me, did a mother not bare each of them? How can they listen with such deaf ears and stony hearts to my pleas? I place a protective hand on my belly again, and think that if this had been a crowd of women I would not be answered with gears. Little do they know this was never about the race, the race is already won.
    My pleas unanswered, the signal is given and the horses run free. I begin slowly, following behind them on the track. Their hooves pound against the earth, like distant thunder, like the beat of the drums within the Sidhe hills. I concentrate on the sound, and as I run I change. What the men see I do not know. Do they see the pale woman with hair the color of flame? Or do they see the roan mare? Perhaps both? When I run I am free, the weights of the world disappear as if a great yoke has been caste off my shoulders. There is nothing I cannot outrun. I am as eager as that dappled mare to challenge the wind, and so I run, and run, and run. The crowd blurs around me, a few shout in disbelief as I easily pass the king’s chariot. This was not what they expected. They were so certain these beasts where the swiftest that ever lived. Perhaps they are, but at this moment I am the Great Mare, I am the primal essence of every horse that ever was, and there is nothing that I cannot outrun, nothing I cannot overcome. But this magick has a price, and I will have to pay it all too soon.
    When I cross the finish line I collapse, no longer the Great Mare but a woman in the final stages of labor. The crowd circles around me. These men of sword and spear, who spill blood and glory in death, I wonder, do they know the value of life? They are so close, life and death, both forged in blood and pain, whether it be the pangs of labor or the sting of a blade. Transitions are never easy, whether we are coming into this world or leaving it behind. They look at me in astonishment, unsure of what to do or say. They should have waited as I had asked. Did I not deserve that much mercy? Do they think my husband’s boast was so bold now? I think not, but it was never about the boast, or the race. I knew from the very moment they arrived at my doorstep that I would win. It was about the mercy of men. It was about honoring the women who bore them, and the women who will bare their own children, and their children’s children.
    I feel myself fading as I hear my child cry out. No, as my children cry out. Twins. Despite the pain I smile. Someone places them in my arms, a tiny mercy, although it is too little too late. I look into my children’s faces and both a fierce love and rage sparks within my broken body. I feel the blood pouring from me. It comes too quickly. The womb that brought life into the world will soon end mine, but there is still some magick left in me, and when I speak it is not as a dying woman but as a Goddess.
    Some will call it a curse. But in my mind it is a blessing. For nine generations, in the hour of their greatest need, the bearded men of Ulster will know the pangs of a woman in childbed. If men will take life and throw it away so carelessly on idle words they will know the pain, the sacrifice it took to bring life into the world. Perhaps then they will not throw is away so carelessly.
    With the last word of my spell my human body gives way. Once more I am myself, shining spirit, immortal fay, Goddess. My sisters never understood my desire to take on mortal flesh for a time, they both warned it would only cause me pain. And it has, but it has also brought two new lives into the world. Two flames that will shine brightly, if only for a little while.
    The crowd stands in stunned silence around my discarded mortal frame. As I watch my spirit begins to take on a familiar shape, sleek wings, and black glossy feathers like a cloak of midnight. No one sees the crow now perched on one of the raceway’s posts. As I fly away I wonder if they see my curse for what it truly is.

Bride and Cailleach: Drinking from the Well of Youth

   As it’s almost Imbolc the story of Bride and Cailleach has been on my mind the last few days.  Cailleach and Bride’s interactions with mythology are all about transformation. Cailleach is arguably one of the most ancient Goddesses of the Celts. In fact she may even be a pre-Celtic Goddess, possibly being an earth Goddess of the original inhabitants of Ireland, prior to their integration with the invading Celtic tribes. She is usually described as an old woman with white hair and blue skin and at times is thought to be a giantess, dropping boulders out of her apron as she walked along. She was associated with Slieve na Calliagh, a peak of jagged rocks situated in a low range of hills in Ireland, which is made up of jagged rocks, which may be why she was sometime said to have very sharp teeth.

   Cailleach is best known as a Goddess of cold, winter, and darkness. She was also a Goddess of storms and during the winter months she was said to ride through the air on the back of a wolf, bringing snow and ice to the world below. According to my Irish grandmother thunder is really the Cailleach sneezing! She also had a magick wand that she used to strike away any hints of green on the winter landscape.

   As the winter hag Cailleach kept spring at bay, usually by keeping Bride, who represented spring hidden away. In Scotland it was believed that each year Cailleach held Bride captive in a cave. Unfortunately for Cailleach her son falls in love with Bride and together they flee the cave. Enraged Cailleach chases the lovers, conjuring up storms in her wake, but with the release of Bride spring soon overtake winter despite Cailleach’s best efforts. In other versions Cailleach turns to stone at the first signs of spring, and Bride escapes bringing with her renewed fertility and warmth to the world. But at Samhain Cailleach awakes again and captures Bride and once more holds her captive through the winter. In another version Cailleach travels to a magickal isle (sometimes said to be the Isle of Skye) where there is a miraculous Well of Youth. On Imbolc she drinks from the well and transforms into Bride.

   There are so many layers to this simple story. On one hand it is a seasonal myth. In other cultures many Goddesses connected to the sun are often hidden away in caves during the winter and return to the world with spring, Bride’s imprisonment in the cave mirrors this. But we can also see this struggle between the hag and maiden, winter and spring within ourselves. At times we keep our inner fire banked, we burry our creativity, our passion our hope deep within, like Bride in her cave. And like Cailleach sometimes we are afraid to let that part of ourselves out. We resist change.

   During this time of year I think about what I have been keeping locked away within me. Have I banked my inner fires? Have I been afraid to welcome change in my life? And I think of the winter hag taking a drink from that sacred well, willingly accepting change, knowing soon she will be the Goddess of spring.

Drinking from the Well of Transformation:

   Brew a cup of your favorite tea or if you prefer use wine. Take the cup to your sacred space. Place two candles on your altar, one of each side. Blue for Cailleach and a red candle for Bride. Light the candles and place your cup in-between the two candles on the altar.

   Take a few minutes to ground and center. See yourself in a small boat. The boat glides soundlessly across the waves, and a cold winter wind blows across you. Soon your boat glides up to the isle’s shore and you step onto the green earth. Shaded by a grove of trees you see an old stone well. The well waters shine with their own light, and you know you have found the Well of Youth. Take a few minutes to consider what kind of transformation you wish to bring into your life. Are their old habits that you need to shed, new ventures you wish to start? When you are ready you dip your hands into the water and drink.

   When you are ready take the cup in your hands and hold it over the altar, saying:

Cailleach, blue hag of winter,

Churning storms and chaos in your wake,

Lady of thunder, winter, and cold,

Drink now from the sacred well,

Bring transformation,

And let me change as you do each year

   Hold your hands over the cup. Visualize a brilliant white light filling the cup, the light of Cailleach and Bride, the light of new beginnings and transformation. Then take a sip of your magickal brew. Feel the blessings of Cailleach and Bride filling you, revitalizing you, as the Goddess’ energies renew and awaken the earth each spring. When you are ready say:

Like Cailleach I transform,

I drink from the sacred well,

The darkness within transformed to new light,

I shine like Bride of the green mantle,

Renewed and transformed by the Goddess!

Book Review: The New Death and Others

   Admittedly most of the books I read are part of a series.  I love getting sucked into a story and following characters across several books and mourning the fact that a series can’t be 30 books long.  But that being said, its refreshing to read something short and conscience. 

   The beauty of a short story is that while it may only be a few pages long it can leave more of a lasting impression on you than a novel that is several times longer.  The very first story in this collection The God of the Poor is only a few paragraphs long but I found myself thinking about it for days after I read it.  So if you are a fan of horror and dark fantasy and are looking for a collection of stories that will make you laugh or make you stop and think than you’ll love James Hutchings The New Death and Others.  Teh topics of Hutchings stories range from the birth of reality TV, to demons, to a story about a sorceress who craves the magic of the Gods.  My favorites were Everlasting Fire, with Lily the demon who enjoys punishing supermodels by feeding them and dines at McDonalds (the only restaurant in Hell).  And although a little gruesome, I loved the endings to How the Isle of Cats got its Name.  Hutchings poetry was also very enjoyable.

From Darkness All Things Emerge

   For me Samhain doesn’t really start until sunset on October 31^st.  The Celts marked their days from sunset to sunset.  Some have hypothesized this in honor of Bile, a god connected to the Underworld and often seen as Danu’s counterpart.  Marking the days from sunset to sun may have been a way to remember that they came from the darkness of the Underworld (Bile’s realm), and that all things have to pass through darkness to come into light.  Whatever the reason I find myself contemplating this concept as we approach Samhain.  Having the new day begin at night may seem odd to us today.  We think of our days beginning in the morning with the rising of the sun, but we aren’t that different from the Celts.  The new day technically begins at 12 am, a time of darkness, so even today we acknowledge that the day begins in the depth of night.  We tend to think of death, darkness, and the Underworld as the end of the journey.  But really it is our starting point.  We are born out of darkness, and to it we return to begin again.  We spend nine months in our mother’s dark watery womb before coming into the world of light and life.  The seed germinates in the dark rich soil before it reaches up towards the light of the sun.  We survive the cold and long dark days of winter, to reap the fruitfulness of summer with it long days of warm sunlight.  When must pass into darkness of the Underworld to be reborn. All things come out of darkness.  Through the darkness of Samhain night, the new year is born.    

     Although she is not a Celtic goddess, Nyx, the Greek goddess of night has been on my mind the past few days along with the idea of seeing night and darkness as a beginning.  She was a primordial goddess, one of the Protogenoi (the first-born elemental gods, who made up the basic components of the universe, which included earth, sea, light, day, and time).  She was the mother of Eris the goddess of chaos, and Thanatos the Greek personification of death, but with Erubus (the god of shadows and darkness) she is also the mother of Hemera the goddess of day.  At times she is prophetic, dispensing prophesies from her cave beyond the sea (at times her cave is at the end of the cosmos).  She is depicted either riding in her chariot, trailed by stars or a woman with black wings.  In her mythology she is a force to be reckoned with.  Even Zeus, the king of the gods, listens when she speaks.   Each sunset and sunrise she passes by her daughter Hermera as they exchange places.  That moment as night becomes day or day becomes night is that only time the goddess of night can greet her daughter who ushers in the day.  I find it interesting that the goddess of night gives birth to the goddess of day.  To me it mirrors the Celtic idea that light can only be born out of darkness.  While today we think of day preceding night, our ancestors saw darkness as the beginning of all things.  They knew we needed to pass through darkness in order to find light.  Whether it is our inner darkest or a dark time in our lives, we must pass through darkness in order to find light and new beginnings.  Dawn would be meaningless without the long journey through the night.       

 

                                Nyx Sunset Spell for New Beginnings

At sunset carve what you wish to manifest on a black candle.  Concentrate on your desire, see it clearly in your mind, see that image filling the candle.  Hold the candle in your hands as you invoke Nyx, saying:

Black winged Night

Dark mother Nyx

All things are born from your darkness

From the dark of our mother’s wombs we are born

From the dark soil the seed germinates and grows

From the dark of the Underworld our spirits are reborn

Nyx as you wrap your dark cloak over the world

I recognize that night is a time of beginnings

A time of rebirth and becoming

In the dark womb of night let my spell form and grow

And with the dawn manifest

Mother Night hear my prayer!

Light the candle and let it burn out.  If you can not let it burn all night (in a fire safe container of course) light it for a few minutes each night until it is spent.  

Samhain, Morrigan and Dagda

  When he first saw her, she was bathing along the river bank.  Long pale limbs, her skin the color of polished bone.  Clever hands loosed the nine tresses upon her head, leaving her hair to spill down her back.  It was the black of a starless night, with the glossy sheen of a raven’s feathers.  She sang softly as she poured the water over her porcelain skin.  The song was both somber and joyful, filled with all the pain and ecstasy that was life.  Something roused in him at the site.  He knew this woman.  Some called her Death, others knew her as Battle- but all he could see now was a painful, dangerous beauty that he longed to make his own.  He didn’t realize he had moved towards the bank until she was already in his arms.  She looked up at him with dark, raven eyes that mirrored his own passion.  He laughed to himself, perhaps it seemed odd that the God of life and the Goddess of Death should make such a passionate union together.  But as the sun sank and the old year died, he happily died in the ecstasy of her love, knowing with the dawn he would rise again, reborn.  The Morrigan may bring death, but Dagda knew her true gift was rebirth. 

   To many the story of the Morrigan and Dagda’s union on the eve of Samhain is perplexing.  They don’t seem at first glance to be two figures who would get along at all, let along come together in the manner that they do.  Like most myths there are several ways to look at it, and I find during different times of the year different aspects of the story stand out more than others.  On one level Dagda’s union with the Morrigan is a sacred marriage between the king and the Goddess of the land, giving us a glimpse into the Morrigan’s origins as a tutelary earth Goddess.  But as Samhain approaches it is the close connection the Celts saw between life and death that stands out to me the most. 

   At first they seem like an unlikely pair.  While the Morrigan is a very complex deity, at Samhain her connection to death comes to the forefront.  She is the Washer at the Ford who warns warriors that their deaths are near.  She over sees battle, taking pleasure in the bloodshed.  Dagda on the other hand is a comical figure in most of his myths.  He lives life to its fullest and indulging in all it has to offer whether that be good food or sensual pleasure.  He represents fertility, plenty and the bounty of life.  It would seem these two have nothing in common.  Yet upon seeing one another, they come passionately together, in a perfect union that ushers in the new year and new beginnings.  

   In today’s culture death and life are suppose to be enemies.  We think of these forces as opposites that clash, forces that exist to destroy the other.  Yet upon seeing one another, the Goddess who personifies death and the God who embodies life come together in a perfect union.  To the Celts life and death worked closely together, rather than being at odds with one another.  They recognized death is an unavoidable forces within life, and when we cross its threshold it ushers us into rebirth. 

   More often than not we concentrate on death during Samhain. After all it is a time to honor the dead and Samhain marks the end of the old year.  The veil between the worlds thins and we can more easily connect to those who have passed on and celebrate the lives of our ancestors.  But rebirth is also an important part of Samhain.  We must remember that life, death and rebirth are intrinsically linked.  Where one is present, the other is as well.      

   So as you prepare for your Samhain celebration, remember that it is also a time of beginnings.  A celebration of both life and death.  As the new year is born, we can shed the burdens of the past and begin anew.  Like Dagda, when we embrace death and welcome Her powers of change, our lives can be transformed, and with the dawn we can be reborn anew.