A stink in the air

So it's been a wee while since I last posted here – the summer has been an extremely busy and exhausting time – but the whole stink that's arisen thanks to the AFA coming out with their recent "statement" seems as good a time as any to dust this old thing off.

The AFA have always been utterly racist and bigoted as an organisation. A change in leadership was never going to change that, so it's no huge surprise that they'd come right out and say something that's racist and bigoted (only surprising in that the previous leadership learned to keep more quiet about it and skirt around it, I suppose). And to be fair, the AFA aren't the only racist heathen organisation out there, they're just one of the more prominent ones. So really, it's just the same shit, different day.

The more disturbing thing that people are up in arms about was a comment from an individual claiming to be CR, saying that CR "embrace the same values" as the AFA espoused in their statement, which, if you haven't seen it, said:

I understand that after something of an outcry in a certain Facebook group, the commenter backtracked and deleted their comment (I'm not a member of the group so I haven't seen what was said), so if you hunt up the post on the AFA page on Facebook, you won't see it there now. 

On the one hand, it's kind of mind-boggling that somebody would come out with a comment like that when Celtic Reconstructionism was founded on firmly anti-racist, pro-queer principles. So is Gaelic Polytheism. This isn't news. And for every group or individual who's spoken out against what was said – including Gaol Naofa – they've all said as much. It's written plain as day in The CR FAQ, which was written by community consensus a good ten years ago now. But then again, there are always going to be people who want to pick and choose the bits they agree with. There are always going to be people who want a folkish and bigoted form of CR, where men are manly and women are womanly (whatever that means), and the women dutifully pop out beautiful, straight, white, cisgender babies in between doing the dishes and making their manly man a bacon (natch) sammich. Swoon. What a wonderful community! (So long as you conform, right?)

I suppose it's easy to ignore or dismiss a particular stance a community has taken when people like this tend to hand-wave things they don't like as being "just modern politics" or whatever. That's usually what I've seen being claimed, and again, it's nothing new. Dismissing something as "modern politics I disagree with, therefore not relevant to me" is one thing, though. I'm not quite sure how these people reconcile their beliefs with the history and the mythology their religious outlook is founded on, because Irish myth (the lone commenter who decided to speak on behalf of CR also claims to be a Gaelic Polytheist) is fundamentally rooted in an origin story where the people of Ireland came from somewhere else – Spain, Scythia, Greece, Egypt, you name it.

And while the myths in question have been very much messed about with to frame them in a more Christian context, the general idea of "we came from somewhere else" is thought to be an original, pre-Christian part of the tale that's very much in keeping with what we know of Goidelic cosmology and so forth. The point is, though, either way the Irish believed themselves to be immigrants, and some of them proudly traced themselves back to very non-white origins (whether that's true or not is immaterial, really; they didn't have a problem with it and that's what counts here), and that also found it's way into Scottish genealogy and origin stories, too. And let's not forget that the Gaels, and Celts in general, also have a long history of emigration and colonisation elsewhere (sometimes by choice, sometimes not so much), so they've never exactly been averse to mixing their genes in with the locals, either.

It's only recently, in relative terms, that this idea of having an "undiluted" ancestry (unsullied by non-white genes, that is – mixing with other white people is just fine and dandy, regardless of culture) has become a thing. In that respect, then, I'd argue that it's the folkish types who're forcing their own modern views onto things, while ignoring some pretty fundamental elements of their own religion that contradict them. The same goes for the stuff about "our feminine ladies, our masculine gentlemen" (who, it was confirmed in the comments I included above, must be totally straight and gender-conforming). We don't see much about non-heterosexual relationships or gender non-conforming individuals in the historical sources, and these are areas of study are only just beginning to take off in academic circles, but we can certainly see that it was Christian influence that introduced an outright condemnation of this kind of thing.

Aaaaanyway. This isn't a lone commenter, out there in the dark fringes. For anyone who's been kicking around the CR scene for any length of time it's just one more example of an undercurrent that's always tried to push its way in. It's a problem that's not going to go away, and all anyone can do is keep speaking out against it and joining in with all the other voices who are saying the same. The groups and individuals who keep quiet about it... Maybe that speaks volumes in itself.

New video! New(ish) article! Daily Rites in Gaelic Polytheism

So as we announced over on the Gaol Naofa site last week (yes I'm way behind on things...), we've got a new video out:

And also a new (or at least improved) Daily Rites article to accompany it, which now has a number of prayers offered in both Gaelic and English translation. To be honest, there was no particular rhyme or reason in choosing to do this particular subject right now, aside from the fact that it seemed like a good idea to continue the more practical theme like our last video on Offerings in Gaelic Polytheism had.

I'm really not sure when the original Daily Rites article was written (I'm pretty sure it was before my time as a member of the GN council), but for the sake of those who prefer the original prayers given there, we've archived that version of the article on the site, and it's cross-referenced to the new version, too. Kathryn took charge of the article's overhaul of the piece, and I think the contrast between the prayers given in the original version, and the ones that Kathryn chose to adapt from the Carmina Gadelica in the new version, gives a good contrast and illustration of how different people have different styles.

When I was first starting to explore CR and then Gaelic Polytheism specifically, the idea of daily prayers seemed kind of restrictive and off-putting. Coming from a completely secular background it was a concept that was alien to me, and it seemed kind of dull... Wouldn't it get boring and become rote? But I kept coming back to the idea for reasons I've never really fully understood, aside from the undeniable urge that I should, and eventually I started looking at the kinds of prayers that were out there, that maybe I could adapt or work with in coming up with some of my own. After a bit of fiddling around I found a routine that felt like it was a good fit, and since I started I've not stopped, really. It was a gradual process as I figured things out, but now I say the same prayers every day (or night...) – at the very least I will pray each night, just as I've got into bed and I'm lying down, since that's most comfortable for me – and it's become an integral part of my bedtime routine now. Even when I'm absolutely exhausted I find it hard to get to sleep until I've said them now.

I think it's important that the prayers we say as part of our practice have meaning to us, and they flow from the heart. My preference is for the more traditional, like the ones we've given in the new article, and the ones I have over on Tairis, but I also tend to add in prayers of my own making, too – off the cuff prayers that aren't poetic, perhaps, but they're no less heartfelt or meaningful. But the traditional types of prayers – the same words I say over and over again from year to year – form the barebones of my daily routine.

I'm sure the idea of a daily routine of prayer doesn't appeal to some people and I don't think it's the only way things should or can be done. For one, there are simple traditions and customs that can become a part of your day, too... It doesn't make anyone lesser, or greater, just because of what they do or don't do, though. Religion isn't a competition or a pissing contest, you know? Or it shouldn't be. I'm sure a lot of people do maintain a daily routine of some sort, even if it doesn't follow a particular outline or isn't even a conscious thing. Maybe somedays or most days the sum total is little more than a mental "hey."

What matters is that it works for the individual, and that – at its core – it helps maintain that connection with An Trì Naomh. It's about being mindful of who you are, who you honour. I've seen some people say they try to keep up a daily routine of some sort but somedays, for whatever reason, it just doesn't happen and then there's a sense of guilt or failure, and it becomes hard to get back into the routine because the sense of whatever starts to snowball... But we're only human, after all. We all have our limits and if it happens, it's OK. If it keeps happening, maybe it's better to scale things back a bit and go easier; don't bite off more than you can chew. At the end of the day... Just do you.

New page and lead mines...

First off, a quick note about a new page on the Gaol Naofa website...

If you're following us on Facebook then you'll have noticed that we've been putting out a number of memes on proverbs, prayers, triads, and so on. Our latest meme is a prayer to the moon:

Original image: Dawn Perry

And now that we have quite a few of them we've created a page to host (and archive them) in the library section of the site. If you'd like to share any of them feel free, but please make sure you credit the original photographer, as per the terms of the Creative Commons licence. (Thanks).

Anyway, at the weekend the kids and I went on a fieldtrip with my mother-in-law and the archaeological society she's involved with. It was a long day with a few stops arranged (plenty of opportunity for my mother-in-law to show off her grandkids), the first one being to a lead mine situated in the highest village in Scotland. It's maybe not the most typical thing I'd be blogging about here, but the mine was really interesting and also involved a visit to a cottage that's been laid out in three sections, each section showing what living there would've been like during that period. It brought home a lot of things, for me, that I want to waffle on about here.

The mines date back to around the eighteenth century and it first started off with men setting up camp in the area and mining – rather haphazardly – whatever they could find. They lived in makeshift tents during the summer and worked as much as they could, then returned home in the winter. The conditions in the winter were too harsh to survive comfortably in tents, and being so high up it was pretty uncomfortable at other times of the year as it was.

Then a company moved in and advertised jobs that came with a real home. Men flocked to the area, bringing their families, encouraged by the prospect of a roof over their heads and a regular income; being able to settle permanently in the area meant that a regular income from mining was possible. As far as the houses go, what the company really meant was that they'd give the workers a small plot of land and then – along with working in the mine all day – they'd have to build the house themselves. Which wasn't exactly what was advertised, but people made do, and a village began to flourish... This is one of the streets today:

If I recall correctly, things like water mains, sewers, gas, and electricity were still being installed in parts of the village in the 70s.

The men would go to work in the mines for ten or twelve hour shifts during the summer, going down to around six hours in the winter. They got double the wages in the summer, given the longer hours. Boys from around eight years of age were employed to wash the galena that was mined out of the hills, before it was sent for smelting. In the summer they'd spend ten or twelve hours standing barefoot in the stream. In winter they'd often have to smash through the ice before they could begin washing – again, spending the whole shift barefoot in the water. The mining company would advertise the positions as "healthy outdoor work" for boys.

At the age of twelve the boys who worked in the stream would be allowed to move up in the world, being promoted to work in the mine. They wouldn't do the mining itself – not yet. Instead, they'd spend their shift dragging the lead out from where the miners were working, to pass their load on to the boys washing the galena in the stream and then trudge back in for more.

Of course, using the stream tainted the water with lead and other minerals, but it was the smelting that was the most dangerous job: A by-product of the smelting was arsenic, which was freely inhaled. To begin with, the furnace was situated near the village to cut down on the time it took to get the ore there, but it soon became obvious that the fumes hanging over the village weren't doing anyone any good. Eventually the furnace was moved further out, and built into the hillside. Boys would be employed to clean out the flues of all the soot and sediment – men were too big to climb up there – exposing them to the arsenic, too. The average life expectancy in the village – in the 1750s – was 35, although the high rate of infant mortality is the main factor in giving such a low figure. The age group with the highest mortality rate was between 0-2.

As new shafts were opened, the miners would leave the first piece of galena that alerted them to a potential seam they could mine. The rest of the galena would be taken, but that first piece was left, for luck; take it, and the mine would take you. So there it stayed. Each day as the miners entered the shaft they'd walk pass that piece of galena and rub it for luck. At the end of the shift they'd rub it again as they made their way out. The mine deserved this respect.

The tour guide showed us the piece in the mine we explored:

You can see how worn it is. The moss is from the damp and the spotlight they use to show it off – the tunnels are otherwise too dark for anything to grow ordinarily, but it's just as damp as it ever was.

Once they were in the mine they'd stay there until the end off the shift – in the dank and dimness. They'd eat where they worked and they'd piss and shit there too, so the mines were full of rats. The miners would tie their trouser legs at the knee so the rats couldn't run up inside them. They didn't have any specialist clothing, they just wore everyday clothing that they covered in melted wax so help give some waterproofing. It was always damp in the mines, but especially so in the rainy seasons when the rain water would filter down through the hills and drip into the mine shafts.

While the galena was dragged out by the older boys, the rest of the rock was usually stacked up on the wooden props used to shore up the shaft walls – it was a waste of time dragging out rock that wasn't going to make any money, because less ore meant less pay. The piles of rock added weight to the props, and with the damp in the mines it meant that the wood could rot quickly and there would often be collapses. Conditions left a lot to be desired...

The lead that was produced from the mines was only shipped off once a year – perhaps two years if the mines weren't especially fruitful. They wouldn't be shipped off until the load could fill up a ship, which meant the miners wouldn't get paid until a whole load was ready to go. Each miner would have to buy their own tools, pay for their own candles to light their way, and so they relied on the mining company to provide a store where the families could get food and any other supplies they needed, on tab. The miners worked in groups called "bargains," because the head of the group would haggle and bargain with the mining company to agree a rate of pay for the group. When the miners were finally paid they'd have to settle their tab and hope they had money left over; in a bad year, sometimes the miners would find that they owed the mining company more than they'd been paid, and would need to work another year and hope that this time they'd earn enough. Families would try to supplement their incomes by panning for gold in the streams that ran through the village, and the miners would carefully cultivate stalagtites of hematite that would form from the shaft ceilings from the minerals that leeched out of the rock. When the stalagtite was big enough, the miner would break it off and take it home to polish it up, and then sell it on to travelling merchants.

So conditions were hard. On top of the long hours and demanding physical work, the earliest houses built by the miners had to be erected using the cheapest materials available. Rock wasn't hard to come by for the walls, but the roofs were often little more than thatches of bracken and heather – not always completely waterproof, but slate or proper thatching cost money that most workers didn't have. The glass tax of the eighteenth century meant that most families couldn't afford windows either, so they just had small holes in the wall, with wooden shutters that were kept closed in winter. The floor of the house was little more than earth (or mud at times, because the thatch wasn't exactly water-tight).

The hearth was roughly in the middle of the room; there was no chimney, so the smoke would just have to work its way out through the thatch. The furniture – a chest, a few stools, and probably not much more – were low down to help keep people out of the worst of the smoke. The beds were little more than piles of heather and bracken to provide a mattress, covered over with warm blankets. Cottages typically housed between 8-10 family members:

The weather was pretty miserable on the day we visited, and even though it's only September the damp and cold really brought home how it important it would have been to keep the hearth alight day and night. The fire was smoored each night – smothered over to keep it at a steady, slow smoulder rather than a roaring blaze, to conserve fuel and so it wouldn't need constant attention throughout the night, and so it could be easily raised up again in the morning without having to start from scratch. Allowing the fire to go out completely could mean freezing conditions. I can't help but think of all the feeling that was put into the smooring prayer as those words were said each night. In the face of such uncertainty, routines of daily prayers like that could provide a sense of comfort and consistency.

Within a hundred years things had improved some. Slate became more widely available and affordable for roofing, and the window tax had been abolished so people had the luxury of natural daylight. The central hearth was becoming a thing of the past, being replaced by a cast iron fireplace off to one side of the room, with a chimney to take away the smoke. A bed was built into a cosy nook near the stove, and wood panelling on the walls provided extra insulation:

(A bit blurry but the light was crap, sorry). The nook was the prime spot for sleeping, especially in the winter.

Life was a little more comfortable and dry, although the slate roofing could still be a bit leaky. The average life expectancy in the village had risen to 55 by the mid-nineteenth century. By 1910, housing had improved once more:

People had warmer housing and better access to education and health care. Life expectancy had risen even further, hence baldy granddad in the corner there. One of the major changes was that the mining company recognised the benefit of a healthier workforce, so they'd begun to offer subsidies to the workers so they could buy seeds to grow vegetables. A healthier diet was a major improvement.

So that's the museum. The little tidbits of folklore – like preserving the first bit of galena – were really striking, for me. I doubt the miners thought of the mine as having a spirit, as such, but all the same they behaved as if the mine had a life of its own, and they worked to appease it just as they did with their offerings of milk to the Good Folk, the smooring and setting the house in order each night to make sure that the spirits couldn't come in and interfere... Life may not be so precarious as it was then – for most of us – but our concerns remain much the same. And respect to those we share our space with is always due.

Devotions and disability

For anyone who's followed this blog for a while you'll probably have picked up on the fact that I deal with chronic pain on a daily basis, mainly because of how many variations on "Oooo, me back," I manage to come up with...

I've had problems with my back since I was a teenager, on and off, but after two pregnancies things got considerably worse and the problems more persistent. A brief stint with a chiropractor helped me get back to normal, ish, after I had Rosie, until my back totally crapped out just over four years ago. I wish I could say it crapped out while I was doing something exciting, but I was just sitting at the dining table at the time. Sad but true.

Since then I've had surgery, which helped me walk without aids again, as well as get off the morphine, and I've got a regime of medications that help me manage the day-to-day pain – I'm still on pretty strong painkillers, but not as strong as morphine these days. After this amount of time I have a good idea of the things I can and can't do, and I know my limits. Every now and then something happens because of my own poor judgement or "just because" and I have a bad flare that has me incapacitated and doped up on stronger painkillers and muscle relaxants for weeks at a time, sometimes months, but over all I wouldn't say I'm proper disabled. I'm a part-time cripple, at the most.

I'm painfully (no pun intended) aware of the fact that my problems are chronic and degenerative, though, and this means that eventually my back problems will worsen significantly. At that point further surgery might help, again, but whatever happens I'll always have to deal with the pain and the side-effects of the medications, to some degree or another, as well as the limitations that come with having an Officially Shite Back (or degenerative disc disease, if you prefer). Sometimes those limitations aren't just physical – not being able to push a trolley round the supermarket once it's full, say – but can affect me in other ways.

In particular, it can affect how I might express myself religiously or spiritually. When I plan out what we're going to do for festivals, for example, I have to make sure I don't over do things and try to cram in more than I'm capable of. If I have big ideas then I have to accommodate a bigger timeframe to ensure it gets done. I have to have an idea of things I want (or need) to do, as a bare minimum, as opposed to the optional extras that I might want to do as well – things I can juggle around or postpone in case I'm having a bad day, or whatever. If I need to spread things out over a few days, then that's OK; there's no point trying to battle through the pain and do for the sake of doing, right? And if I need to do something lying down rather than sitting or standing, then that's OK too. Needs must, and all that.

On top of that, I need to think about what I'm going to be doing and whether or not any medication I need to take might affect my ability to do that. For the most part my medications are an essential part of my daily routine that help me keep feeling "normal" now – missing a dose of Tramadol causes withdrawal symptoms, for example, that will have a knock on effect on my ability to sit still – missing a dose or taking it too late means I'll get relentlessly resltess legs and increased pain,  for one thing, which inevitably affects my concentration. But during those times that I might be prescribed extra meds, like muscle relaxants, even the effectiveness of a simple prayer can be affected by having taken a diazepam; drifting off to sleep mid-prayer or being unable to concentrate properly is hardly conducive to being able to be at my most receptive or communicative. So in those cases, timing is important.

So it's all been a bit of a lesson in compromise, and certainly in mindfulness, and it's definitely spurred me on to try and be more adaptable and flexible in my approach. When I was starting out – before the problems kicked in – I'd often concentrate on cramming in as many details as I could, and I'd worry about making sure I got everything done. Having to accommodate a baby, and then a toddler and a baby, helped me relax a bit on that one, and I slowly learned to aim for more realistic plans. It helped me realise (and not without some gentle but sage prodding from those wiser and more experienced than I) that while the doing is an important part of any religious practice, it's not the be all and end all of it. The doing and the details are important, of course, but there has to be a balance. When you start getting so caught up in the details that it starts to overshadow your actual experience, then it's a problem...

On the other hand, however, when you have to be aware of your own limitations it can be easy to get caught up in them, too. It's easy to start obsessing about what might happen and the what ifs... It can be easy to think that there's no point doing this or that because you might suffer for it later... To the point where you end up barely living at all. It seems that maybe the fear of pain, of negative consequences, is often greater than having to deal with actual outcomes. So it can be easy to wallow in those limitations, getting to the point where no real effort is made, and these are all traps I've fallen into at times. At the same time, I won't say I've never made rather stupid decisions in spite of knowing my otherwise sensible limitations, either.

It's all a bit of a delicate balancing act, and I don't think there's any particular right answer. What works for one person may not work for another; what works in one moment might not work in the next. It's a constant, evolving process, and to be fair I think that's the same regardless of your limitations and abilities, or lack thereof. The bottom line, however, is that being somewhat limited in what I can do, at times, it doesn't make my experiences any less real or meaningful to me. It doesn't make them any more real, either, because I'm still me regardless of how capable – physically, mentally or emotionally – I may or may not be at any point in time. What matters to me is that I try, and I do (as much as I am able), regardless. Sometimes I have to accommodate my limitations, or accept that I'm simply not able to do something because of them. Sometimes my inability to do may not be physical per se, but mental, or emotional, for sure.

Ultimately, it also occurs to me that in spite of however I may or may not be likely to end up, I can still appreciate, and be thankful for, the now. On those wallowing days it's something that can be easy to lose sight of. And regardless of however I might end up, physically, it won't prevent me from being able to do something in one way or another. It may, however, take some adjusting, and compromise. Mentally and emotionally, there may be some catching up to do when the time comes, too.

But if there's one thing I've learnt, then it's that I'm more than capable of getting there in the end – wherever "there" might be. My idea of what I should do, of what's necessary as part of a practice that's fulfilling to me, has changed many times over. One size does not fit all.

Saying goodbye

One of the first things I think I wrote about at the start of this year was about our old and ailing dog Eddie:

My dog, really, since I've had him since he was a pup. 

Although he'd begun to slow down and seemed to be struggling with hills at the start of the year, a change of food seemed to bring something of a revival. For how long that would last we didn't know, but as long as he was happy we decided to carry on.

This last month or so he'd begun having trouble with his eyes constantly gunking and then crusting up, which he wouldn't let me clean no matter what I did. In spite of a healthy appetite he was losing a lot of weight, as well, and his back legs were becoming a lot weaker. The pads of his feet seemed to have lost any kind of traction on smooth surfaces so unless he was in his bed or on carpet he'd get himself stranded if he lay anywhere else - usually in the kitchen, where the floor is tile or wood, so too slippery for him. A couple of times I had to rescue him at 4am or so and put him back to bed.

We had him checked over at the vet and she gave him antibiotics for his eyes, and noticed that there was a growth or mass of some sort near his back end. It was clearly painful and he wouldn't let her take a close look, but the writing was on the wall. Presumably that had a lot to do with his sudden decline. With the weightloss he was heading towards becoming dangerously underweight, and given his age and condition he wasn't going to survive any kind of surgery, whatever the problem was. I wouldn't want to put him through that, anyway. 

So he came home with antibiotics and strong painkillers, with instructions for us to bring him back the next week. For the first few days he perked up a lot, and seemed to have a lot more energy, but we didn't kid ourselves - it was never going to be for long. The aim was to make him more comfortable, and that was it. It wasn't clear how long he had, but at least we could hope that he wouldn't be suffering.

The antibiotics helped improve his eyes, but it wasn't enough to cure it. The next week the vet decided not to continue with them, because it was only going to end up leading to a resistant infection, which would make the situation a whole lot worse. In spite of our best efforts, he'd lost yet more weight and was now at the point where he was borderline. The vet said we could try giving him some puppy food, but while it would be high in calories, it was also high in protein and that would put a strain on his liver and kidneys. If we wanted to try it, we could, but either way with the infection and the mass... it was time to have the conversation and think about what we wanted to do for him. If he lost any more weight then he'd be dangerously thin. She tried having another look at the mass and said it was likely his prostate, but by this point there could be other things involved. Without further tests it was hard to say.

We brought Eddie home again, with more painkillers for the next couple of weeks before we had to take him back. And I thought about what to do. My main worry was his weight, because at a certain point his body would basically be unable to support itself, and I didn't really have any way of knowing where that point was, I just knew it was close. If the weighloss continued at the rate it had been, he wouldn't last a week. Another worry was the mass, and the obvious discomfort it was starting to give him. Even with the strong painkillers he'd started to randomly yelp out in pain when he moved. It wasn't long, once he was off the antibiotics, that his eyes started to gunk up again, which was making him miserable. I decided I couldn't let him suffer. I couldn't watch him decline even further just for the sake of a few more weeks, if that. As much as he still loved to go out for walks, as much as he still liked to sit out in the rain for hours on end, it was obvious he was tired. So, so tired. 

And so I made the call. I booked him in for a few days later, when Mr Seren happened to be working from home, so he could take us to the vets. And those few days were awful. There were a lot of tears, and a lot of effort put in to try and keep the kids from knowing, because it seemed unfair to put them through that. Sometimes, just for a moment, I'd convince myself we could put it off, because look! He's all happy to go walkies! And then he'd yelp. He'd collapse down in his bed and look fed up as he nuzzled at the fabric of his bed to try and clean his eyes. As soon as I tried to clean them he'd just cry mournfully. 

The day before we took him in, I took him and Mungo for a long and final walk, through the woods and then down to the beach. More than anything, Eddie loved to swim. In his younger days he'd go out and rescue stick after stick, my little selkie dog:

His mass of fluff and fur would slick down and reveal his small frame and his skinny legs with his silly feet, tufts of tan fur that always stuck up between his toes no matter what. 

But rivers, canals, ponds, the sea - you name it, Eddie would swim in it. His first time swimming in the sea was when we were staying with my mum down in Suffolk, and my sister and her family had come down as well. We went for a trip to the beach and my brother-in-law spent hours with him in the sea. Eddie drank a little too much sea-water that day, and as we were going through an amusement arcade the sea-water came right back up with a full English breakfast my brother-in-law had snuck him that morning. Eggs, bacon, sausages, baked beans, mushrooms... Probably a bit of fried bread and tomatoes, too. Eddie must've inhaled it instead of chewing it, and no wonder he was so thirsty. But as the incriminating evidence lay on the floor for all to see Eddie just grinned and wagged his tail as I told my brother-in-law off. Dogs eat dog food for a reason, Jeremy. 

To be fair, though, Eddie never tried drinking the sea again. 

When Eddie wasn't colluding with my brother-in-law or rescuing sticks he would be singing the song of his people:

A proud and happy song of excitement and (probably) sticks that needed rescuing.

So I decided it was time for one more trip before the inevitable. He had a wee bit of a swim, but mostly doddered about while Mungo did Operation Rescue Stick. It's not that it's December now and he had a sudden burst of common sense about freezing his bits off in the water all of a sudden, he just wasn't up to much more than doddering around. Common sense has never been Eddie's forte. 

He sang his song one last time:

And chewed on a stick (the only way to stop him singing his song) before we took one last stroll over the rocks. I stopped for a while and said some prayers for him - to Manannán and Clota of the river and sea, and to Donn - and made some offerings to them before we came home. It was a thankfully quiet day so we weren't disturbed.

The next day, after the kids went to school, we took him in. The vet checked him over and shaved a bit of his foreleg, and then gave the injection while I stroked and fussed him. He went quickly, and peacefully, and a fair bit of my snot got blown into tissues as I said my goodbyes. And that was it. It was a moment I'd been dreading, being there as he died. Seeing his lifeless body. It's not how I wanted to remember him, but at the same time I felt I had to be there, as an honour to him. We'd been through so much together, how could I not? Mr Seren offered to go in with him, or else the vet would have done it without us. But I couldn't not be there. 

The house is strangely empty and quiet now. No more little snuffles and snorts, or incessant sneezing and snuffling as he's being fussed. No more happy noises as you find the tickly spot on his belly. Mungo's been subdued, wanting to be left alone in between reassuring cuddles; I'm not sure if he knows what's happened, really. Part of me wonders if he's sulking because Eddie's obviously having a really long walk, and it's not fair, or maybe he's worried he's going to be next. Grumble (the cat) is sulking because now there's one less dog to torment or steal food from. The kids have taken it well, though. I wasn't expecting Tom to be as upset as he was, but I think it's more because he knew how upset I was than he was feeling sad for himself that Eddie had gone. There were tears, and questions, but they'd known it was coming at some point soon so it wasn't a total surprise. 

He was 15 years old, a good age for a dog. Especially a dog like Eddie, who did his damnedest as a puppy to give himself as short a life as possible and may or may not have given himself mild brain damage after choking on a bead (twice). Before I took him on, I hasten to add. At the time, the vet said not to expect him to live beyond seven or so, given the neurological deficits. I think in the end it turned out he was just not the brightest dog this world has ever seen...

He's been with me longer than Mr Seren has, and he was with me through some particularly tough times. And I wish I could think of something deep to finish off with, but all I can think to say is that I miss him already. But at the same time I'm glad for him, because I know he's not in pain anymore. He's not suffering, or struggling, or wasting away before our eyes. As I said to the kids, it's just the way things go, isn't it? We live, we grow old, and sometimes we get to do the kind thing for our pets. 

I'm still pretty agnostic when it comes to the whole afterlife deal. I'm not keen on the whole eternity thing, really. On the one hand, I can get on board with the whole reincarnation idea, though. On the other, I kind of like the vagueness of just "going west," out across the waves to the House of Donn or wherever else it might be. It's certainly easier to think that Eddie would be out there, frolicking in the waves.

Maybe the next time we're down at the beach we'll hear an echo of his song. I do hope so. My little selkie dog. 

Book Review: A Single Ray of the Sun

Apparently it's been a whole year since my last book review...

I haven't had much of an excuse to splurge on books and fun stuff like that in quite a while, but this last week I decided it was time to treat myself. It was only going to be so long before I gave in and splurged on Celtic Cosmology: Perspectives from Ireland and Scotland, and if you think about it, waiting a whole month or so after its official publication is actually pretty restrained of me. Right?

I'm still waiting for that one to arrive, but the other two I ordered came pretty quickly. The first one I picked out is The Cailleach of Sligo, and I'm only two chapters in but finding it thoroughly disappointing. Oh well, you can't win every time, I guess; if I ever end up finishing it, I'll probably review it but I can see it's the sort of book I'll only ever be half-hearted about tackling. The second book I ordered is the one I'm reviewing just now, John Carey's A Single Ray of the Sun: Religious Speculation in Early Ireland. It's a short and quick read, and I really enjoyed it. It was also only a fiver, so yay.


A Single Ray of the Sun: Religious Speculation in Early Ireland
John Carey


I'd heard pretty good things about this book for a while now and I've always enjoyed John Carey's articles and the other books I've read by him. He tends to deal with areas that are especially useful for Gaelic Polytheists (for a start, I'd recommend getting your hands on his articles, 'The Name "Tuatha Dé Danann,"' and 'Notes on the Irish War-Goddess,' if you can), mostly dealing with the way Irish literature has evolved, and how it reflects pre-Christian ideas, and so on.

To be fair, this book focuses more on early Christian thought than anything pre-Christian, but there's still plenty of food for thought. The book is really a collection of three essays by Carey, collated here into one cohesive volume: The first essay (or chapter) is called 'The Baptism of the Gods,' and this is the most interesting and useful from a Gaelic Polytheist perspective. The second essay, 'The Ecology of Miracles,' has a few tidbits that would be of interest (a few references to druid teachings that will pique your interest if that's your thing), while the final essay, 'The Resurrection of the World,' doesn't have much to offer from the perspective of pre-Christian evidence, but it's one of those things that's good for background on some of the sources that deal with early Christian cosmology.

The first chapter is the most useful because it talks about the different ways the medieval writers, who recorded all of the myths in the manuscripts, dealt with the issue of the gods. There were obvious concerns about how the gods of their pre-Christian past could fit into a Christian framework, but the Irish seemed quite happy to embrace the gods and preserve their stories, tweaking them here and there to accommodate a Christian perspective. Carey talks about the two main ways the gods were dealt with - euhemerisation and demonisation. Euhemerisation was basically a way to argue that the gods of the pagan past were really human ancestors, who were elevated to divine status by the pagan Irish at some point because of their amazing deeds or achievements. That makes it easier to view the pre-Christian Irish as simply being mistaken, allowing the gods to be remembered for their merits while demoting them to human or Otherworldly status. In some ways it's a more forgiving way of reconciling them, because it allows for their being mistaken by virtue of the fact that the word of God hadn't got to Ireland yet. Demonisation is pretty self-explanatory - viewing them from the purely Christian perspective as demons who tricked and deceived the pre-Christian Irish into worshipping them as false gods. It's a less forgiving way of interpreting them, but although both viewpoints are articulated at various points in the myths, Carey argues that unlike elsewhere the Irish never really embraced either view wholeheartedly, which is why the gods persisted so stubbornly - in early Irish prayers, for one, but especially as the aes síde.

The whole subject is important to us in how we look at the myths and interpret the way the gods are portrayed. The gods are explicitly referred to as gods many times, in contradiction with Christian doctrine, so when we see them being reduced to nothing more than Otherworldly beings it raises questions. How do we reconcile all of this? How do we deal with it? We can't see them as less than divine, because they clearly are divine. But there are also hints (when we consider the idea of the Dé ocus an-Dé, for example) that there were always distinctions between divine and non-divine, but still Otherworldly, beings.

One of the things that really caught my eye is that Carey mentions that references to the mortality of the gods can only be dated to the end of tenth century, in a poem by Eochaid ua Flainn, and the concept then recurs in the Lebor Gabála Érenn a century later. So the implication is that this idea of their mortality is Christian in influence, not pre-Christian, and a product of euhemerisation. When we consider the references to their deaths, we can't take them literally, then.

The later chapters have their own merits but I don't think they're going to be of much interest for all but the seriously ie-hard Irish Studies fans. I enjoyed them, but I've studied this kind of thing, so it's probably fair to say that it's a pet subject of mine and I don't expect that most folks would find them as enthralling. But all in all, the book is a quick read and it's reasonably priced, so I think it's worth the splurge - at some point - even if it's not necessarily going to change your life significantly. If you're looking for something to help flesh things out beyond the basics and you have a keen interest in this area then this is a book I'd recommend adding to your wish list.

Feed the beach

Somehow the solstice managed to sneak up on me almost unawares, so plans ended up being a little impromptu, to say the least. I had a vague idea that I'd go to the beach and do...stuff. Like I usually do. But beyond that my brain hadn't really got much further.

So it happened that the solstice was at the weekend this year, and seeing as Mr Seren was working, any plans would have to include the kids. I usually like to go to the beach around sunset, if I can, but that would be too late for the kids. In the end, after I explained to them that what "solstice" means, we decided that an early evening picnic would be just the thing. We prepared a wee feast (and offerings) to take with us, and set off with the dogs for a long walk.

This year I've pretty much given up on gardening - not for lack of enthusiasm, but because I know it's just too much for me to able to handle. Although I'm doing a lot better these days, my back is still a delicate and temperamental beastie, and overdoing things doesn't go well for me. A lot of the containers I've been using are pretty much done for now, and replacing them will involve too much heavy work, so I haven't planted any veg this year. Instead, I'm just concentrating on the fruits that are happily chugging along left to their own devices, but a side effect of my general gardening neglect is realising that what I had thought was a weed that was trying to propagate itself all over my flower beds is actually a type of rush. Which is very timely, considering.

The first Midsummer after moving here I took a long walk through the village, down to the beach where I made my offerings. That time I found a rock covered in tiny fossils:

I took it home with me, interpreting it a sign of some sort of gift of acknowledgement (as I noted in a long and rambly post here), and it lives on my shrine now.

And like I said in that post, it's not a fossily beach. Since finding that fossil, I've not found another one at all, in spite of keeping a lookout for them whenever I go. Except yesterday, while we were having our picnic, Rosie found an even bigger rock that's covered in the exact same fossils - right where we were sitting:

I suggested to Rosie that she should ask the beach if it would be OK to take it home; we mustn't take things without asking. So Rosie asked, and cocked an ear briefly, and then said yes, the beach said we could take it home. But we had to give something back in return. We had to feed the beach as a thank you.

Luckily I'd come prepared, with some things as an offering to Manannán to "pay the rent," along with some offerings to the spirits of the beach. We built a wee cairn right by where we'd had our picnic, like we usually do, and picked up some of the litter that had been left by previous parties:

And after the dogs had had a good run around and a swim, and Tom had given Rosie some lessons in skimming stones:

We headed up to the rocks where I usually make my offerings. First we made our offerings to "feed the beach," and both Rosie and Tom insisted that they should do it themselves, so I gave them some of the food I'd brought and left them to it while I prepared the offerings for Manannán:

It's the first time that Tom's asked to take an active role in anything related to our celebrations - I'll invite them to watch and join in with the words if they want to, and sometimes he does, but Rosie's always been much more interested in taking an active role than her brother has so far. So this was the first time he's really done anything by himself. He asked about all the different kinds of ways he could say thank you (in Gaelic - they've been learning a bit. Slowly), and I gave him a few ideas of what to say and he put them together into his own prayer.

When the kids were done, I climbed down into a wee cove to pay the rents while the kids watched the dogs and made sure Eddie didn't decide to take a dive down to join me. Tom started singing a random song as he wandered about on the rocks, and Rosie clambered down to be with me while I prayed and made my offerings. Once I was done, I climbed back up on to the rocks and made a libation (I don't like to pour drinks into the sea, in case it upsets the sealife), and the kids followed suit with some of the juice they'd brought with them. Tom wanted to know if Manannán has a trident like Poseidon does, and was very disappointed to hear that he doesn't. He suggested that we should make him one, while Rosie suggested that we could make a small boat and put messages in it that we could send to Manannán out at sea.

Just as we were chatting, the sea suddenly began to make a roar - the waves picked up and the acoustics in the cove must have amplified the sound, and the sudden noise was startling. The waves rose and lapped at the offerings I'd laid down, and they started to drift away. The kids gasped and got really excited and Tom decided it was awesome. We all agreed that our offerings had been well-received.

Rosie's resolve to make a boat for Manannán was cemented, and as we made our way home it was all she could talk about. By the time we got home we were all pretty tired from the long walk and the excitement, and we all just collapsed for an hour or so before the kids had to go and get ready for bed. I even had a short nap.

All in all, it's one of those times when I'm reminded that even the most impromptu kinds of observances can make for pretty powerful experiences, and being able to share it with the kids puts a whole new perspective on things; thinking about what it all means to them. Thinking about how it will shape their outlook as they grow older, and the kinds of things they'll look back on as being meaningful moments. In a way, it makes it all the more meaningful to me, as well; it adds layers.

But for now, the days are growing shorter and the summer holidays are looming. Six glorious weeks of no homework, as far as the kids are concerned. We'll hopefully manage a family holiday away at some point, and the kids are going away with their cousins and Nana for a while, too. One thing's for sure is that there'll definitely be a few trips to the beach again, if the kids have anything to say about it.

An Cailleach Bheara

I've posted a link to this short film before, but it's well worth another watch! 'Tis the season, and all...

Soon the Cailleach Bheur will make her lament as she gives up and admits defeat in trying to hold back the onslaught of Spring. As she throws down her wand, she shouts out:

‘Dh’ fhag e mhan mi, dh’ fhag e ‘n ard mi Dh’ fhag e eadar mo dha lamh mi, Dh’ fhag e bial mi, dh’ fhag e cul mi, Dh’ fha e eadar mo dha shul mi.		It escaped me below, it escaped me above.     It escaped me between my two hands,     It escaped me before, it escaped me behind,     It escaped me between my two eyes.
Dh’ fhag e shios mi, dh’ fhag e shuas mi, Dh’ fhag e eadar mo dha chluas mi, Dh’ fhag e thall mi, dh’ fhag e bhos mi, Dh’ fhag e eadar mo dha chos mi.		It escaped me down, it escaped me up,     It escaped me between my two ears,     It escaped me thither, it escaped me hither,     It escaped me between my two feet.
Thilg mi ‘n slacan druidh donai, Am bun preis crin cruaidh conuis. Far nach fas fionn no foinnidh, Ach fracan froinnidh feurach.’		I threw my druidic evil wand.     Into the base of a withered hard whin bush,     Where shall not grow 'fionn' nor 'fionnidh,'     But fragments of grassy 'froinnidh.'

While the Irish An Cailleach Bheara doesn't have such firm associations with the seasons as the Scottish An Cailleach Bheur does, there are some hints. Cairn T, at Loughcrew (or Sliabh na Caillí) is thought to have an equinoctial alignment:

The light of the equinox sunrise illuminates the back chamber of the Cairn T at the Loughcrew complex, lighting up carvings that are thought to have astronomical meanings. Near to Cairn T is the Hag's Chair, and she is said to have created the tomb by accidentally dropping a pile of stones from her apron. But of course, in spite of her associations with the place today, we can't really say when the Cailleach came to be associated with the place – certainly not until after Christianity, when the word 'cailleach' came into the Irish language – or if her associations are meant to tie in with the equinoctial alignment. The coincidence with the Scottish Là na Cailliche is tantalising, however.

It does seem like she has other, older names as well, which offer further (possible) seasonal associations. In The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare, she calls herself Buí, who is referred to as a wife of Lugh in other sources, and is said to have been buried at Knowth (Cnogba). In the Dindshenchas of Nás (another of Lugh's wives) she is mentioned again, along with Tailtiu, so one wonders if she has an association with Lúnasa, which were often held at places that are thought to have been the burial place of supernatural women or goddesses who were married to Lugh, or otherwise associated with him? The Dindshenchas of Nás seems to hint that this was the case, since it mentions games and gatherings.

Another Dindshenchas, Lia Nothain, refers to two sisters, Nothain and Sentuinne, both of whom are "Old Women" and Sentuinne itself means "Old Woman" just as "Cailleach" can. The Dindshenchas associates them with May-day, suggesting further seasonal associations:

Nothain (was) an old woman [cailleach] of Connaught, and from the time she was born her face never fell on a field, and her thrice fifty years were complete. Her sister once went to have speech with her. Sentuinne (” Old Woman”) was her name: her husband was Sess Srafais, and Senbachlach (“Old-Churl”) was another name for him. Hence said the poet: 

      Sentuinne and Senbachlach,
     A seis srofais be their withered hair!
     If they adore not God’s Son
     They get not their chief benefit. 

From Berre, then, they went to her to bring her on a plain on May-day. When she beheld the great plain, she was unable to go back from it, and she planted a stone (lia) there in the ground, and struck her head against it and….and was dead. ” It will be my requiem….I plant it for sake of my name.” Whence Lia Nothan (“Nothan’s Stone”). 

     Nothain, daughter of Conmar the fair,
     A hard old woman of Connaught,
     In the month of May, glory of battle,
     She found the high stone. 

Source

The association with Berre (Beare), just as Buí is associated with that place, suggests that they are probably one and the same. So there are some hints and bits of seasonal lore that may be associated with An Cailleach Bheara. It's guesswork, for sure, but I thought it's worth putting out there to ponder.

Saying goodbye

Holding an impromptu funeral for a hamster wasn't exactly something I had in mind for the weekend when I got up on Saturday morning, but alas, poor Hamish, he is no more. He is an ex-hamster. He has shuffled off this mortal coil. Expired. Demised. Gone to meet his maker...

Poor wee Hamish.

As much as my 90-year-old nan has anticipated otherwise for a long while now – she's been saying things like, "Of course, I shall be dead soon," for the last twenty years or so now – up until Hamish's passing the kids hadn't really had to deal with death themselves (beyond a goldfish). It's something we've talked about, as you do with your kids, and it's something that Rosie in particular likes to talk about every now and then because the concept of not existing anymore is fascinating to her. Tom, on the other hand, has something of a shit happens kind of attitude towards death, and if he has any deep thoughts about it then he tends to chew them over himself late at night.

Rosie takes it quite personally that Tom got to meet my granddad (who I called "Poppy") before he died, even though Tom was only a baby at the time and doesn't remember anything. But as far as Rosie's concerned, Tom has had something that she hasn't, and that's not fair. In processing these feelings, spurred on by recent events and Samhainn just gone, Rosie snuck a poppy home on Monday –one she'd made at school as part of their Armistice Day topic for the day. She made it specially, dedicated "To Poppy, From Rosie."

But alas, poor Hamish. Tom was out with a friend at the time of our discovery, and Mr Seren was working so it was just me and Rosie when we found him. We'd taken the dogs out and stopped off at the rope swings in the woods to make up for the fact that she hadn't been invited to the cinema with Tom (something she also took quite personally), and on our way back Rosie asked if we could get the hamster out for a spin in his exercise ball. Upon our return, we went to his cage to get him out and found him tucked up snug but lifeless in his wee house. I'm guessing he died in his sleep, so there are worse ways to go I suppose.

There were tears and denials at first. There were gentle goodbyes and tender scritches behind his lifeless ears. I cleaned out the cage and found a wee box to put him in, and then after Tom got home and Rosie broke the news to her brother, we went into the garden and laid Hamish to rest. It took some persuading to convince Rosie that we needed to do something with him – she didn't want to face saying goodbye at first – but eventually she agreed that we could bury him. While I dug the hole between the rowan tree and the ancestor's cairn in the flower bed (which I built just after we moved here), Rosie hugged the little box protectively and chattered nervously. Tom...basically avoided acknowledging the situation and played with Mungo as if nothing extraordinary was going on. He was a good hamster, and it's sad, said Tom. And that was about the end of it as far as he was concerned. Outwardly, anyway.

Rosie insisted that she should do the honours and lay her little friend to rest, so once the hole was ready she put him gently in it and said goodbye, and talked about what a good hamster he was. He'd always poke his head out of his wee house when we sat down for dinner, and he'd always come out or go in to his house through the window instead of the door for no apparent reason. He preferred climbing everywhere instead of using the tunnels. He liked to terrorise Mungo, who jumped on the sofa every time he saw Hamish's ball heading towards him, and would whimper pathetically until the ball went away. He liked to run through a see-saw, over and over again, when he had a run around in his play pen. He was indeed a Good Hamster.

We covered him over with soil (and a brick, just to make sure the dogs or foxes don't go digging), and I said some words too, and then we went back inside to the warmth for hugs and snuggles and looking at pictures of Hamish. The kids were both a little quiet but seemed to be processing things; Rosie decided she was happy that he was buried in the garden, because now he can make friends with the worms, and they're good for the soil so Hamish must be too, and she can go out and say hello every now and then and check he's OK. He won't be lonely, and that's the main thing.

Late last night, as I was attempting to wrangle some cake decorating, a butterfly began flying around the kitchen. I've no idea where it came from or how it got into the house but there it was, a small tortoiseshell fluttering around the kitchen at gone 11pm on a November Tuesday, hovering around the sideboard where Hamish's cage used to sit. In Irish belief, a butterfly is often said to be the soul of someone who's returned to the place or people they loved. Maybe that applies to hamster souls as well as people...

Lùnastal

Lùnastal is weeks past so this is an extremely belated post but better late than never, eh?

So as with most years, one of the things I tend to do as the harvesting comes to a close is look at all the successes and failures I've had in the garden, and what that suggests for next year when the sowing season starts again. I haven't been able to do much in the garden so what successes and failures we've had are largely down to the slugs and the weather more than anything else, but I think the triumph of the summer has definitely been the fruit – especially the strawberries and golden raspberries:

We had a massive glut of strawberries this year and the cold and late winter meant they were extra sweet and tasty. The golden raspberries were a bit of a surprise, seeing as they've never done much before now in all the years since I planted them and now they've all but taken over the back of the flower bed, which is no bad thing, all in all, but they were a little difficult to get to and they kinda strangled out the black currants.

With the veg, the leeks I planted never did anything and the carrots have been a little pathetic too. That's just down the fact that I really need to change out the compost, I'm pretty sure, but so far we've managed a spectacular harvest of one whole carrot, picked specially for Lùnastal:

The rest are still soldiering on, and the onions are only just nearly ready now. The peas did very well but the extremely hot weather we had didn't suit the plants so much in the end and they've died off earlier than they did last year. The blueberries and blackberries have yet to ripen; with a bit more sunshine they should be ready soon – not soon enough as far as the kids are concerned.

Just like last year we celebrated Lùnastal on time, although just like every year it kinda snuck up on me and ended up with a bit of a flurry of preparations to get everything ready. The signs of autumn have come earlier than usual this year, perhaps the long heatwave we had has made the trees start changing colour a bit earlier. After a little tidying up of the house our festivities began with a late afternoon walk to the vantage point I usually make my offerings at for this time of year. I took the kids and the dogs with me and Tom wanted to know why I was giving food and milk to a hedge (as far as he was concerned), and who I was talking to (in "Garlic" as they insist on calling it), so I explained and there was a lengthy conversation on the way home with increasing excitement as the realisation that this meant a Special Dinner. It was decided there would be roast chicken with roasties and veg (including our tenacious carrot), followed by chocolate souffle with garden fruits to dip in the gooey middle:

I enjoy cooking and every now and then I'll try something new. The chocolate souffle is the most recent pudding I've set out to perfect, and the rest of the family isn't complaining. But the fruit's healthy, right? I wanted to have some sort of harvesting theme involved, so it was fitting, at least (even if souffle's not exactly authentic), and while I was out in the garden collecting fruit and veg, I brought in some flowers for festive decoration as well.

After dinner and the kids were in bed I took some time in the evening to sain the house and make my offerings and celebrations. I offered up some poetry to Lugh and Tailltiu too, and since the night was warm and still and an owl was hooting loudly in the distance somewhere, I spent a long while just sitting outside in the dark, breathing in the salty sea air and listening to waves crashing onto the shore over the hill on one side, and the owl hooting off on the other. I spoke to my ancestors as I sat out there, and I addressed the spirits with a prayer for peace, and then I prayed to the gods too. Lugh isn't usually a deity that seems to want much to do with me but this year he seemed to be more present that I've ever felt before; I don't know why, really, but it was very much appreciated. I pledged to hold some games in Tailltiu's honour the next day, made some final offerings for the night and, eventually, slept the sleep of the exhausted.

I didn't have much time for games with the kids on the eve, so while we managed to fit some in we decided to make a special day of it the next day (with much enthusiasm from the kids). While the weather was beautiful on the eve itself, the day of Lùnastal itself was grey and wet – very autumnal and stormy, even – so the games had to be moved indoors. We were going to have some races and make an assault course in the garden, with a picnic and all kinds of other games, but instead we had cards, board games, and party games inside. With a picnic, if you can call a picnic blanket on the living room floor such. Mr Seren took the afternoon off from work (he's hardly had a day off in the past few months so having some time for all of us to relax and be a bit silly in a serious kind of way added to the festive occasion, I think) and played DJ for a talent contest at the kids' insistence, and then he beat us all at snakes and ladders, while Tom and I drew at the card games. Rosie won the talent contest and didn't sulk at losing cards or snakes and ladders AT ALL, and later proved that she's the queen of hide and seek by hiding in the shed for full on half an hour while Tom began to worry that she was lost for good. Rosie won the prize for most dedicated hider, which entailed her choice in a movie on Netflix because by that point we were all gamed out and in need of a sit down.

And now...autumn is very much here. There's a nip in the morning air, a bite and burgeoning fury in the winds, the blue skies have turned to their customary grey, and my son is no longer insisting on getting up at the arse crack of dawn just because it's light outside at 4am. Autumn is very much welcome around here.

Book Review: God Speaking

Before I even start this review I think it's only fair to say that not only do I know the author, I consider her a good friend and someone whose intelligence and wisdom I respect and look up to greatly. So while I will aim to make this review as honest and objective as I always try to, I think it's only fair to be up front about any possible biases.

God Speaking
Judith O'Grady

This is a difficult book to describe in some ways because for all that it's pretty short – it's 52 pages all told – it packs an awful lot in and I don't want to do any of it a disservice. In general, this is a book about the intersection between ecology and religion, arguing that being environmentally aware isn't enough; that is, if we are to have a future on this planet then the three Rs (reduce, reuse, recycle) will only get us so far. So we need another R: Religion. In particular, we need to listen to the gods, or listen to those who are God Bothered, as it were, and this is where the title comes in. If we want to be mindful of what the gods want from us then we need to be sure that we're getting the right messages; not wishful thinking from our subconscious or outright lies.

The title perhaps has a double meaning, though, because as much as it deals with this subject matter, it's also a book that has come about as a direct result of the author's own experiences with "God Speaking." Due to the length of the book it has more the feel of an essay in a way (a fairly long one, with chapters), and there's a very conversational tone to it – along with a good dose of self-deprecating humour – that makes it an engaging read. The author assumes a degree of knowledge that means it's maybe not geared towards an absolute beginner as far as things pagan goes, and while there's a healthy smattering of examples from Irish myth and lore to illustrate certain points, there's also a good balance of other examples that I think will give a wider appeal to those who aren't especially rooted in Irish or Celtic practices.

Although I couldn't say I'm particularly well read when it comes to books aimed at pagans these days, this is a book that strikes me as being genuinely unusual – both in the over all message and the strands that are brought together to make the point (philosophy, science, as well as spiritual bits, that is). In explaining how God Speaking works for the author, and what the pitfalls may be once you get into the finer details of the matter, you really get into a discussion that I don't think you find anywhere else. I think it's a really important discussion to have even if you're not gifted – or don't think you are – because so many people set themselves up as mouthpieces these days, when really they're just spouting wishful thinking or outright lying for attention (consciously or not).

The good thing about it all is that the author always makes it clear that this is just her point of view, opinion or experience, and whether you agree or disagree, it's a thought-provoking ride. There are lots of philosophical tangents you can go off on as you read, and spend some time chewing on a sentence here or there before carrying on with the text. That makes it feel like this could or should have been a much larger book. In some ways I think it should be (or perhaps more to the point wish it were so) and I think a lot of people might think that. But at the same time I think it's a book that's exactly as it should be, because if it were longer then the over all message might become somewhat diffuse and lost in the details. Those details are perhaps for another book. Whatever the case, I hope there is another one, at least.

Doin' stuff

Where did April go?

Time seems to be hurtling onwards and Spring has only just decided to stick around for more than a few days at a time, as of about three weeks ago (going by the length of time since I turned the heating off in the house...). This year seems to be going so quickly so it seems odd to be thinking about Summer already, but all the signs are here – the longer days, the stronger sun, the dawn chorus and gangs of corvids of various kinds hanging around and looking for mischief (our postman carries dog biscuits with him for when he has to knock on the door and deal with potentially suspicious dogs – or our dog Mungo, who's a hugger and loves everyone whether they love him or not – and when he knocked on our door the other day he was extremely freaked out that first one crow and then a whole bunch of them had been following him down the road for over an hour. Not flitting from tree to tree every now and then. Hopping down the street behind him. He eventually threw a few dog biscuits at them and legged it).

The landscape is awash in the yellows of dandelions, cowslips, primrose and gorse:

The trees are unfurling their leaves:

And I've finally been out in the garden to see what survived, tidy it all up, and start some veg off. It's been good to feel the warm sun on my skin, while my fingers have been stuck into the cold soil...and it's long overdue but I've finally got to sowing the seeds of the coming harvest.

I wanted to get everything in before Bealltainn, so now I have some peas, courgettes, carrots and leeks on the go in the vegetable patch, and I'm attempting some onions but the sets I bought last year have dried out and I don't think they'll do anything. I'll get some more when I can but as it is a strawberry bush has taken over most of the containers I used for onions last year, so I won't have much space.

It looks like the back of my flowerbed has been taken over by raspberry or bramble suckers – I'm not sure which yet, but I'm hoping for raspberry. The blueberry and blackcurrant survived the cold snap as well so hopefully along with the strawberry that's attempting world domination we'll get some decent crops this year.

With the garden all done, then came Bealltainn. At the weekend I encouraged the kids to do some pictures based on a summer theme (with the idea of using one as a background for the fish tank, which has taken up the place where I used to put our murals) but things didn't quite go to plan...We started with a joint effort but Rosie decided to add in a giraffe and then Tom put in a paint monster doing battle with the giraffe, which all in all wasn't quite the theme or message I was looking for...Rosie then decided the fish would rather have a butterfly to keep them company, but it didn't quite turn out as she wanted and she didn't want to finish it. In the end, we did a collage with some colourful paper for the background, and some fabric butterflies and some stickers and gold sequins stuck randomly about the place. It was declared "actually quite good" so we've gone with that one.

For the day (or evening) I decided to stick to pretty much the same formula as usual, although instead of bannocks and caudle I bent the idea a little and made a honey and apricot cake, with some chocolate pudding. I was going to decorate the cake with some leftover fondant in the cupboard, but it turned out it had gone solid. Instead, I just used butter icing and some decorations – flowers and gold balls, which along with the honey and apricots were supposed to represent the fertility and prosperity of the season:

I blessed the cake and the caudle as I made them and managed to get the cake out of the pan in one piece (a good sign, or at least not a bad one). And around that I spent the day giving the house a final Spring clean, then set about preparing the feast. I was going to churn some butter with the kids but I could only get a small pot of cream from the shops and it didn't seem worth it, so I just whipped it to go with pudding instead. I did some breaded chicken for dinner (not exactly traditional, but slightly more so than leftover red lentil dahl, right?) and set the best bits out as opening offerings.

The house was invaded by Tom's friends after school so all the preparations we left to me, really. But with the friends finally turfed out and the feasting beginning, the kids were thoroughly appreciative of the fact that it was a "special day," and Rosie had picked some dandelions to bring the summer in and we put them on the shrine for decoration, and they both brought some more in the next day as well.

After the kids had gone to bed I went out to collect some rowan. I had the sense that there was a particular tree I should collect it from, and not the one in the garden as I did last year, so after I'd done the main part of my devotions and rekindled the hearth, I took some cake as an offering for the tree and went for a walk. I used a bit to make a charm and the rest has been put away for safe keeping.

Some more offerings were made, with a part of the cake going out for the spirits, based on the practice mentioned by Thomas Pennant and Carmichael. I've done this for several years now and some years I've adapted it, others I've done it as it's been recorded (per Carmichael):

“Here to thee, wolf, spare my sheep; there to thee, fox, spare my lambs; here to thee, eagle, spare my goats; there to thee raven, spare my kids; here to thee, martin, spare my fowlsl there to thee, harrier, spare my chickens.”

On the one hand I think adapting to my own circumstances would work because it's directly relevant to me and mine. On the other, it's tradishunal. And as I know I'm from farming stock I feel reading from the script, as it were, is a way of respecting and remembering my ancestors, and what they went through each year. Sometimes life is precarious... Ultimately it still works as a metaphor, to protect myself and my family from the kind of threats that are wily and often unseen or at least unpredictable. This year I did it the tradishunal way and comparing it to previous experiences it didn't necessarily feel any less right or wrong than other ways I've tried it. I think perhaps it felt more right than not..but with the many things my family has been through in the past year or so, perhaps tradishun is the one constant I can rely on and take comfort in. In the face of uncertainty, the predictable gives comfort.

Is tradition spiritual chocolate?

Maybe so. Maybe that's why doing the same thing over and over, year in year out, never gets boring for me.

Saining was done too, and while I was doing the kitchen Mungo was going mental at the back door; he's not usually a very vocal dog but he was very clear that whatever was out there wasn't coming in, thanks. I paid special attention to the threshold after that. I didn't get the sense of anything malevolent out there but I figured it's best not to take chances.

The next morning I made further offerings and looked out for any omens that might be about; a crow flying sunwise, so hopefully a good one. Either way, I hope so. And I hope you had a good one too.

Sheelah's Day

There's been a fair bit of discussion - as usual, in the run up - about St Patrick's Day in the last week or so. And - as usual - it's ranged from the vaguely interesting to the typically silliness (SNAAAAKES = PAGANS!!! WUUUR. ARG). (No). And then there are the HILARIOUS and not at all stereotypical and offensive t-shirts and (ye gods) specially festive "Irish dreamcatchers." Oh, Etsy...

Either way, it's one of those things that some people go for, and others don't. And whatever. Personally, while I might make some offerings, I'm more likely to be concentrating on Là na Caillich given my focus. But it doesn't hurt to do a bit of reading, and it so happens that I did and what I found has prompted a bit of think about it all.

One thing I've always wondered about is the fact that Là na Caillich - as far as I'm aware - isn't a thing in Ireland (or Man). But even in Scotland, Là na Caillich and St Patrick's Day are often seen as interchangeable, especially when you look at the kind of weather-lore that abounds for this time of year. So that's interesting in itself, because it suggests some sort of link between the two, and their associations with the season. The reading I've been doing has reinforced that.

While Scotland has Là na Caillich as it's "official" heralding of spring, Ireland has a few springtime associations that fall on or around St. Patrick's Day. In Ireland, there are a number of customs associated with St. Patrick's Day that could be seen as having spring-time connotations, including the fact that he is associated with the gales that often coincide with this time of year. The whole greenery thing could also be interpreted as being associated with the spring ('cos...things are turning green again, life is stirring...you know the drill). There is the tradition of drowning the shamrock, too, in a beer that's been specially brewed for the day. This beer is begun in February, and it's tempting to see a coincidence between that timeframe and the fact that Brigid ushers in the first stirrings of spring at her festival, and then ultimately triumphs over the Cailleach who admits defeat at Là na Caillich. I'm just speculating, of course, but the coincidences don't stop there.

While the reason for drowning the shamrock isn't clearly stated, it's repeated the following day (with fresh shamrock). This day is known as Sheelah's Day, and things start getting really interesting:

The day after St. Patrick's Day is "Sheelah's Day," or the festival in honour of Sheelah. Its observers are not so anxious to determine who "Sheelah" was as they are earnest in her celebration. Some say she was "Patrick's wife," others that she was "Patrick's mother," while all agree that her immortal memory is to be maintained by potations of whisky. The shamrock worn on St. Patrick's Day should be worn also on Sheelah's Day, and on the latter night be drowned in the last glass. Yet it frequently happens that the shamrock is flooded in the last glass of St. Patrick's Day, and another last glass or two, or more, on the same night deluges the over-soddened trefoil. This is not "quite correct," but it is endeavoured to be remedied the next morning by the display of a fresh shamrock, which is steeped at night in honour of "Sheelah" with equal devotedness. — Every Day Book, vol. ii. p. 387.

While Sheelah is dismissed as Patrick's wife or mother here, the name immediately brings to mind Sheelah na Gig, though the similarity of the name alone is hardly much to rely on. We need to look at the broader picture: Like the Cailleach, who is associated with the final blasts of wintery storms around this time of year, and whose day on March 25th signifies the end of them, Sheelah (Síla, Sheelagh or Sheila) is associated with the storms too (or else Patrick is). Here's something from Newfoundland, for example:

About St. Patrick's Day [the sealers] start, most of them waiting until after Sheilah's brush or the equinoxial gale has passed…

Dictionary of Newfoundland 

Similarly, the term "Sheila's brush" (or "blush") refers to the "...fierce storm and heavy snowfall about the eighteenth of March," and she is described as walking the shore in a long white gown (i.e. of snow). In Ireland, it's said that if it snows on or around St. Patrick's Day, "Sheila is using her brush" (snow as dandruff!), and a German traveller touring around Ireland was told that Sheela-na-gi meant 'Sheela with (or of) the branch. Gi or gig in this instance may relate to géag, branch, so it seems there's a clear link between Sheelah and the idols found on so many churches and castles across Ireland. Interestingly, one of the alternative meanings of géag is an "image of girl (made for festival)."

Thinking back to the Cailleach, what does she do but roam the land with her wand (or mallet), hoping to maintain her wintry grip by using it to blast the vegetation? She is also associated with causing snow, with sayings such as "the Cailleach is going to tramp her blankets tonight" giving the most obvious evidence. Otherwise, she is milking her goats, or she has washed her shawl and left it to dry on the mountains, covering them in snow as she shakes it out.

All in all both the Cailleach and Sheelah have associations with the storms and harsh wintry weather that happen around this time, and which are seen as winter's last gasp. They both have days dedicated to them around this time, which happens to coincide with the equinox. And it so happens that the tomb of Loughcrew, on the hills of Sliabh na Caillich, have an equinoctial alignment too (just throwing that in there).

The similarities here are highly suggestive and extremely interesting. That's not to say that I think Patrick's Day is really pagan or anything like that, but there's a lot to ponder on. In particular, it all does bring up a lot of similarities between the Cailleach and Síla that I've always wondered about (see also).

Anyway. Whatever you're up to - or not - tomorrow (or they day after...), have a good one.