On gods and their stories.

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I've been studying the ancient Celtic pantheon, trying to teach myself to believe. I would like to be able to more fully enter this world that connects my ancestral roots back to a belief in the beauty and glory of the gods and goddesses of old. I want them to come alive for me, the way faeries and tree nymphs have always seemed at least possible, if elusive. Still, as much as I might read, they're just stories to me. It's strange that the figure of Jesus Christ, just as implausible a god and perhaps even more so, seems so very real to me--the Trinity itself is very real to me, in an experiential way. Even the obscurer saints and archangels are real and when I journey the graypaths during meditation, I may meet them. And yet these other figures from Celtic myth remain elusive and unreal.

What's also weird is that I've started Tolkein's The Silmarillion, and even those fictional characters, the Valar, the "gods" of Middle-earth who are more akin to seraphim and powers and archangels--even they seem more real than the old stories of gods that people once actually worshipped. Perhaps it's because they have a shared cosmogony, a genesis story that is intricate and beautiful--that tells of the first harmonies of on-going creation. A world is created through them which I can imagine to be my world, and so they seem to be a believable, if forgotten, part of that world... of my world. And yet, they are fictitious. The children of one man's imagination and his obsession with linguistics. They aren't "real."

I almost wish they were. I can almost feel them, shimmering on the edges of possibility... if only just enough people took them seriously. After all, how else are gods made, if not by the momentum of belief? But then, are these truly gods, or merely collective fantasies? The organ of my belief functions in such a way that I can only bring myself to believe in that which existed "in the beginning"--Jesus as historical figure may be a wonderful teacher, but it is Christ as the Word, the first note in the song of creation, in whom I truly believe as part of the Trinity. And perhaps this is why I find it difficult to believe in the deities of the Celtic pantheon. They are not cosmogonic--they are, in some way, incidental, only players across the stage of myth. I may find inspiration and connection in the green hills, the ineffable mists and the rolling oceans of Celtic myth, but its gods are only casual visitors upon a sacred landscape. The Trinity of Godhead, Manifest Spirit and the Bridge between the two walked that landscape long before the Celtic gods and goddesses were named.

Still you never know. Perhaps in some distant future, Tolkein's manuscript, forgotten and faded, will be unearthed and mistaken for actual lore instead of a work of fiction. Someday there may be Neopagans learning how to believe in and relate to the Divine through Ulmo, Manwe and Aule, Varda and Yavanna, instead of through Brigid, Bile, the Dagda or Lugh.

Impromptu Book Altars

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I've seen several sites recently about travel altars, which have caught my imagination. Within Druidry there is the idea of the "nemeton," or sacred space, that can be either the space within a cast circle, ritual area or grove, or the "personal space" that naturally surrounds an individual and can be extended and made porous, opening a person to the interconnection of the wider universe. However, there is still something moving and provocative about the physical central altar itself. It provides a focal point, a clear demarcation or frame into which can be placed objects of special meaning.

For this reason, the idea of a "travel altar" that can be set up anywhere, at a moment's notice, and provide such a focus is very appealing to me. On the other hand, it often seems that a "working altar" can be cluttered and clumsy, all the more so if the tools (chalice, cauldron, wand, incense or athame) are of miniature size. I have often found that altars designed along a simplistic and minimalist theme work best in guiding me into a meditative state. And since a mini travel altar is more likely to be used as part of a moment of reflection or devotion, rather than complicated magical workings, I have developed a version of the "travel altar" idea that I call the "impromptu book altar."

This idea came about largely by accident. Because I'm a bookworm and a writer, I always have books with me wherever I go. On several occasions, I have been out in the park, on a walk, or sipping coffee in a local cafe--always with book or journal in hand--when I'll slip into a meditative state, or suddenly find a small object which sends me off into spontaneous prayer or contemplation. On these occasions, I've found that an open book placed on the ground or table in front of me actually becomes a kind of "textual" altar upon which the subject of my meditation can be placed. Even the play of light and shadow on the page, and the text itself, can become objects of focus and contemplation. Best of all, an open book is discreet and not unusual when out in a public place, and a dreamy gaze into the distance that seems the result of a good book is far less likely to be interrupted with questions like, "What exactly are you doing?"

I'll share two examples of how this idea works in practice, first with a notebook, and then with a novel. Last summer, while vacationing on a small island off the coast of Maine, I carried a small, blank notebook and a pen everywhere I went, brainstorming ideas for my current book project. One foggy afternoon, I went for a picnic on a beach, well known for its scenic views of the ocean and its rumbling tides among the rocks. I sat for a time, watching the people wandering along the shore and the birds drifting in and out of view among the mists, as I jotted down pages of notes and free-association ramblings. I had written several pages of notes and ideas when I turned a page and, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the gentle thrumming of the ocean waves on the fog-strewn, rocky shore. I wrote simply, "Narration is unnecessary." Then, unable to think of anything else to say, I set down the book and pen and just sat in meditation for almost an hour. During this time, the blank pages of the notebook and the untouched pen themselves become meditative objects, an "altar to silence," which helped to reaffirm for me the ineffable and nameless beauty of the depthful ocean and all of creation.


On another occasion, I was sitting in a local park, reading Ursula K. LeGuin's Tales from Earthsea, when a very similar event occurred. Minding my own business, enjoying a story about young love and the difficulties of romance, suddenly into my lap fell a pear! All right, I was sitting under a pear tree, so I suppose this wasn't all that unexpected--still, it interrupted my reading and gave me pause. I picked the pear up and examined it, feeling its texture, experiencing its smell and feel and, yes, even its quiet song... Eventually, I placed the pear on the open page, then sat quietly and meditated for a while, rolling around ideas about the nature of love, attraction, and self-sacrifice. The pear became, for me, a sacred symbol of how the seed of life and creative generation often surrounds itself in appealing forms, offering itself up to be consumed and digested, literally or figuratively, and providing nourishment and pleasure so that it might also find the nourishing and moist earthiness it needs in order to take root. It also struck me how human relationships, far from being simple and mutually-supportive, are instead confusing, difficult and often painful, as in the story I was reading. After my contemplation was over, I offered the pear back to the grasses, with a larger gratitude.

Both of these times, I made quite effective use of the open book as an altar to thought and focus. The page was transformed from merely a vehicle for text, to a sacred space itself within which objects and ideas took on focus, importance and deeper meaning. The art of Sean Kennan (photographer) and the writings of Jorge Luis Borges, combined in the beautiful and inspiring book, The Secret Books, takes up this subject from a more metaphysical and aesthetic point of view. People interested in the idea of impromptu book altars might want to check it out.

~~~*~~~*~~~

Incidentally, both of those meditative times led to me writing rather long poems, as I later returned to these memories and tried to articulate the ideas I had contemplated. But the pear meditation also gave rise to this quirky quartet:

Simple Instinct

I wish I were something attracted to pears,
the way burrs are attracted to animal hairs
and particular flowers seduce every bee,
I wish you were something attracted to me.

A Druid Rosary

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Song of Presence
(opening pendant prayer)

Glory to you, O God, Lord of all creation!
Holy are you, who are in all things,
In whom all things abide.
Behind and before, you encircle me
And rest your hand upon me.

If I ascend to the heavens, you are there.
If I lie down in hell, you are there also.
If I fly with the wings of dawn
And alight beyond the sea,
Even there shall your hand guide me.
Your right hand shall hold me.

Darkness is not dark for you.
Darkness and light are but One.
You knit me in my mother's womb.
My bones are not hidden from you
When I am being made in secret,
Fashioned as in the depths of the earth.

O God, know my heart.
See if my way is crooked,
Then lead me in the ancient paths.
Awen.

The Gorsedd Prayer
(for each wooden bead)

Grant, O God, thy protection,
And in protection, strength,
And in strength, understanding,
And in understanding, knowledge,
And in knowledge, the knowledge of justice,
And in the knowledge of justice, the love of it,
And in the love of it, the love of all existences,
And in the love of all existences, the love of God and all goodness.
Awen


The Cry of the Deer (or, St. Patrick's Rune)
(alternative to the Gorsedd Prayer)

In this place and at this fateful hour,
I place all Heaven with its power,
And the sun with its brightness,
And the snow with its whiteness,
And fire with all the strength it hath,
And lightning with its rapid wrath,
And the winds with their swiftness along their path,
And the sea with its deepness,
And the rocks with their steepness,
And the earth with its starkness
All these I place,
By God's almighty help and grace,
Between myself and the powers of darkness.
Awen.

A Druid Prayer for Peace
(for each stone bead)

Deep within the still center of my being,
May I find peace.
Silently within the quiet of the Grove,
May I share peace.
Gently within the greater circle of humankind,
May I radiate peace.
Awen.


Song of Honey Isle
(alternative to the Prayer for Peace)

A deep cavern
opens before me,
shadowed by great rocks.
The dragon comes out
and crawls towards
the cups of song,

of the song
of the cups of gold.
The golden cups
are in his hand,
his hand is on the knife
and the knife is
above my head.

Glory to you,
victorious Spirit.
Awen.

Song of Consciousness
(for the medallion/central bead)

I have been in many shapes
Before I assumed a constant form:
I have been a narrow sword,
A drop in the air,
A shining bright star,
A letter among words
In the book of origins.
I have been lanternlight
For a year and a day,
I have been a bridge
Spanning three score rivers.
I have flown as an eagle,
Been a coracle on the sea,
I have been a drop in a shower,
A sword in a hand,
A shield in battle,
A string in a harp.
Nine years in enchantment,
In water, in foam,
I have absorbed fire,
I have been a tree in a covert,
There is nothing of which
I have not been a part.
Awen.

Notes:

• Song of Presence, adapted from Psalm 139, and the Golden Dawn's Ceremony of the Equinox, Prayer of the Hegemon.
• The Gorsedd Prayer, from The Barddas of Iolo Morganwg
• The Cry of the Deer, as found at AnceintTexts.org
• Druid Prayer for Peace, provided by The Order of Bards, Ovates & Druids
• Song of Honey Isle, adapted from "Protection of the Honey Isle," attributed to Taliesin, trans. by John Matthews
• Song of Consciousness, adapted from "Cad Goddeu," attributed to Taliesin, trans. by John Matthews

Poem by Wendell Berry

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The Wish to Be Generous

All that I serve will die, all my delights,
the flesh kindled from my flesh, garden and field,
the silent lilies standing in the woods,
the woods, the hill, the whole earth, all
will burn in man's evil, or dwindle
in its own age. Let the world bring on me
the sleep of darkness without stars, so I may know
my little light taken from me into the seed
of the beginning and the end, so I may bow
to mystery, and take my stand on the earth
like a tree in a field, passing without haste
or regret toward what will be, my life
a patient willing descent into the grass.

- Wendell Berry

Turning.

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Last night, I dreamt of a witches' circle, of which I was the priestess. The gathering was small in the wood-paneled basement of my parents' house, and we each placed a small pebble of blue glass at our feet as we sat in meditation and prayer, before we rose and traced a wider circle with the movement of our bodies, turning and turning with linked hands.

Witch--which is odd, considering the term has never felt appropriate and I have come to feel very much the Druid. Indeed, there was some confusion about wording. At first, there were only a few intimate friends who looked to me to introduce them to a spiritual path that could transform their care of and concern for the world into a very real, very manifest form of worship. We met to invigorate peace and friendship. Many of them called themselves "witches" because they felt outcast and ostracized, but though it was a witches' circle (like none I have ever been a part of in my waking life), I was a priestess, not a witch. I was a Druid--or, beyond that, I was only me, but fully and completely. Then, there was a mother with her son, who accused us of having promised her a ship--not friend-ship or relation-ship, but a literal vehicle of escape and change, a thing with a deck and a sail and navigated according to the literal, well-charted stars. She had waited three days, she objected, and no ship had come. She stormed off, her son in tow.

As we sat in meditation, I held a small orb of lapis lazuli in my hand. The soul-depths of blue, the quick gasp of gold, the wisps of elusive cream across its cool surface--I began to spin it between my fingers. The others let out startled exclamations--how did I do such a thing, how was it possible? I chuckled at their astonishment--look, it's easy, I said, rolling the globe across the circle to another girl, there--it is already spinning, just as we all are, though we are sitting still... just scoop it up into the arch of your palm, remove yourself as an obstacle to its natural motion, and let it continue... But the girl fumbled and let it drop. She rolled it back to me again, and I lifted it with but a fingernail and rolled it along the curves of my body, bringing it back to rest again between my forefinger and thumb. I felt the rounded stone slip by my fingers like water--I felt the very ridges of my fingerprints ripple and undulate as if in tiny waves, urging on the turning of the delicate blue orb within the energies of the meditative circle, while my hand seemed yet steady and unmoving.

What could it mean?

The woman did not return, but her son did, with other young men, and with rocks. They began to beat at the door and above us we heard the shattering of glass as window after window exploded with the force of jagged rocks launched with maliciousness. See! a girl exclaimed--This is what the word 'witch' evokes--insanity, unreason... How could someone hate so much? She looked to me, but I had no answer. Another young man in our group was bounding up the steps, confronting the vandals, falling prey to the mob. Then they were everywhere, restraining and beating. Someone grabbed a girl by her long hair and dragged her, face down, along the gravel driveway. There was screaming and fear--but there was also the rounded current of our turning dance that seemed to lap outward from the broken circle. There were the smashed and jagged edges of the great windows, and outside there was the brilliant sun in an unmarred blue sky.

Who knows what such dreams mean? The articulation of fear, I would guess in this case. And somehow within it, the insistence that goodness cannot be so easily undone. But what I will remember is not the rioting destruction, but the palpable turning of so many bodies--bodies intent on smoothing out a channel through which peace might enter, bodies unaware and even skeptical of their own influence until it was shown to them in the gentle, unceasing turning of a precious orb no larger than a heart and no smaller than the sky.


Today's Ogham: Nion (Ash)
(transformation, possibility, destiny)