The crashing waves of the original series at Otter Cliffs,  are a few miles from where I write. The fictional town of Collinsport is part Bar Harbor, Seal Harbor and Winter Harbor, all belonging to the coast of Mount Desert Island (MDI) of which a large proportion is Acadia National Park home to deer, red squirrels, falcons, beavers, bald headed eagles and thousands of tourists who swarm here throught the summer months.

But what of Dark Shadows I hear you ask? Well my tale is more nightmares under the surface than Johnny Depp.

But really you have to wait until the sun goes down for the dark shadows to emerge. Take the shore path, preferably on a semi cloudy night, so to view  the arms of the Milky Way spiraling out over the heavens. The bells of the buoys sets a haunting tempo to which the waves join in regular rhythm. Each wave a heart beat, the ocean one giant entity stretching across the planet. With only a few rounded peaks on the horizon,  illuminated from distant towns the horizon seems relatively flat giving this northern latitude a sense of being at the top of the world.

But tonight I’m drawn from the warmth of a crackling wood-stove to take the shore path to the terrifying yet thrilling faceless ocean, she acts like a mirror to my own fears calling to me of my own dark shadows.

As I look out over these faceless waves the act as a mirror for my own dark shadows. I can’t ever walk too close to the unreaillinged pier edge, as i fear I’d succumb to some ancient curse  and fall off the edge – albeit it not quite so beautifully haunting as Victoria looks, with her dress billowing out, nor will I look quite so stunningly serene as my broken body lays on the rocks below. Curses and tales of woe for those lost at sea still hide in hidden coves, of galley ships smashed upon the rocks in full swell of a raging storm, and of the tears of women standing atop desolate cliffs looking seawards for menfolk lost at sea. Curses uttered to seamen who took the advice and charms of wise women but never brought their share of the catch.

I  feel the pull of my dark shadows hidden deep, deep under the waves, morphing and changing,  intertwining with great unseen currents, lapping  into the swell of the unconscious to visit me in dreams. Yet they are the accumulation of dark shadows, belonging to humanity, swirling and waiting in our collective unsconscious.

How might your life have been different if there had been placate for you? A place for you to go… A placeomens omen, to help you learn the ways of woman…a place whewere nurtured nurtured from an ancient flow sustaining you and steadying you as you sought to become yourself. A place of women to help you find and trust the ancient flow already thre within yourself…waiting to be released…

A place of women…

How might your life be different?

There’s a particular Beach in a relatively sheltered bay on an Island in Maine where you can find seal stones. They’re camoflagued, so not very noticeable nestled in amongst all the other regular looking rocks.

It’s their color that first catches my eye, a particular shade of grey that sails along in front of rolling storm clouds, dotted with some splotches of darker grey spots. One I think I’ve found one I pick it up and roll it around in my hand – it’s all about the feeling, the smoothness against the plan of my hand. The shape is important too, like a little hill, like the body of a seal if their head and tail were tucked in, although sometimes they can be a little fatter and rounder – but don’t let that throw you off when your looking.

It only takes a couple of seconds to work out if a stone really is a seal stone or not, and quite often in those seconds as your enjoying the smoothness of the stone a circular head might appear from under the waves to silently watch.
But what are seal stones you might ask? Have you ever heard of silkies I’d ask in reply. There are wonderful tales from the west coasts of Scotland and Ireland which tell tales of seals who leave the water on moonlit nights, stepping out of their seal skins to emerge in human form. The silkies keep their skins in a special place (because they can’t return to the sea without them) and cover them over it’s seal stones.

Silkies live out their human lives within easy reach of the coast. No matter what they’re doing – cooking dinner or hanging out washing to dry they can feel every tidal pull, and can close their eyes and feel the ebb and flow of underwter currents. One day the song of the sea will be just too strong and they will leave their warm houses on the shore with the soft flickering glow of the Woodstove and head to the beach, to their pile of seal stones, slither back into their seal skin and dive silently beneath the waves.

So if you find yourself on a beach in a relatively sheltered bay on an island in Maine (or on any other coast for that matter) and think you have found a seal stone hold it close and silently whisper all your worries into it carefully placing it back where you found it (this is very important as we wouldn’t want to hinder a Silkie finding their skin) and as thanks the Silkie will unload all your worries, carrying them down to the bottom of the sea where they will dissolve into the cold iinky depth never to resurface.

The first International Women’s day was 101 years ago and in light of all the recent judgements on women’s reproduction rights I wonder if we’re actually sliding backwards? I read news reports on abortion rights, pro-life backlash and I’m dizzy, can’t keep up with the onslaught!

I recently watched the ‘Song Catcher’ a few days ago – set around these mountains of the Appalachians. Beautiful ballads sung in that traditional Appalachian way which actually originated in Irish and Scottish lands carried by a people forceably removed from their lands. I connect to those laments of missing the land you were born in, of mountains mist and sea but what really got to me was how hard these lives were – especially for women.

While today is about celebrating how far we’ve come and solidarity with those sisters in Southern countries who struggle with equality, health, economics etc but for what I’ve seen here I feel we’re on a slippery slope. There is many of us here that struggle with access to health care etc albeit it we are free.

We sisters stand strong, grounding, growing vast root systems within our communities  – the blood and the water, air and earth of our great mother coursing through us. You, we are stronger than you can ever realize. What damages women in this world damages men, damages every flying, galloping and wriggling more than human neighbors and the very planet we’re rooted on.

So lets sink those roots down deep acknowledge the journey all the while awakening our ancestral memory, the primal, the shadow as she serves us well. Keep her alive as you never know when you’ll need her!

]]> http://celticsoulcraft.com/2012/03/08/international-womens-day/feed/ 0 ilikelichen international womens day http://celticsoulcraft.com/2012/01/26/i-am-brighid/ http://celticsoulcraft.com/2012/01/26/i-am-brighid/#comments Thu, 26 Jan 2012 19:02:25 +0000 Celtic Soul http://ilikelichen.wordpress.com/?p=1698 ]]>

A crow calls from the top of a tall pine,  welcome, welcome she calls, as I step through the forest the smell of pine clears my head, dissolving the residue of a bad morning.

As footstep follows footstep building a rhythm my worries fall away, each step grounding me to the forest, as the chatter in my head quietens  I begin to feel as part of the forest as the trees, the deer or the sleeping owl.

The trees begin to thin out and I scramble over an old stone wall, the  path snakes downwards to a wide open deserted sandy beach. White clouds sail out above the crescent shaped bay like prayer flags.

Dogs Bay, Nr Galway, Eire

I take off my shoes as I reach the beach letting the damp sand squelch between my toes, I gaze towards the horizon where the sea meets the sky and throw my arms out wide embracing it all. Pulling my hair from my face I suddenly notice a figure walking along the shore. Their image  seems to shimmer slightly, but maybe it’s just the watering of my eyes in the sea breeze.  It is a woman and as she approaches closer there is something familiar about her and i feel a tangible energy – something ancient yet timeless.

As she smiles I stare into her blue grey eyes, she draws me close and embraces me and in that embrace I feel as I’m being held by the very source of all things. All worries slip away all attachments dissolve and i embrace that pure essence that lies within us all.  Her energy is god, goddess, source, mystery whichever name you give it – that spark which exists in every living and non living thing.

I instantly feel the connections lie between everything – that I am there inside the rock, in the white clouds above us, I am the fish in the deep ocean and the light of distant stars. I am capable of everything I want to achieve. I feel the satisfaction, the confidence and belonging it brings – of growing roots into a new depth all this in these brief moments.

Lifetimes exist in this moment,  for dreams about the past and the future take us away from the real magic that only unfolds in the here and now.

As she loosens her grip  I know who she is, she is one of the high ones, she is Brighid – incarnated into many lives and times in order to offer herself to us.  She who is many things to many people.  I oh so want to stay in those arms, living in this moment embraced by her. But as I stare into those blue grey eyes I know that she is me and that I am brighid.

As I am Brighid, you are Brighid as we are all born with her flame inside of us.  Hers is the fire which inflames our head, ignites our heart and warms our hands in our work.

We engage with the energies of Brighid as we create, and it is there that I feel what I felt on that beach. It is both a healing and inspirational place. She ignites me  in tending her flame of creativity, and in that space I give thanks.

Imbolc is her festival celbrating the first stirrings of spring. I’m offering an Imbolc workshop which is a day long honoring of Brighid – sharing stories, song, ritual and making a traditional Biddie doll. Click on this paragraph for more information. 

There’s an old tradition in Ireland of catching & killing a wren on today, St Stephens day. I remember my dad singing the song – he’s probably singing it today I’m just not there to hear it. In Irish wren ‘An Dreoilín’ means Druid’s bird, and represents the Holly King and the waning of the old year as the sun is reborn at Yule. While the wren was probably killed in a disguise of trying to stomp out pagan traditions the rituals live on today with Wren boys/Straw boys telling the tale in all their pagan finery!!

Click on the above image for the West Clare Wrenboys

The wren, the wren, the king of all birds
St. Stephen’s Day was caught in the furze.
Although he was little, his honor was great.
Jump up me lads and give us a treat.

We followed the wren three miles or more,
three miles or more, three miles or more.
Through hedges and ditches and heaps of snow
At six o’clock in the morn.

Dreoilín, Dreoilín, where is your nest?
It’s in the bush that I love best.
It’s in the bush, the holly tree,
Where all the boys do follow me.

As I went out to hunt and all
I met a wren upon the wall.
Up with me wattle and gave him a fall
And brought him here to show you all.

I have a little box under me arm.
A tuppence or penny will do it no harm
For we are the boys who came your way
To bring in the wren on St. Stephen’s Day.

Seemingly it was the wren’s song which betrayed St. Stephen in his hiding place and so he was stoned to death. The wren is caught and stoned to death and taken round the local houses collecting money. These days the Wren boys are ore likely to be dressed up carrying a fake bird in a cage singing carols and collecting for charity.

Click on the above for the The Wren Song  (An Dreoilín)

The Maimín Cajun Band from Conamara, fronted by Seán Monaghan sings An Dreoilín

on Shop Street, Galway recorded by TG4 Gaeilge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today is the shortest day. Here in the northern hemisphere the earths’ tilt takes us to our  furthest position from the sun. Last year in Scotland I watched the sun be born into a blood red sky. At this time of the year I enjoy the darkness, a place to hide and retreat and yet while our ancestors knew the importance of rest in this mid winter somehow our lives just get busier under the sick glow of electric lights.

My first year here in the Appalachians was knee deep in snow, haunted by the ghosts of winter solstice. Last year I headed back over the Atlantic to Scotland where  it was the coldest it’s been for the last 100 winters. I wandered the hills in awe of the hoar frost sculptures. This year I am hibernating in a winter retreat, speaking the ancient language of the trees.

The pine comes into it’s time just after the winter solstice. Druids used to light large bonfires of Scots pine at the winter solstice to celebrate the passing of the seasons, they decorated  glades  of Scots pines with lights and shiny objects and so as the tree was covered in stars it represented the return of the Divine Light. It’s very scent  is inspiring, uplifting, immediately soothing. Stepping into the presence of pines the scent of their  resin creates a magic stillness, evoking an ancient place.

While we might be celebrating that the sun is reborn yet it seems we are plunged into a darker darkness. The returning light is a fragile newborn. The ogham teaches us that, like from the very top of a pine, the pine offers us foresight,  seeing into the mysteries of the unknown. The pine is most powerful after the solstice when the solar energies begin to grow and the season of birth seems just around the corner.

Brú na Bóinne (Newgrange), County Meath, Ireland

At this time  the pine seems to guide the first creative energies of the new solar year to where the process of life awaits ignition. It stands sentinel as the energies of the year move forward to the birthing season of spring when natures clock starts ticking again. Like all that we dream for in these winter months they must be tended like this new born sun, they must be mothered and looked after, sing soft lullabies.  Care for them tenderly in meditation and intention, feed them with winter walks and inspiring reading.

More than anything I feel the deep pull of home. From across the ocean I can hear the song of my favorite places, offering their embracing silence. And so as the light blessed the stones atop of my favourite hill (or more likely they grey skies turned a brighter shade of grey) and the first rays shone down the long chamber of Brú na Bóinne (and those lucky drawers of the lottery got to be inside the chamber) I will replay its rising  set to the deafening embracing silence which I will forever hold in my heart.

Magical & cleansing bath: Take time for yourself. Run a bath adding pine needles or oil of pine to bath water. As you soak concentrate on allowing negativity to flow out from us into the water – which eventually goes down the plug hole. But make sure to take time to fill yourself with positive energy, meditate and spend time inspiring yourself  as the universal law dictates like attracts like.

Wishing you an inspired solstice.

“Your beloved and your friends were once strangers. Somehow at a particular time, they came from the distance toward your life. Their arrival seemed so accidental and contingent. Now your life is unimaginable without them. Similarly, your identity and vision are composed of a certain constellation of ideas and feelings that surfaced from the depths of the distance within you. To lose these now would be to lose yourself.”             — John O’Donohue (Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom)

This is Sue. She was trained as a working dog when she was young and spend a good part of her life taking care of the rabbits on a Scottish Estate. After my brother moved to Dubai she came to live with me for the remaining happy, non rabbit killing 6 years of her life.

Slowly and surely Sue became my Anam Cara. It’s a Gaelic phrase which translates as soul friend. My grumpy mornings were always cheered by the sight of a 16 years old Jack Russell jumping three foot in the air just delighted to be going out for a pee in the morning. How could I not be happy at that sight! Long walks became meditations in nature as we sat silently as an owl swooped overhead. Sue provided me with the focus into a world of spirituality where everything hosts a soul and dogs are human too, albeit non human people.

The brooch is inspired by Sue, off bounding on the scent of a rabbit or a bird, a tan flash through purple hues of heather.

I entwine a little pet hair amongst layers of sheep wool  (pet hair is too short to felt on it’s own) and then certain accents are highlighted by seed beads and embroidery. They are a keepsake for our soul friends who have moved on from this world and a celebration for those still wagging amongst us.

These brooches are made by commission, tailored specifically to your pet. They can be purchased by voucher, prices $30 -  I  will email a printable voucher (or posted). Please email me judelally@gmail.com