Today is the Eve of Imbolc, the beginning of Spring in the Celtic calendar. However, there is never a definite ending or beginning in nature so I have included in this blog a fairy story I have written which I hope you find entertaining as well as providing some material for your meditations if you choose to focus on the change of seasons.
A Very Modern Ancient Woman
Imbolc begins with the feast of Brighid, the Triple Goddess who is born anew as Samhain comes to an end and the wheel of the year turns once more. In Christian times her name was taken by a Nun who founded her own convent on the sight of a sacred Druid Oak grove and who was fiercely independent and fought to protect women and their rights to study. Legend has it that she was the daughter of a druid and as well as being a feminist and a reformer was also known to be a lesbian but the church dare not confront her. Not only was she formidable, but she performed many miracles and after her death the stories of St. Brigit became interwoven with those of the Virgin Mary, mother of Christ.
As we enter the new season of spring, remember to tread lightly and with love and compassion for the earth and for yourself. You are both just waking from a long, dark night.
A New Old Fairy Story
The old woman stood in the opening of her cave, nestled in the foothills of Cadair Idris, and gazed at the sky around her. Fiery red sun crawled its way over the horizon leaving the early morning blue streaked with salmon and swathes of purple, reminding her of the said fish making its hard journey upstream to the spawning grounds. “Yes, Salmon, my friend, you and I have that in common. And so starts my hardest and final journey.” Gathering her basket as she pulled her now worn woollen shawl close against the morning chill, she began her slow journey to Eryri, the highest mountain in the Snowdonia range. And as the old woman walked, she slowly emptied her basket of its heavy load of rocks, the burdens she had accumulated since the eve of Samhain.
“Farewell to thee old jealousy, goodbye to regret. Fear can cast its shadow no more and anger no longer beget.”
On her long journey of many miles over bog, and rock and scrub, uphill and downhill, she dropped her stones from her basket. Three times she fell. The first fall was on hard rock with jagged edges, cutting her legs and causing a stream of blood to run from her into the ground where she lay. But after washing them with water from a magical stream nearby, her legs healed miraculously so she could continue her journey. Behind her was left a circle of snowdrops, where her blood had melted the snow and allowed them to shoot in the warming sun.
The second time she fell she dropped her heavy basket and some of the stones fell and rolled away down the steep mountain side. She sat and watched them tumbling, remembering that life sometimes forces us to let go even when we don’t realise we are ready. Hearing a sound behind her she turned and was comforted to see Wild Cat with his watchful gaze.
“Ha, old friend! You are to be my guide are you?”
Cat waited until she was able to stand and trotted ahead, along a path she had missed, taking her downwards towards the river crashing its way around the base of the mountain. This was a sheep’s pass, difficult to navigate and hard to manage on just two legs but the old woman knew she had no choice but to continue. The sun was as high in the sky as it was going to rise during winter so she dare not rest, despite her old bones aching.
The third fall saw her tumble down the mountain side into hawthorn, ripping at her clothes, hands and eyes, rendering her almost blind, but she was walking in the footsteps of her ancestors, so she trusted her feet to find the way. She followed the calls of the Raven, and as the sun began to sink in the sky, and the warmth and the light were being lost to her, she called on him, asking him to wrap her in his wings as she grew cold and weary.
Eventually, as dusk fell, she arrived at Yr Wyddfa, the top of Eyrie, where a huge fire blazed, and as she neared it for warmth her eyesight was restored. Next to the fire, warming himself, was Cat, waiting for her arrival, his golden yellow eyes and deep orange striped fur mirroring the colours of the flames. She breathed a deep sigh of relief, knowing she had reached her journey’s end and could soon rest. As the sun dropped behind the horizon and the light faded, the last ray of sunshine fell on a beautiful maiden.
“Ah,” the old crone breathed, “my bright one! My Bride! Beautiful Brighid has come, my journey was not in vain. Bless you.” And as she spoke her blessing the last stone fell from her basket, which was her heart – hardened with her journey but now melting in the warmth of the fire. “You begin your journey in the darkness of winter,” she continued, “but you will end it in the days of warmth and brightness.”
Brighid smiled in welcome and raised her arms to bless the fire and the crone, “I bless you thrice; mother, maiden, crone. I bless your heart, I bless your hearth, I bless your home. Blessings three I bring to thee, Mother, maiden, crone.”
As she spoke her words, her blessing flowed from the mountain top across the whole kingdom, blessing every hearth fire in every home as the women cleaned and tended them anew.
The old crone sighed, her eyes starting to close, her body folding into the crags of the mountain. “Take me Raven King, take me to your dark, secret places. Take me under your wing to your hidden place where I can rest. A place of darkness where I can breathe in the soft scents of spring grasses whilst I sleep; where I can smell the blossom of trees and the perfume of spring and summer flowers covers me whilst I lay. Where I can hear the soft summer rains fall over the mountain and the rush of water stream over rocks to the rivers below. Where the cry of Eagle and the caw of Raven are music to my ears by day, and the owls sing their nighttime duets to comfort my soul by night.” The Raven bent his head and did as he was bid, gently covering the crone with his wings and taking her to his nest far away, to await the turning of the year.
Brighid watched them go with sadness, “fare ye well crone, rest and recover. Your journey is at an end and mine is just begun. Wish me well as I walk your footsteps for you.”
The first rays of the new day were appearing in the sky and so she turned to the dawn, beginning her long walk to the summer lands. As she walked, she cried gentle tears of sadness for the crone, of joy for herself, and some tears which could not be named but needed to be shed. As these leaked from the corners of her eyes, they landed gently on the hard, stony path where, with each footstep, her tears blessed the earth, the snows melted, and she left behind soft grass and spring flowers in her wake.
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