The Irish storyteller

Nolaig shona dhuit- a Christmas poem

2008-12-24T03:46:00.000-08:00

Nolaig shona dhuit!

Warm embers in the hearth,
warm memories in the heart.
The joy of children's laughter
and pine needles in the carpet for months after.
Hot coco and carols on the radio draw us in together
through long dark nights and winter's stormy weather
to share our gifts and reunite
the bonds of love this Holy night.

copyright Peggy von Burkleo, 2008

Peggy, or Song for Autumn, By Robert Bobby Burns

2007-10-08T23:59:00.000-07:00

Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns
Bring autumn's pleasent weather ;
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather :
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer ;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night
to muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ;
The plover loves the mountains ;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ;
The soaring hern the fountains :
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves
The path of man to shun it ;
The hazel bush o'rehangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus e'vry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender ;
Some social join, and leagues combine ;
Some solitary wander :
Avaunt, away! The cruel sway
Tyrannic man's dominion ;
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion.

But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick files the skimming swallow ;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow :
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
and view the charms of nature ;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly ;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly preset,
Swear how I love thee dearly :
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!

-Robert "Bobby" Burns, 1759- 1796, Scottish

More Irish folk traditions

2007-07-17T02:33:00.000-07:00

-If a man drinks sows milk, he can see the wind forever.
-Pigs are reputed to see the wind.
-In Scotland it was unlucky to speak of a pig at sea.
-It is unlucky to shake hands across a table.
-When food is placed out for the fairies or otherworldly visitor, it is left out in front of the fire and at Halloween, seats for the returning dead were left around the fire.
-A Bridget’s cross above the door gives protection from fire and other dangers.
-In some parts of Ireland a pig would driven in the house for luck on May morning.
-A cure for mumps- the sufferer should be lead with a donkey’s halter three times around the pigsty.
-Boats leave the shore sunwise, likewise the net throwing.
-A boat should always be entered on the right side.
-A woman can never go to the fire without tampering with it.
-It is said that every night that the hens, when they argue among themselves before settling down, they are plotting to leave Ireland and fly back to Norway, but in the end they postpone the trip for another day.
-In the old days the women would sit on the left of the fire, and the men sat on the right.
-When the smoke dies out of a house it does soon be tumbling down.
-Soot, carried in the pocket, gives protection on a journey.
-It is said of a child thriving on his food that he "wants a stave out of his noggin" note: a noggin was a bowl made like a barrel with a dovetailed birch wood binding around wooden staves, one of which was used as a handle and stood out taller than the brim.

A prayer of Saint Patrick

2007-03-04T21:43:00.000-08:00

St. Patrick's Breastplate or The Deer's Cry

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through the belief in the threeness,
through the confession of the oneness
Of Creation's Creator.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ's birth with His baptism,
Through the strength of his crucifixion with His burial,
Through the strength of His resurrection with His ascension,
Through the strength of His descent for the judgement of Doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love of the Cherubim,
In obedience of angels,
In the service of archangels,
In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In the prayers of patriarchs,
In the prediction of prophets,
In the faith of confessors,
In the innocence of holy virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lighting,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me:
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guide me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me ,
God's host to save me
From the temptations of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in multitude.

Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength,
the invocation of the Trinity,
Through the belief in the threeness,
through the confession of the oneness
Of Creation's Creator.
-ascribed to Saint Patrick, Translation- unknown

The Song of Wandering Angus- W.B. Yeats

2007-03-01T23:08:00.000-08:00

I went out into the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in the stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I laid it on the floor,
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossoms in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among the dappled grass
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
- William Butler Yeats

Winter Cold, an old Irish poem

2007-01-26T23:09:00.000-08:00

Winter Cold

Cold, cold, chill is wide Moylurg*; the snow is higher than a mountain, the deer cannot get at its food.

Eternal cold! The storm has spread on every side; each sloping furrow is a full mere.

Each full lake is a great sea and mere is a full lake; horses cannot get across the ford of Ross, no more can two feet get there.

The fishes of Ireland are roving, there is not a strand where the wave dose not dash, there is not a town left on the land, not a bell is heard, no crane calls.

The wolves of Cuan Wood do not get repose or sleep in the lair of wolves; the little wren does not find shelter for nest on the slope of Lon.

Woe to the company of little birds for the keen wind and cold ice! The blackbird with its dusky back does not find a bank it would like, shelter for its side in the Woods of Cuan.

Snug is the cauldron on its hook, restless is the blackbird on Leitir Cró; snow has crushed the woods here, it is difficult to climb up Ben Bó.

The eagle of brown Glen Rye gets affliction from the bitter wind, great is its misery and suffering, it will get ice in its beak.

It is foolish for you – take heed of it – to rise from quilt and feather bead ; there is much ice on every ford ; that is why I say “Cold!”

Trans. Kennith Hurlstone Jackson, Author unknown, Irish, eleventh century
* A region in North County Roscommon

Pumpkin Bread recipe

2006-10-25T17:50:00.000-07:00

With the rich color of autumn on the trees and the welcoming smells of autumn in the kitchen, here is a recipe sure to warm the heart on frosty autumn evenings,

Pumpkin Bread
1 ¾ Cup raw sugar pumpkin puree
(Or substitute one 15 oz. canned pumpkin)
4 eggs
2/3 cup water
1 cup vegetable oil
3 cups brown sugar
3 ½ cups flour
2 tsp. baking soda
1 ½ rounded tsp. salt
3 rounded tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. nutmeg
½ tsp. ground cloves
¼ tsp. allspice (or substitute with ginger)

Preheat oven to 350°
Grease and flour two 9”x5”x3” pans or three 7”x3” pans
In a large mixing bowl, combine pumpkin puree, eggs, water, oil, and brown sugar thoroughly.
Mix the remaining ingredients together in a separate bowl until blended.
Add the dry mixture into the wet, until just mixed, being careful not to over stir the mix.
Pour into greased and floured pans and bake for approx. 50 min. or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out dry.
Serve warm or chilled, with mulled apple cider.

Blushing leaves of Autumn

2006-10-14T13:00:00.000-07:00

Autumn air blows in a surly wind,
Rattling the leaves
and rousing them from their summer slumber.
It plucks at them with frosty fingers,
teasing them off of their branches.
Blushing scarlet at the taunting gusts,
They scatter before the coming cold.
-© Peggy von Burkleo, 2006

the Song of Amergin

2006-08-21T19:55:00.000-07:00

I invoke the spirit of Ireland,
Much-coursed be the fertile sea,
Fertile be the fruit strewn mountains,
Fruit strewn be the showery wood,
Showery be the river of water-falls,
Of water-falls be the lake of deep pools,
Deep-pooled be the hill-top well,
A well of tribes be the assembly,
An assembly of kings be Tara,
Tara be the hill of the tribes,
The tribes be the sons of Mil,
Of Mil of the ships, the barks,
Let the lofty bark be Ireland,
Lofty Ireland, darkly sung,
An incantation of great cunning;
The great cunning of the wives of Bres,
the wives of Bres of Buaigne;
The great lady Ireland,
Eremon hath conquered her,
Ir, Eber have invoked for her,
I invoke the land of Ireland.
-Amergin, son of Mil, 5th century BC
Translation, unknown

The Shadow House of Lugh

2006-08-16T01:05:00.000-07:00

The Shadow house of Lugh

Dream-fair beside dream waters, it stands alone:
A winged thought of Lugh made its corner stone:
A desire of his heart raised its walls on high:
And set its crystal windows to flaunt the sky.

Its doors of white bronze are many and bright,
With wondrous carven pillars for his loves delight,
And its roof of the blue wings, the speckled red,
Is a flaming arc of beauty above her head.

Like a mountain through mist Lugh towers high'
The fiery forked lightening is the glance of his eye,
His countenance is noble as the Sun-gods face-
The proudest he of a proud De Dannon race.

He bids there in peace now, his wars are all done-
He gave his hand to Balor when the death gate was won,
And for the strife scarred heroes who wander in the shade,
His door lieth open, and the rich feast is laid.

He hath no vexing memory of blood in slanting rain,
Of green spears in hedges on a battle plain;
But through the haunted quiet his Love's silver words
Blow round him swift as wing-beats of enchanted birds.

A grey haunted wind is blowing in the hall,
And stirring through the shadowy spears on the wall,
The drinking-horn goes round from lip to shadowy lip-
And about the golden methers shadowy fingers slip.

The Star of Beauty, She who queens it there;
Diademed, and wondrous long her yellow hair.
Her eyes are twin moons in a rose sweet face,
And the fragrance of her presence fills all the place.

He plays for her pleasure on his harps gold wire
The laughter tune that leaps along in trills of fire;
She hears the dancing feet of Sidhe where a white moon gleams;
and all her world is joy in the House of Dreams.

He plays for her soothing the Slumber song;
Fine and faint as any dream it glides along;
She sleeps until the magic of his kiss shall rouse;
And all her world is quiet in the shadow house.

His days glide to night and his nights glide to day;
With circling of amber mead, and feasting gay;
In the yellow of her hair his dreams lie curled,
And her arms make the rim of his rainbow world.

Anonymous, Irish 8th century
Translated by Ethna Carbery

The Hosting of the Sidhe- W.B. Yeats

2006-08-05T20:03:00.000-07:00

The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of it's mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
William Butler Yeats -1893

Blackberry Pie recipe

2006-07-11T20:52:00.000-07:00

My memories of summers in the country as a child are filled with smells, with sounds, with shapes. Hot, hot patches of sun and cool echoing forests of shade. I recall so vividly the sound of birds, unseen in the canopy, the trails winding secretly through the ferns. Sun burnt face and cool foggy evenings, sandals and sweatshirts and fingers stained purple from picking blackberries for pie.
I can’t recall the first time I went berry picking, the memory of my summer country pervades me as the loom on which my soul has been woven. I do recall from an early age the importance of the essentials for braving the thorns and gathering the blackberries.
A loose zip up sweater was a first line of defense against the grasping, entangling vines. The thorns might catch hold of the sweater, but never me. Heavy jeans were armor for my legs and the thorns would break against them Sneakers were essential for forging a path, boldly, in to the depths of the blackberry bushes seeking the treasure of those just beyond reach. A pot with a handle reaching over the top, an old beat up one that no one would miss, was best for carrying home the berries.
I would scout the hills and valleys for the best bushes, cataloguing in my mind their locations, and would check back as the summer progressed to see which ones were ripening first. It never pays to pick berries too early on. A berry that is picked too soon has nothing but sourness to offer. But a berry picked when ripe, when it falls drippingly into my fingers off the vine, has in it the sweetness of warm summer evenings.
It always takes me twice as many berries as I think it should to make a pie, no doubt due to my “sampling” them to check for sweetness… When my bucket would start to get heavy, I knew it was time to follow the winding paths through the forest back home.
To this day, when I smell blackberry pie baking I am transported back to my childhood summers in the hills.

Blackberry Pie
Makes one 9” pie

Filling
1 + quart freshly picked ripe blackberries
1 + cups white sugar
2 tbs cornstarch
Pinch of salt

Crust
3 ¼ cups Flour
¼ cup sugar
1 cup cold butter
½ tsp Salt
Cold water as needed
Egg white (optional)

Rinse the berries gently in cool water and place in a good sized bowl. Gently toss in sugar and pinch of salt. The amount of sugar will vary depending on the ripeness of the berries and the baking will evaporate out some of the sugar. Generally I aim for making the berries twice as sweet as I want them to end up. Cover and set aside. The longer the berries sit, the better the pie will be. When I can stand to wait, I will leave them in the refrigerator overnight, but one hour is the minimum I would recommend. Save the cornstarch out until later.

Combine the flour, sugar, and salt in a medium bowl. In a large bowl cut the butter into tiny sized bits and gradually ad in the flour mixture, breaking the butter down with either your fingers or a pastry blender until it is the size of small peas. Add in the water a teaspoon full at a time until the dough holds together, being careful not to over handle it.
Separate the dough and roll into two evenly sized balls, place in zip lock bags and refrigerate for at least ½ hour.

Preheat oven to 425º
On a floured surface roll out both balls of dough to a little bit bigger than diameter of a 9” pie pan. Place one pie crust in pan, saving the other one out. I recommend folding the rolled out dough in half, then in half again to get it into the pie pan easily.
Pour the excess blackberry juice off the berries into a pitcher or large measuring glass. Mix the cornstarch with about 1/3 cup blackberry juice and pour over berries. Pour the blackberries into the pie crust. Don’t worry if the pie pan is a little over full – this is good!
Now either place the remaining pie crust on top, pinching the edges together and poking steam holes with a fork, or with a cookie cutter, cut out shapes to make a patchwork lattice of pie crust shapes. Be sure that all the pieces touch one another and the edge, and are glued together with brushed on egg white.

Place in oven on top of an aluminum foil lined cookie sheet and bake at 425º for ten minutes then reduce the temperature to 350º and bake for 30 minutes or until the crust is golden brown. Cool for as close to an hour as you can manage, and serve with vanilla ice cream.
* The remaining blackberry juice can be simmered down to a syrup for the ice cream, but I usually drink it straight!

Grania and the Celtic spiral sun

2006-07-01T00:25:00.000-07:00

Earlier on in this blog I had mentioned picture I had been working on, called Grania. I had decided to place her in a meadow of wildflowers, inspired by the wildflowers I had seen growing in profusion on the coast here. In the background I painted a small lake and mountains, and had planned to put a Celtic spiral sun rising over the peaks, its light spilling over the mountains, illuminating the green grass, the lake and Grania golden hair. I spent a long time observing the rise and fall of the mountains here, seeing just how the light and shadows fall at different times of the day, noting the way the brush and trees grew and the way stones were revealed through the soft velvet of wild grasses. Still I could not express in my painting the subtleties of texture and tone I had seen so clearly in nature. I decided the shelve Grania for a while until I could solve the problem. Recently, I finished the Celtic spiral sun and placed it behind Grania without the background. It looked incredible! (In my humble Irish opinion ;) )
Sometime Pictures just know how they want to look.

Here's the sketch of Grania

And the rough sketch of the spiral

and the finished piece!

I put Grania and the celtic spiral sun up in my store http://www.beltain.com just a day or so ago. I love the art nouveau look of it.

Old Irish Traditions

2006-06-01T00:47:00.000-07:00

For sickness: Turn the head of the bed to the north.

To cure the bite of a mad dog : The cure for this is the touch of the hand of a seventh son. The effect is immediate.

A red haired woman : If you meet one while on the road to a fair, or to go fishing; turn back, for you will have no luck.

Money : If you should somehow find yourself in need of it, keep with you the back tooth of a horse.

Dreams : Always make an effort to tell your dreams first to a woman named Mary, and only after you've eaten breakfast.

Shamrock : Of all the charms, a four leafed clover is the luckiest. Should you get one, never let it leave you or it will take your luck with you for ever. Never show it to a soul.

Luck at cards : Stick a crooked pin in the lapel of your coat to bring you luck.

Knitting : The best knitting is done at night for that's when the sheep will be sleeping.

2006-05-31T02:58:00.000-07:00

Banba
A Gale am I : I soar above the star,
Again my wings with earthly mire are stained :
Alike I captain hosts of peace and war,
I cast tomorrow what today I gained.

I am the ardent lover and the cold,
And none in the world can hate as I,
And like the brown hare, timid, yet o’re bold,
When high adventure sounds her thrilling cry.

I am the restlessness that never sleeps,
And the dream haunted sleeper of dead years :
I am the child’s fresh joy that sudden leaps,
Yet all the Earth is wet with my tears.

The World I ever wake to fresh amaze.
My messages in sacrifice I trace ;
Mine are the splendid, unexpected ways ;
I am a phantom of the gods lost race.

I am the patient builder – yet again
For the sake of one marred stone the whole I raze ;
Truth seeker, for perfection ever fain –
I am discord in Earth’s mundane ways.

The champion I of every broken cause,
Not all Earth’s garnered fame my soul can sate
And when the throng shouts loud in my applause,
I tryst with some old dream at God’s gate.
- Mave Cavanagh MacDowell

What is Beltain?

2006-05-09T22:19:00.000-07:00

What is Beltain?
The name is derived from Bal and also the root of Balor of the baleful eye, the leader of the Formor whose searing glance could sear all it gazed upon. It is also related to Belinos the father of Miles who sacked Egypt and married the Pharos daughter, Scota, and who's children Defeated the Tuatha de Dannon in conquering Ireland 2500 yrs. ago, more or less.
Beltain is the Gaelige name for the month of May, and traditionally a general term for spring. The fire festival of Beltain was one of the four fire festivals held in ancient times on the hill of Tara. The other three being Lughnasadh, Samhain, and Imbolc. Samhain, Imbolc, Beltain, and Lughnasadh are celebrated at the Height of the season, when the energy is most potent, as opposed to the Roman tradition that places the seasons at equinox's and solstices.
Beltain was the third festival of the Celtic Year. It was held on the sundown of the full moon nearest May first. (Ancient Celtic societies followed a lunar calendar, and held that a day began at one sundown and ended on the next, influenced no doubt by their belief that death precedes all life and endings precede beginnings.)
During the Feast of Beltain, ritual games would be held at Tara, laws would be passed and judgements would be given, as the High King (Ard Righ) would hear any dispute brought before him. Seanachies would tell stories of births and beginnings, and the Bards would Chant their Lays. No weapons were allowed at Tara during a fire festival, and so scared was this time that any fighting was considered a serious crime. Unusual for the Irish!
At sundown every hearth fire was extinguished, and a sacred fire made from twelve sacred trees was lighted by the droi, (druids) who would send runners carrying a brand light from the sacred flame to all four fifths of Ireland to relight each and every hearth. Another ancient tradition, that survives today, is that Farm animals would be purified by being run between two Bale fires -note Bale, Bal, Beltaine are all connected.
Beltain is also associated with Angus mac Og, who took control of Brug na Boyne on Beltain by breaking taboo and approaching Elcmar armed.
Beltain is the time of youth and kingship and is symbolized by the Oak tree in Ogam.
Modern practices sometimes celebrate Beltain on May first, with a number of events that have been adopted over the millennia, like May pole dancing, but Beltain is a far more ancient celebration.
If you have any further questions just ask!
Peggy von Burkleo

"Mythos" or the importance of living culture

2006-04-29T23:08:00.000-07:00

Living Memory
Culture is a thing slow grown. It is passed down generation by generation in thoughts, music and stories, the traditions of a people. A mother sings a lullaby that her grandmother knew as a child, an adage is told from age to youth, births celebrated, partings mourned in ways that have always been. They endure because they give comfort and strength through continuity, giving people a sense of place and purpose in time. These rituals, the everyday, and the rare, bring a sacred presence with them, which tie people who share these life rhythms together in a common view. Culture is a thing centuries in growing, and that can be lost in a single generation.
Of all the threats to the cultural memory, apathy is the greatest. Outlaw a custom, it will be practiced in secret, publicly admonish it and it becomes politicized. Ignore it and it dies quietly, taking its richness with it.
Without custom, there is no rock to hold to in time of trouble. No comfort that echoes the love of those lost through the years. No guidance to those who must find a way in the world. They are adrift on a sea of time and place and only find shelter in temporary harbors.
This is not to say that all customs are good or even useful. In order to be a source of strength, people must view them in light of their own lives, drawing their own conclusions as to which traditions help them, which are relevant to them, and which do not apply.
It is by this process that cultures grow, taking into themselves the shape of their surroundings.

The storytellers
Everyone has in their extended family, at least one person who loves to tell, and retell stories of what has happened to them, or people they knew. The stories, sometimes funny, sometimes brave, or sad, or frightening reinforce certain morals and shared memories that subtly shape peoples outlook on the world.
Storytellers are caretakers of tradition, weather or not they know it, and some stories are the beginnings of legends.
When a person or event is remembered through the words of the storyteller, they take on a metaphoric reality. The nature of icons is that of lives or actions becoming the vehicle of morals. If in times of troubles, that story is recalled and fills a need of those who hear it, then the truth of its’ metaphor supersedes the facts of its vehicle. In short the story of the person or event is changed to accommodate the needs of the culture. Thus legends are born.
Legends
When it becomes a legend, a tale of a person or action takes on a life of its own. Sublime truth has taken over mundane fact. Through the sublimation of character or event the nature of the divine is shown. This is true of all cultures; Truth and Divinity know no boundaries of land or faith. It is the nature of culture to show them to us dressed in everyday clothes. And it is because of this that we are able to recognize Divinity and Truth. Emily Dickenson once wrote
"Tell all truths,
but tell them slant,
success in circuit lies.
Too bright for our infirm delight
the truths superb surprise.
As lighting to the child eased
with explanation kind
so truth must dazzle gradually
else every man be blind.
A language of legends strengthens a culture. It forms a bond between people who come from a shared landscape of images and expectations. Cultures communicate through legends. The more legends a culture has, the broader its vocabulary, and the richer the metaphoric truths it reveals. Without these bonds, a culture can fragment and leave people without the guidance of myths.
The fragmentation of cultures is common in modern time, but not new to it. After the fall of the Roman Empire, the peoples of Europe, already removed from their original mythos by roman rule, descended into the dark ages; a time of conflict and chaos. It wasn't until the recovery of older traditions, preserved in the monasteries of Ireland and spread throughout Europe by Irish monks during the middle ages, that the Renaissance was born and a semblance of stability returned. Other cultures across the world have suffered the effects of the interruption of culture as well. Whether from natural disaster, disease, invasion, apathy, or what have you, the end result is always similar. People feel lost or distanced, antagonistic toward others. The sense of community is fragmented. A community with out a rich language of legends to account for the different experiences of humanity, may turn on its own members; either forcing them to conform to a smaller range of metaphors or else cast them out entirely.
Modern cultures have access to a host of traditions from which to draw on. As the world grows smaller, peoples ability to communicate, to share stories and rituals, increases. The sea of legends available to people deepens and their horizons broaden. Many people are not actively aware of the legends they take into their daily lives. They weave them seamlessly into their own culture, unaware of the origins of their traditions. Other people actively seek out ways of thought, of ritual, and pick and choose which best help them in their own lives. By consciously looking for legends, they ensure for themselves a richer cultural vocabulary. Both are forms of culture adapting to ever changing needs, but those who are active in their pursuit of Truths keep alive cultural memory for generations to come.

Faith
Faith is the vehicle by which dreams manifest into reality. A thing must first be believed before it can be seen, or as in the Grail quest of Arthurian legend, before it can sought for. In all cultures, the quest is the story of following faith beyond that which is comfortable, familiar and known into the chaos of unformed possibility, and returning to the world bearing the fruit of new found wisdom.
No accomplishment of worth was ever achieved without faith.
(except for Quote by Emily Dickenson) copyright Peggy von Burkleo

The wooing of Etain, an Irish legend

2006-04-22T19:56:00.000-07:00

The Wooing of Etain
An Irish Legend as retold by Peggy von Burkleo
Prologue:
In the ancient days of Ireland, the Lords of the Daione Sidhe walked the length and breadth of the land, for then the walls between the worlds were thin, and difficult it was to say where, exactly the Faery left off and the mortal world began. Now it was in those times that The Dagda desired a tryst with Boan, the wife of Elcmar. In order to hide their love from Elcmar, the Dagda sent him on an errand to Bres mac Elatha and told him to return at sunset. The Dagda then slowed time so that in the space of a day, an entire year had passed. In that time Boan gave birth to a son, whom she named Angus mac Og, or young son of youth, for as she said,” Young is the son who was conceived at sunrise and borne before night.”
To hide their son from the vengeance of Elcmar, Angus was sent to the home of Midir the Proud, lord of Bri Leith, to be raised as his foster son. In those times children were often sent as fosterlings to the homes of distant kin or friends, in order to learn a trade, and strengthen the bonds of family, and it wasn’t uncommon for a man to have the honor of raising several foster children at one time. So naturally no suspicion fell on either the Dagda or Angus because of this arrangement, and Midir raised Angus with all the affection he would have given his own child.
Angus grew up playing with the other foster children and the young Fir Blog, the children of the mortals who lived in Ireland at the time. One day, in a dispute over the outcome of a hurling match, an argument broke out between Angus and Triath, one of the Fir Blog. Angus declared the he was right, owing to his birth rank, and Triath responded by saying the he didn’t have to take the word of a boy who didn’t even know who his real father was. Angus, who had all his life, assumed that he was the son of Midir, was shocked! He went to his foster father, with tears in his eyes, and asked him for the truth. Midir, seeing his beloved foster son so distraught, said that it was time for Angus to meet his father, and took him to the Dagda.
The Dagda greeted them warmly when they arrived at his home, and told Angus the truth of his parentage and promised him a Brug (fort and land) of his own. But, the Dagda told him, the Brug he had chosen, Brug na Boyne, (now called Newgrange) was currently owned by Elcmar.
“You must go” said the Dagda “to the fort of Elcmar on the sunset of Samhain, when all his host will be assembled in his hall, and none shall be armed. You yourself shall be armed, however, and shall demand of Elcmar to rule his brug for a day and a night.”
This Angus did, and Elcmar acquiesced to Angus’ demands, but took his grievance before the Dagda and the men of Ireland for justice. The Dagda listened to Elcmar’s dispute, and upon handing down his judgment, the Dagda mocked Elcmar for his cowardice and gave the brug to Angus saying, “The brug belongs to Angus, as you gave it to him for a day and a night, and it is in days and nights that the world is spent.”
But in compensation for his loss, the Dagda gave Elcmar the brug at Cleitech, which Elcmar admitted he liked better anyway.

Chapter one:
Time passed on and Angus was the lord of the Brug na Boyne, and in time he gathered a household and foster children of his own. Although he now knew the truth of his birth, Angus and Midir remained close and often in the summer evenings Midir would be found at the home of Angus. It was during one such evening as Angus and Midir were watching the foster children playing hurley, that a fight broke out among the foster children, and in the course of settling the matter, Midir was struck in the head by a holly spear and lost an eye. Now in these days a lords vitality and health were strongly tied to the welfare of his lands. Any blemish, wound or imperfection could result in lost crops, floods, or worse. Midir was unable to return home and rule Bri Leith as he was, so Angus took Midir to the healer, Diancecht, to restore the lost eye. Midir the Proud demanded reparation from Angus for the insult of the injury, as in those days a “blush fine“ could be put against any party that caused insult and shame to another. As part of the blush fine, Midir asked for the fairest maiden in Ireland as his bride. Well the fairest maiden was Etain, daughter of the Faery lord of Echrad. Angus Went to the lord and explained that he wanted Etain as a wife for the lord Midir, if he and Etain were willing. Angus and the lord negotiated out the bride price, (which was something like a dowry but paid to the family to compensate for the loss of their daughter) and took Etain to Midir who was waiting at the Brug na Boyne. So beautiful of form, and so sweet of nature was Etain that Midir was well pleased with Angus, and remained his guest with his new bride for a year.
On the day that Midir and Etain left Brug na Boyne For Bri Leith, Angus took his foster father aside and gave him warning.
“Take care of your new wife, for Fuamnach, you wife who awaits you, is a woman of great cunning and power. Also, I gave my word to the Faery Lord of Echrad, that I would protect his daughter from your Dannon wife. Do not forget that Fuamnach, daughter of Beothach is skilled in the wisdom and arts of the Tuatha De Dannon and that she was raised as the foster daughter of the wizard Bresal until she married you.”

When Midir arrived at Bri Leith with his new wife, they were both warmly greeted by Fuamnach. She told them all of what had happened at Bri Leith in the year Midir had been gone and showed them around the lands so that Etain might feel welcome. That evening as Fuamnach retired to her sleeping chamber, she turned to Fuamnach and said “It is into the seat of a good woman you have come.”
That night, when Etain sat in the seat of honor beside Midir, Fuamnach struck her with a wand of scarlet quickentree. In that instant, Etain was transformed into a pool of water. Fuamnach returned to the house of her foster father, and Midir in his grief, left the house to the pool of water that was Etain. Over time, the heat of the fire, and the motion of the air dried the pool until it turned to mud, and that damp earth writhed until it became a worm, and that worm, a purple fly. It was the most lovely in the land, and the size of a mans head. The hum of her wings was sweeter than harps and pipes and horns. Like two dark jewels, shone her eyes and the enchanting scent of her would turn away hunger and thirst from anyone whom she would go around. Likewise would the spray of her wings cure any plague or sickness or disease. The fly that was Etain, flew to where Midir was, and so lovely was her presence, that Midir knew her to be his beloved. Where ever he traveled she would go, and hosts of men who would gather were nourished by the very sight and sound of her. The music of her humming wings would lull Midir to sleep, and she would guard him as he slept, waking him if anyone who did not love him approached.

After a period of time, Fuamnach came to speak with Midir, accompanied by Lugh, the Dagda and Oghma as sureties. Midir strongly reproached her and told her if not for her sureties, she would not leave him. Fuamnach replied that she did not regret what she had done, for she would rather do herself good than another, and that furthermore, she would always do harm to Etain, no matter what part of Ireland she lived in, for as long as she lived, no matter what shape Etain might be. Then deliberately looking at the purple fly, Fuamnach began to recite incantations and spells taught to her by her foster father, the wizard Bresal. She summoned forth powerful winds and banished the transformed Etain from Midir. Of such strength and magic were those winds, that Etain could find in Ireland neither summit nor tree nor plain nor hill that she could rest on for seven years, but only on the tops of waves and ocean rocks. Then one day, by accident, she landed on the fringe of the cloak of Angus mac Og, as he was on the mound of Brug na Boyne.
Gathering her gently in the woolen fleece of his cloak, he whispered, “Welcome, Etain, careworn wanderer, who has suffered much through the vengeance of Fuamnach.”
He carried her into his house to his grianan, a sun filled bower, and gave her every honor and courtesy. Fragrant blossoms and healing herbs he had brought for her and every night he would sleep by her side, comforting her until her strength and happiness returned.

Word eventually reached Fuamnach of Angus’ love and care of Etain, and so she sent word to Midir saying, “Summon your foster son and come yourself so that peace may be made between us all, and I shall bring Etain.”
Then when Angus was traveling to Bri Leith, Fuamnach went to Brug na Boyne, and summoned another magical wind that blew Etain far from the home of Angus. When Angus learned of Fuamnach’s deceit, he went to where she was staying with her foster father, and struck off her head.

Chapter two:

Etain was blown on the magic winds for another seven years, again unable to rest anywhere in Ireland, but only on the sea. At last, she lit upon the roof beam of the home of Etar, champion of Ulster where he and his people were drinking. So spent was she, that she fell from the beam into a golden beaker of wine and was swallowed by his wife.
The spirit of Etain entered her womb, and became borne as her daughter. She was named Etain, daughter of Etar. It was one thousand and twelve years since Etain was borne of the Faery King Ailill until she was borne of the wife of Etar.
Etain was raised in Etar’s home at Inber Cichmaine, well loved and well cared for, and while she was raised with 50 foster sisters, because of her beauty and grace, she was the constant center of all. And so she spent her childhood, and grew to be an even lovelier maiden.
One spring morning, as she and her foster sisters were bathing in an estuary, they saw a horseman crossing the plain towards them. He was riding a bold noble brown steed, with a long curling main and tail. The man himself wore a generous green cloak, many times folded over, and a red embroidered tunic. His golden brooch, the shape of a crescent moon reached from shoulder to shoulder. A gold rimmed shield of silver with a golden boss he had strapped to his back with a cord of silver. He carried in his hand a spear of five points, its whole length bound with gold. His bright yellow hair was held back from his face by a golden circlet. All the maidens beholding him fell into a swoon of love. Gazing upon them, he spoke this lay:

“It is fair Etain here today
At Sid Ban Find west of Ailbe,
It is she, among young men
At the edge of Inber Cichmaine.

It is she who healed the lord’s eye
From the well of Loch Da Lig;
It is she that was swallowed in the wine
From a beaker by Etar’s wife.

It is she who will cause the King to chase
The birds from Tara,
And drown his two noble horses
In the water of Loch Da Airbrech

It is she who will be the cause
Of many a war on Eochaid of Meath;
There shall be destruction of Faery mounds
And battle against many a thousand.

It is she whom was sung of in the land
It is she that strives to wed the king;
It is she that is at Sid Ban Find,
It is she who will be my Etain, in the end.”

And then the stranger turned and rode away, not one knew where he had gone or where he came from.

Now in this time, Ireland was ruled by a noble and just High King, Eochaid Airem. A year he had been on the throne of Tara, when he decreed that a feast was to be held at Samhain tide and that all the men in Ireland should attend so that their taxes might be known. When word reached the kings and chieftains of Ireland, however, they refused one and all. They said that they all, kings and chieftains, had wives suitable to them and as that they would not attend they feast without their wives nor would their wives attend without them, then likewise the High King should not hold the feast without a wife suitable to him. And they said that until such time as he had such a wife, no one would attend the feast of Tara.
Eochaid said that he would only marry a woman who was his equal in countenance and mind and who furthermore had never been with any other man, and he sent his messengers out over the length and breadth of Ireland to find her.
They searched in the south, in the land of knowledge and poetry. They searched in the north in the land of pride and contentions. They searched in the east, in the land of strength and hospitality. They searched in the west, in the land of histories and judgment. They searched in the center, in the land of renown and prosperity. In Inber Cichmaine they found her, Etain the daughter of Etar.
At once, Eochaid set out to meet her, leaving Tara on his white steed. He went by way of Bri Leith and as he rode across its’ green plain, he espied a maiden kneeling by a spring. On the ground, beside her for washing was a sliver bowl decorated on the rim with bright carbuncles, and around the basin were four golden birds. In her hand she held a silver comb chased through with gold. Her cloak of purest purple fell in deep folds around her form, and under it a mantle with a silver hem rested on her chest, held in place by a golden brooch. A hooded tunic of green embroidered in red she wore under these, clasped in the front with bow pins of gold and silver shining in the sunlight. Her golden hair upon her head in two locks was divided and each lock braided with four plaits held at the end by a ball of gold.
She was loosening her hair to wash it, her two arms outstretched were the whiteness of snow only one night fallen. Her cheeks were as red as mountain foxglove and her eyes the blue of hyacinth; her lips delicately red, soft and high her two white shoulders. Her delicate wrists and long fingers, smooth and pale. Pink and long, her nails. As white as the foam of the sea was her side, and pale and long her legs. Beautiful were her two fair eyes; her brows and lashes the blue black of a beetles wing. Of all the most beautiful and fair of maidens that men had ever seen she was the greatest. Looking at her it seemed to Eochaid and his men as if she had come out of the faery mounds. Of Etain it was said, “Every beauty was beautiful, ‘til compared with Etain, every lovely form lovely ‘til compared with her.”
A strong love came upon Eochaid and he approached her and asked “Who are you, fair maiden? From where have you come?’”
“Not hard an answer, that.” She replied. “I am Etain, of the same name as the daughter of the lord of Echrad of the faery mounds. I come from Inber Cichmaine, where my father Etar is lord.”
“Woman of my heart, will you be mine?” asked King Eochaid.
“Men of this land, both kings and nobles have desired my love, but none have I given. For my heart I have given you, since I was a small child, for the stories of your valor and beauty. Though we have never before met each other, still I know your face, for so long I have held the thought of you in my heart, Eochaid Airem.”
“This is not the answer of a bad friend.” said Eochaid. “You are welcome, indeed, and all others I shall put aside for your sake, and with you alone I shall live, as long as it pleases you.”
So Eochaid went to her father, and paid her bride price and brought her home to Tara, where she was warmly welcomed.

Chapter three

The feast at Tara was held at Samhain tide, and all the chieftains and kings were in attendance, and all agreed that the High King had found a wife suitable for him. The feast started fourteen days before Samhain night, and lasted fourteen days after. It was during this time that Eochaid’s brother Ailill Anglonnach fell ill. He scarcely ate or drank or slept, but would sit apart from the others, and stare into the distance, and grew very pale and wan. After the feast had ended, and the chieftains and kings had returned to their homes, Ailill Anglonnach remained ill, so his brother had him sent to the hall of Fremain in Tara, Eochaid’s favorite stronghold. Ailill Anglonnach remained there a full year and showed no sign of improvement.
“The illness you are under, it does not appear serious, brother.” said Eochaid, “In truth, how fare you?”
“I give you my word, brother. It is not well with me, and it grows worse every night and every day.”
“Then I shall bring someone to you who may discover what ails you.” said Eochaid.
Fachtna, the kings own physician, was brought to the hall of Fremain. Fachtna placed his hand on the chest of Ailill Anglonnach. The Kings brother let go a sigh.
“Not serious at all, is this matter.” The physician informed Ailill. “One of two things is the matter with you. Either you suffer from the pain of love you gave, or from the pain of jealousy.”
At this Ailill blushed deeply, but said nothing to Fachtna. For ever since Samhain, he had been deeply in love with Etain, but had told no one, out of loyalty to his brother. And so in silence he had suffered in his pain, the shame of his jealousy and love driving all ease from him. But as he would not reveal the cause of his condition to the physician, Fachtna left, unable to aide him.
As to Eochaid, as High King, he was duty bound to complete a king’s circuit of Ireland, visiting the brug of every king and chieftain on a tour that would last a full year. Eochaid left the care of his brother to Etain, saying “Be kind to Ailill, while he yet lives, and should he die, have him buried at Tara and let his name be written in ogham upon his stone pillar.”
And so he left Tara with a heavy heart believing his brother would not live out the year.

Every day Etain would go to the hall of Fremain, and care for Ailill Anglonnach. It grieved her deeply to see her husband’s beloved brother wasting away, for she knew how much Eochaid would miss Ailill if he died. One day, when she was caring for him, she said “What ever is this sickness you are under? If only I knew what was making you ill, I would do what ever I could to make you well again.”
Then, gazing at Etain, Ailill spoke, saying, “It has only ever been for the want of you that I have suffered.”
Etain said nothing to this, but continued to come to the hall of Fremain every day to see to Ailill. One morning she said “It is not right that you should suffer so, nor that my husband should lose his brother on account of me. Meet me tomorrow morning at the break of day, at the house that is outside my husband’s fortress, so that we will not dishonor him in his own home, and I shall give you the cure for your illness.”
That night Ailill lay in his bed unable to sleep, but when the appointed hour drew near, an irresistible slumber fell upon him and he was unable to rouse to meet Etain. At the house outside the walls of Tara, Etain had not long to wait until she saw a man come toward the trysting place, weak and ill, but she marked that it was not Ailill. When it became apparent that Ailill was not coming, she went back to Tara, and found him sleeping. When she woke him and he found what had passed, he cried in his grief that he would rather die than live. But Etain comforted him saying that they would meet again at the same place tomorrow. But once again Ailill slept not at all that night and again a heavy sleep fell on him just before dawn. And again as Etain waited she saw a weakened man who was not Ailill. Once again she and Ailill agreed to meet the following dawn, and again the same events happened. This time however, when the stranger came to the house outside the walls of Tara, Etain spoke to him, saying “Why is it you who have come to meet me instead of him whom I would heal?”
“It would be better to tryst with me Etain, daughter of Etar, for when you were Etain daughter of the lord of Echrad it was I who was your first husband.”
“What is your name, who would speak so boldly to me?” she asked.
“Not hard,” he answered, “I am Midir of Bri Leith”
“And why were we parted, if we were once married as you say?”
“Again, it is easy to tell.” He said “It was the spells of Fuamnach learned from the sorcerer Bresal that parted us.”
Then Midir looked at Etain and asked softly, “Will you come with me?”
“No.” said Etain “I’ll not leave the King of all Ireland for a man I’ve only just met and about whom I know nothing.”
“Yet I was I who placed your husband’s brother under a spell of love of you, and I again who made him sleep these three days and saved your honor.”
Blushing, Etain answered, “Still, I will not go from my husband to you, unless he says himself that I may.”
With that, she left and returned to Tara.
When Etain arrived at the hall of Fremain, She found Ailill Anglonnach roused and well, his strength returned to him. She told Ailill of all the strange happenings that morning, and he smiled and said, “It is well, what you did. For when I woke, this day, I found my love of you lifted, and my illness gone.”
That summer, when Eochaid returned to Tara, Etain and Ailill Anglonnach told him all of what transpired from beginning to end. Eochaid, for his part, was relieved that his brother was well and grateful to Etain in that she had been gracious enough to have been willing to sacrifice her own honor to save the life of his brother.

Chapter four

It was the custom of Eochaid Airem, High King of Ireland, when in his royal residence, to rise in the dark morn before each dawn and walk the ramparts of Tara as the sun broke the shadows of night into the light of day. One summer dawn, as the first rays of light were painting the clouds with blushing pink, and Eochaid was upon the ramparts, he saw before him a stranger. This unknown warrior had golden hair reaching to his shoulders and a tunic of deep purple stitched in red over which he wore a rich green cloak held in place by brooch of gold in the shape of a new moon so large in size that it stretched from shoulder to shoulder. In his hand he carried a spear of five points and on his back he wore a shield of silver with a golden rim and boss. Eochaid was put in surprise, as he knew that no such man had been in Tara when the gates had been closed the night before, and neither had the guards opened the gates yet that morn. The man approached Eochaid and greeted him, and Eochaid gave him welcome.
“Kind are the welcomes given at Tara, from the High King Eochaid.” said the stranger.
“Indeed.” said Eochaid. “By what name is it that you are known, stranger?” he asked.
“Not hard, that. I am Midir of Bri Leith.”
“And why this morning have you come to fair Tara?”
“I have heard of your skill at Fitchell (an ancient predecessor of chess) and have desired to test my skill against so worthy an opponent.”
“You have heard well.” replied Eochaid. “But we must wait for the Queen to wake to play, as the fitchell board is kept in her sleeping chamber.”
“I have brought with me my own.” said Midir.
He produced a silver board inlaid with purple jewels. From a bag of woven bronze he took the game pieces, each made of finely wrought gold.
“Let us play for a stake.” said Eochaid, as Midir set up the game.
“What would you care to wager?” Midir asked.
“It matters not.” returned Eochaid.
“Very well.” Midir said. “Then if I shall lose to you fifty horses shall I pay, all of them dark grey dappled, red their heads, and sharply pointed their ears. Swift and strong and spirited are they, yet yielding to command. Silver shall their bridles be, befitting a king. If you should lose then I shall be given a small thing asked of you.”
Long it was they played, from dawn ‘til dusk. At last, as the grey of twilight stole across the plains of Tara and the gates closed for the evening, the High King won and Midir promised to bring the horses the following dawn.
The next day, even as he was walking the ramparts, Eochaid espied Midir inside the locked gates of Tara, and there beside him where the promised horses. Eochaid greeted him and asked him again to play a game of Fitchell.
“For what stakes shall we play this time?” Midir asked.
“Let us decide that when the game is done.” responded Eochaid. “I for one shall honor my debt, should I lose, as I am sure you shall honor yours.”
Again they played from sunrise to sunset and again at the setting of the sun, Eochaid won.
“And what payment shall you have, o King?” Midir asked.
“A simple thing for you” said Eochaid, who suspected that his opponent was out of the faery mounds. “To, in the space of one night, clear the fields of Meath of brush and stone, and drain the marshes of Tara that they may be fertile, cut down the forest of Breg, and build a causeway across the moor of Lamrach, that men might cross.”
“It is a heavy burden you lay upon me, knowing I may not refuse.” complained Midir.
“The fault is yours for pledging your honor so lightly.” answered the king.
“These things you ask, I shall have done, but on this condition only; that no man shall witness the feats of my labor.”
“I shall have the halls of Tara locked and prohibit the men from leaving.” said Eochaid.
But that night Eochaid sent his chief steward out to spy on Midir and see what he did. On the plain of Tara was a host of faery at work clearing the land. Owning to their labor, their shirts they had removed and heaped in a pile, and on top of that pile stood Midir, shouting out orders. The steward looked on a sight of great wonder, as such had never been seen by mortal eyes. In the space of one night all the work was done, except the faery folk, catching sight of the steward, put a flaw in the causeway that could never be fixed, for the insult of his spying.
The next morning the steward reported to the High King every detail of what he had seen, down to the unusual yokes used by the faery oxen. Now up until that very day, the men of Ireland had fastened the yokes of their plows to the heads of their oxen as they pulled, but Eochaid, hearing how the faery oxen had their yokes around their necks to better pull their plows, issued a decree that day that all plows in Ireland should be thus used from then on. It was from this that he was called Eochaid Airem, or Eochaid the Plowman.
And even as the steward had finished his report, Midir appeared before them, a look of great anger on his face.
“Great is the suffering I have endured from the cruel welcome of you, Eochaid High King.”
“I’ll not meet anger with anger.” Eochaid responded. “What repayment would you have of me?”
“Whatever pleases you.” said Midir with dark eyes. “Shall we play a game of Fitchell?”
“That pleases me well.” replied Eochaid. “And what ever the winner claims as stakes shall be paid.”
Once again they played from dawn ‘til dusk, but this time it was Eochaid High King who lost.
“My stake is pledged to you, and on my honor I shall pay it. What claim you, Midir?”
“Had I so desired it, I would have won long ago. That stake you shall pay is that you give leave to Etain come to me, that I may embrace her in my arms.”
At this Eochaid was silent. After a space, he spoke saying, “In one months time, return you here at the end of day, and you shall be given what you ask.”

When the evening of the agreed upon day arrived, Eochaid had assembled all the mightiest heroes of Ireland in the Great Hall and placed hosts of warriors outside the barred doors so that his wife was well guarded, there on the height of Tara. Inside the Great Hall, Etain attended the High King, for the pouring out of his drink was her special honor. Though the gates and doors were locked and barred, though all of Tara was filled with the Finest Warriors in Ireland, armed and ready for battle, as the last rays of the sun faded from the sky, there in the Great Hall, Midir stood. If before he had been splendid to look on, then this evening his beauty shone brighter still. All who beheld him stood in awe of the sight.
“I have come to claim my stake, and embrace Etain, as you have agreed.” He said.
“Etain shall not go to you while she stands on the ground of Tara!” shouted Eochaid.
“As you say, so it shall be.” spoke Midir, and crossing the room, he gathered Etain into his arms and up through the smoke hole in the roof they went.
At once Eochaid and his host left the Hall in pursuit, and scanned the skies, but no sign of Etain or Midir did they see. All they saw were two swans flying toward Bri Leith.

(Some stories say Eochaid managed to regain her, others say not, and the consequences of his attempts were what led to legend of the destruction of Da Dergs Hostel, but that is another story.)
-Copyright Peggy von Burkleo, 2006

Fado-a faerie tale blog of the California coast part 3

2006-04-13T02:25:00.000-07:00

This is a work of fiction inspired by half true places, half true people, but of course all true faeries.

Right.. So anyway, about a month later, the rain hadn’t let up yet and everything was turning really green, the way it does in springtime in California. Wild Flowers were coloring the hillside, but it was way too muddy to go and pick them, even for me. I had a show at the Art City Gallery, full of twisted driftwood, colored rocks, odd findings and lots of bird bones. Skulls mostly, although I had put in some crow feathers too. It took about three days to install the show and do the lighting. The rain was pelting down the whole time. The reception at the opening went pretty well though, despite the weather. People always gather for free food. During the reception, that strange old lady kept on hovering outside the gallery in the rain. She was poking around at the scraps of half eaten crackers and brie left on a paper plate abandoned by someone who must have gone outside in the storm for a smoke and decided it was too much of a drag. Every now and then, she’d poke her head in the door, her sharp eyes studying the scene. But she never came in. I guess she went home to wherever she lived, because after an hour, I didn’t see her again. At home, later that night, the ocean winds batters the house and shook the windows. I had dreams of giant wings beating in the black sky above the house.
The next morning I woke to find the storm had blown it’s self out and left rare sunlight in its wake. I also found that the power was out. Now, a lot of long time residents of the coast are used to loosing power from time to time and have backup generators in case of just such a need. But I, having only recently moved in, had yet to get one.
I left my kitchen and useless electric stove behind and decided to walk to my favorite coffee house for breakfast. The sun shone gloriously bright on the vivid colors, washed clean by the ample rain. After being shut indoors for to much of the season, it was good to stretch my legs. The coffee shop near the top of the hill is in a refurbished blue Victorian. Its front half is a health deli, and the coffee bar is in the back. This morning I opted to have my tea and bagel on the outside deck and drink in the sunlight. A couple of friends stopped by and we talked about my new exhibit. I asked if anyone knew who the old lady was, but they hadn’t noticed her. After breakfast I got a refill of tea, and went to open the gallery. It’s a small town, you can walk to anywhere. I was going to art sit as the gallery docent that morning. The place was as cold as a tomb, what with the power out. But I sat by the sunny front windows and made the best of it.
Sometime towards noon, she came in, the stones on her necklace rattling. With a twisted smile, she examined the pieces, on by one. She seemed drawn especially towards one I titled “goddess of the beach” that had a large driftwood log, dried seaweed, and shells surrounding a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth that I had found washed up on the shore.
“ This one…” she said, nodding “ah, good on you for that. But she wants for something.” And she took of her necklace and placed it around the feet of the statue. “There.” Then she turned to leave.
“Who are you?” I asked.
She turned her yellow eyes to me. “Morgan.” She replied with the twisted smile, and left.

IRISH SODA BREAD

2006-04-11T20:18:00.000-07:00

IRISH SODA BREAD

6 cups flour

1 tbsp baking powder

1 1/2 tsp baking soda

2 tsp salt

1 tbsp and 1 tsp sugar

2 1/2 cups buttermilk

2 tbsp melted butter

1 1/2 cups raisins

preheat oven to 325°

Mix dry ingredients (excluding raisins) in a large bowl and set aside.
Stir togeather buttermilk, butter and raisins. Gradually add to flour the mixture, stirring until moist. Turn out the dough out onto a well-floured surface, and knead to a smooth and elastic consistency, about 5 minutes. Place on a greased baking sheet.
Press dough evenly into about a 1 1/2-inch-thick circle.
In a preheated oven, bake at 325° for about 1 hour or until the bread sounds hollow when tapped. Cool on a wire rack for 5 minutes. Serve cut into wedges.

Makes one 12-inch round loaf.

Voyages

2006-04-03T18:14:00.000-07:00

I am a leaf,
dry and brown
I tumble in the wind.
I am a wind
cool in autumns sun
I blow across the oceans of grass.
I am a blade of grass,
glittering in the dew.
Dew of morning,
mornings soft fog.
I am the fog
cool and damp
I come from the sea.
I am the sea,
sea of waves ,
waves of motion.
I am the motion of the gulls wings
smooth and grey
I cut through the evening sky.
I am Evening
rich splendor of gold
I paint the heavens with dreams of night.
I am the dreamer
sailing through sleep
I recreate the waking world.
- by Peggy von Burkleo

Irish Brown Bread

2006-04-03T18:06:00.000-07:00

Irish Brown Bread

1 cup all-purpose flour

2 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 1/2 tablespoons cold butter

2 cups whole-wheat flour

1/4 cup regular or quick-cooking rolled oats

1 1/2 cups buttermilk (can substitute w/ plain nonfat yogurt)

Whole Milk

1. In a bowl, mix all-purpose flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. With a pastry blender, cut in butter until mixture forms fine crumbs. (If you can’t find a pastry blender, mixing it with your fingers is fine.) Stir in whole-wheat flour and oats.
2. Add buttermilk (or yogurt); stir gently. If mixture is too dry to hold together, stir in milk, 1 teaspoon at a time, just until dough holds together; it should not be sticky.
3. Turn dough onto a lightly floured board and knead gently about 5 times to make a ball. Set on a lightly greased baking sheet. Pat into a 7-inch circle. With a floured knife, cut a large X on top of loaf.
4. Bake in a 375° oven until well browned, about 40 minutes. Cool on a rack. Serve warm or cool.

Tartan Day is April 6

2006-03-30T20:11:00.000-08:00

Highland pipes are swirling around, carried echoing down the glenn in a breeze! Not really- sigh, but I can dream. Time to get out BraveHeart, and listen to the Old Blind Dogs. They're one of THE best folk/modern Celtic groups ever and an AMAZING band to listen to live. I heard them the first time more then ten years ago, at the Celtic Music Festival in San Francisco. Absolutely the best show that night. Their music is hard to find, but definitely worth the work(actually, I just found them on google!) The fiddle and tin whistle go through the most complicated jigs and reels with almost unbelievable speed and ease and in an ethereal lightness that plucks at the soul. The vocals sung rich and clear, are accompanied by just the right balance of harmonies. The guitar, sometimes reminiscent of the Moody Blues, can just as easily switch into a folk that has nothing to do with old fashioned. The drumming, which is played in Indian rhythms accentuates the melodies brilliantly. The bass is strong and of course there are the pipes!
My top three favorites are "the Cruel Sister" "Song for Autumn", and "Bedlam Boys" but they're all incredible.
In honor of Tartan Day I have opened a Scottish themed shop at http://cafepress.com/regimental with knotwork lettering and Scottish humor on t-shirts, pins and other fun things. Check it out!

2006-03-25T18:21:00.000-08:00

If anyone has any questions about Celtic mythology, knotwork, symbolism or traditions, feel free to ask in the comment section. I'll post the questions and answers in the blog.
Fado- Gaeilge for "once upon a time",
Irish worry stone- a small stone kept secret, that one hides in a pocket, and is rubbed with a thumb for luck. If anyone is told of it, the stone loses all power. Although it's ancient origins are now obscured, the belief of stones of power is tied to standing stones, healing stones, portal stones, and other sacred stones of the Druids. Stones are of the Earth, one of the five elements, and as such hold potent earth energy; strength, fertility, and increase. Though some of these sacred stones remain as they have been for thousands of years, many of these were carved with Christian symbols in the monastic period of Ireland . Other stone magic includes a stone with a natural hole in it. It was said to give the gift of the second sight to the owner as it was a convergence of opposite states of being and therefore held great power.
- Peggy von Burkleo

Fado - A faerie tale blog of the California Coast part 2

2006-03-25T18:18:00.000-08:00

A few updates: Beltain, my main shop, is having a sale! 20% off selected items, just click on the banner. I've included t-shirts with my Celtic grail design, it's a symbol of rebirth and inspiration, a perfect symbol for spring! There's a really lovely design of zoomorphic birds and salmon and spiral work, all in glowing blue on t-shirts, mugs and more! There's also a selection of t-shirts from my Names of Ireland line, and an illuminated manuscript print with knotwork and spiral work! Each of it's capitol letters alone is enough to be a finished work of art. (in my humble Irish opinion.) If you haven't seen http://www.beltain.com yet, then please stop in. I'll put the kettle on, we'll have tea and scones, and I'll show you what I've been drawing lately!

I'm on the lookout for inde Celtic musicians- Send me demo and I'll post a review of it here!Also, there's a local radio station here, and I'll see if I can get you some air-time.(put contact info in the comment section, all contact info will be held confidential unless you say otherwise. No worries about marketing lists, spam or other evils.)

Weather, health and car permitting, I will be attending the Mendocino Folk Music festival this spring. (I'll post the site address soon, I just don't have it with me right now.) Again I will be reviewing the musicians, artist, and the general scene, so look for updates !

Fado - A faerie tale blog of the California Coast part 2

So, A couple of days after that, the wind had blown through and pushed the clouds away enough for the sun to shine through, and I was off at my favorite log beach scrounging. (I'm not going to say which one 'cause then everyone will want to go there, and all the best pickings will be gone. Once again, the beach was full of dead birds. Not seagulls this time, but something smaller, though defiantly not sand pipers. Every hundred feet or so there one would be, caught up in the drift wood and sea weed. The crows were having a feast. I walked down the sand, filling my bag with broken shells, feathers, false jade, and driftwood. I had been walking down the strand for about an hour. The sun was warm on my face, a pleasant contrast to the sharp winter wind. Even as bundled up against the elements as I was, I could tell it would not be long before I gave in and went home to sort my treasures over a cup of coco. Still I wanted to press on a little further. I've always been the kind of person who is never satisfied until they see what is around the next bend. In fact, I was just coming around the out cropping sand dune, when I nearly bumped into that woman. You know, the one in the rags, who had been standing in the rain. She was wearing a long black dress over her bulky frame and a black shawl hung over her bent back. She wore a necklace of black stones that might have been obsidian and ravens feathers twined together with hemp. Turning to face me, she abruptly demanded "what IS it that you want?"
At first, taken aback, I could think of nothing to say. But her yellow eyes so pierced me that I felt I had to answer.
"Are you alright now?" I asked, referring to the previous evening.
"Is there any thing that you need?"
"Is there anything that YOU need?" she said in a disapproving tone, that made it clear that I was somehow missing the point.
"I'm ok" I stuttered back.
"Well then, be off with you!" she said, raising her voice, and took a swing at me with her stick! Really! She could of hit me.
So with an "All right then." I turned around and went back at a fast pace all the way back to the car. The strange thing was, though, I felt as if she knew me. At least she sure sounded like she did.

Fado – A faerie tale blog of the California Coast, part one.

2006-03-22T21:23:00.000-08:00

This is a work of fiction inspired by half true places, half true people, but of course all true faeries.
I am creating it as I go, so if there are any signifcant revivions, I will advise of them.

Fado – A faerie tale blog of the California Coast part one "it was a dark and stormy night..."

Sometimes I wonder if there isn’t a little gypsy somewhere in the family. I’ve moved more times than I can think, but somehow I always end up near the water. But the sea is like that It gets into your blood, and stays there. Anchor Point, California is my latest haunt. It has a pleasant mix of rednecks and hippies, retired boomers and a thriving artist community to please the tourists in summer.
So I moved here in the winter, and managed to unpack before the big storms hit. Out on the coast like this there isn’t much to stop the rains. Or the wind.. It’s a quiet coastal village here. It’s the kind where everyone seems to know everyone else and on sunny days, dogs sleep in the street. I managed to drive all the way here from Puget Sound in my beat up 30 year old SUV. It’s from a time before SUV’s were SUV’s- steel all the way down to the dents and rust holes with moss growing out of them. Man it can guzzle gas but it’s big enough to haul around my junk in. Did I mention? I’m an artist- I do installations of found objects. Flotsam, jetsam, logs and driftwood, the occasional bone or bird skeleton. Up in Puget Sound they’re a rarity, unless you can find a beach near an eagles nest. That was what was so strange. Ever since I moved here, I’ve been finding bird skeletons on the beach. Usually you only find one or two a year, but here… well lets just say that I’ll never want for wishbones.
With the storms we’ve been hit with, grocery shopping has been an arduous undertaking. My gravel driveway has turned to mire and just getting out to the truck gets me soaked through. Fortunately the great beast has a working heater. With the weight if the iron chasse and my Darth Vader tires I don’t have to worry too much about hydroplaning. This is good thing, considering that the two roads in and out of here are both prone to flooding. Of course the Mountain Ridge road is on higher ground, but with the wind downing trees and branches on power lines and blocking traffic, I opt for the Coast road every time. Still I manage brave the elements singing along to Ray Charles on my “vintage” tape deck.
The other day, as I was driving the twenty miles back home from the store, the strangest thing happened . I was just driving past the hamlet of Arena Bay. The rain, which had been bucketing down started to turn to hail. The road was pretty slick with ice, and I was obliged to drive about twenty on the twists and turns. I was just reaching the turn off to Mac Isaacs’ road when an enormous white buck stepped out in front of me. Damn lucky thing I was going so slow, or else I’d have fishtailed my way right off the cliffs. As it was, I was able to stop in time. And this buck! When he was right in front of the truck, he just stopped and looked at me. And not at the truck either. No, he looked me straight in the eye, and for a long time. It was like a frozen moment, heavy and silent. Then, turning his head he calmly continued on his way. As I drove away, I had a feeling like waking out of a deep sleep. It was only after I crossed the bridge, and past the Haynes farm that I became aware that the tape deck was still playing. What was stranger, though, was the old woman walking though town on that stormy evening, wrapped in dark rags and all hunched over like that. Boney pale hands clutching a walking stick, slick wet grey hair plastered to her wrinkled face. I saw her on the corner, just across from the burrito place. Just standing out in the rain, not looking for shelter, not even looking around. And the burrito place, right across the street from her, has a covered patio! Too weird. She didn’t even seem to notice the weather. I rolled down the window and asked if she needed any help. She replied in a brogue ,saying “ You already have all the work you can handle. Off with you!”
Too weird.

2006-03-19T01:33:00.000-08:00

The blue forget-me-nots are in bloom, as are the wild iris', bursting out of the verdant grass like miniature fireworks. Today the winds of March blew through, clearing skies and sending empty trash cans skittering down the street. I took a walk in the sun for an hour, and came home with a pleasant sunburn, just enough to let me know I'd seen the sun. Warm sun on my back, cool wind in my hair, I came home determined to start a spring cleaning, and found the sun had evaporated my ambition. Maybe tomorrow... maybe.
Funny though, I've been working on a picture for about a week now, of a woman standing in sunlight, the wind dancing in her hair. I had decided to call it "Grania" which translates usually as "Grace" but is derived from "grian" meaning sunlight in gaelige. I'm at a point of indecision now, however, on how to treat the background. Either I'll paint in an Irish country setting or a Celtic spiral disk behind her. Or overlay the Celtic spiral on top of the Irish country background. Or put a standing stone with Ogham writting on it behind her, and maybe the celtic spiral overlaid on that. I can't decide. Any suggestions would be very welcome. I'll send out an autographed proof to the best suggestion.
A note on updating the potato soup- which is THE best potato soup I've ever had, by the way.
Follow the instructions about the onions and butter part, then stop there and put it in a blender with only 1 can of broth and puree it. Add it to a large pot of mashed potatoes, with more salt and pepper than you might think. Lock the front door and eat with it with a large spoon, because you won't want to share.
Well, I've had another dream about html, which is very strange as I'm dyslexic, yet the code is easier in my sleep... I wonder what Jung would say about that. I've been working on modifying my main shop at http://www.beltain.com . It's set up as a gallery display and I'm still trying to insert a " find by product" code. But the thing is, see, I'm really an artist, so code makes me dizzy, I need more tangible things to work with. Lately I've been listening to Loreena McKennitt as I code away to reward myself. Her beautiful lyrics and rich layers of melodies carry me off, some where far distant from computer scripts. Such a beautiful voice too!

The promise

2006-03-18T02:08:00.000-08:00

The Promise

Women stand
in a field,
grouped close
for comfort
from a reality
too harsh to be alone in.

They are waiting
for a promise made,
and hoping it is kept
as their skin wrinkles
and their clothes become tattered.

Not really the sad ones are they,
waiting
but in truth
are trees in a field.

Below and beyond them,
the bones of a once lush, green field
grasp at the sky,
rasping in parched voices
mimicking the wind
whose breezes blow above their reach.

It is a dead calm,
and the few shrubs remaining
lift their arms
in a desperate cry.

"Where is the rain?" they plead
as their roots still search an answer.

And then it comes.
From the edges of the sky they gather,
billowing puffs
full with the answer of a promise.

The first life giving drops
caress
the dry dusty ground.

The rain gives the life
back to the land.

It's life
a dark green,
deeper green,
ever more alive,
then the dried out deadness
of a hot summers day.

copyright- Peggy von Burkleo

I don't know...
I've just been thinking a lot about the weather lately. The winter has been leaving in fits and gasps giving a succession of false springs and chilled storms. The seasons pass on as I listen to the rhythm of the raindrops on the tin roof. The ocean this year has been at times slate gray and azure blue, streaked with purple on the dark horizon. The horses of Manannan, those giant waves, toss their manes boldly against the breakers. There is a color present, in the rain, a depth of tone richer than any I've found in the summer sun. Tree barks become shades of blue and silvers, with gold or purple peaking out at unexpected times. Greens too are far more lush, and hold a vibrancy in the twilight. There is a crispness in the air, in the scent of the forest, mulching and secretive and smelling of hidden mushrooms. In the briny sea spray, on the sent of an oak wood fire.

2006-03-15T16:27:00.000-08:00

Failte!
Well, even though this blog is still under heavy construction, my brain is going to melt out my ears if I don't stop doing code. I even dreamt that I was do html last night!
Anyhow, to take a break I thought I'd put in a few entries about Ireland, for Saint Patrick's day. There is no particular order just randomness, a rhapsody on the theme of Ireland.

The names of Ireland... Ireland, being a land of poets naturally has a great number of names given to her. The oldest known is Ierna, from the Greeks dating back to the 6th. Century BC. Ivernia and Hibernia were given to her by the Romans. Scotia was a name of Ireland as late as the 17th century, although Alba adopted it in a modified form as the modern name, Scotland. More familiar are Eire,(pronounced Aeyhh-rah), Banba, and Fodhla,(pronounced Fo-Lahh), the names of the three De Dannon queens vanquished by the Milesians in 500 BC. Also there are Inis Fail, which is gaeilge for " Isle of Destiny", The Holy Island, the Island of sorrow, the Island of Saints and Scholars, the Sean Bhan Bhoct, and Kathleen ni Houlihain among others. And, of course, there is Ireland, given to her by the Vikings who, unable to pronounce the subtle sounds of Eire, instead said "ire". And then they put the word "land" on the end... To tell it apart from the water. Vikings were like that.

POTATO SOUP
1/2 cup unsalted butter
1 medium onion,- thinly sliced
3 leeks, sliced
3 large baking potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/4-inch-thick slices
3 (14 1/2-ounce) cans chicken broth
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
Toppings: shredded Cheddar cheese, crumbled cooked bacon, chopped fresh chives, chopped sauted mushrooms
Melt butter in a large saucepan over low heat; stir in onion and leek. Cover and cook 20 minutes. Stir in potato; cover and cook 15 minutes. Stir in broth, salt, and pepper; bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer 30 minutes or until potato is tender. Remove from heat, and cool slightly. Process soup in batches in a blender until smooth, stopping to scrape down sides; return to saucepan, and cook over medium heat until thoroughly heated. Serve with desired toppings for a twist put the topping in the bottom of the bowl and ladle the soup on top!

I'm going to be trying out variations on this standard recipe. I'll post the results.

My favorite poem by Patrick Pearse;
The Fool
Since the wise men have not spoke, I speak that I am only a fool;
a fool that hath loved his folly,
Yea, more than wise men their books or their counting houses, or their quiet homes,
Or their fame in men's mouths ;
A fool that in all his days hath never done a prudent thing,
Never counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped
The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed ;
A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all
Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping hooks
And the poor are filled that were empty,
Tho' he go hungry.

I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth
In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone to be worthy of the toil.
Was it folly or grace?Not men shall judge me, but God.
I have squandered the splendid years :
Lord if I had the years I would squander them over again,
Aye, fling them from me!
For this I have heard in my heart : that a man shall scatter, not hoard.
shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of tomorrow's teen,
Shall not bargain or huxter with God : or was it a jest of Christ's
And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His Word?

The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces,
And said, "This man is a fool," and others have said, "He blasphemeth" ;
And the wise have pitted the fool that hath striven to give a life
In a world of time and space and actual things,
To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and only the heart could hold.

O, wise men, riddle me this ; What if the dream come true?
What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell
In the house that I shape in my heart, the noble house of my thought?
Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin
On the truth of thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures,
But remember this my faith.

And so I speak,
Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say :
Ye shall be foolish as I ; ye shall scatter, not save ;
Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all ;
Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His Word.
And for this I shall answer : O, people I have loved, shall we not answer together?