My stories are written as monologues or poems from the perspectives of the women in Irish myth.
It is my belief that myth is bottomless and will forever yield fresh wisdom. My retellings are fundamentally true to the Irish myths. Each telling is recreated through interaction with my own imagination.
It had a frothy consistency and sticky at the same time. You couldn’t just shake it off if it landed on your duffel coat, but the coat wouldn’t be ruined either. It was called Jack Frost. You could buy it in bags in Woolworth’s up on High Street Kilkenny at Christmastime. You’d know they had it in, because it would be stuck to the black path outside from young people throwing it over each other. I loved it. I would go so far as to say it had a huge part in making Christmas sparkle for me. It was the contrast. The memory is always about five in the evening. The early dark, the Christmas shopping frenzy, and under all the feet and all the noise, under thrown papers, spilled beer, the sticky everything that makes filth, something sparkled like it had come from somewhere else. It was evidence of Christmas magic. The kind that tinsel hadn’t a hope of conjuring. I suppose it was the Christmas decoration that got away, that got to do its own thing.
They didn’t have big street cleaning machines in those days. I remember the rubbish truck with the lifty sides that came down our lane, and Paddens Blanch who always waved and smiled, making his weekly visit an lovely occasion. I suppose street cleaners in those days consisted of a heavy shower after a bit of a sweep. Not like the showers we have these days, no, they weren’t as heavy as they are now. The showers now would probably make shorter work of the black streets and Jack Frost would be disposed of much more efficiently to the drains.
My Dad never decorated the pub for Christmas. Nothing changed in there except the customers drank more, and the floor was stickier than usual. Grubby hands, black nails, orange Guinness rings stuck to stubble, and a stinking kiss for the boss’s daughter.
“I love yer Fader, ya know tha”, giving me a good old squeeze, “Me and yer Fader” fingers crossed, “We’re like tha”.
The crib in the Black Abbey was different to all the other cribs in town, because it had little lights in the sky above the Holy Family. The sky had been painted a beautiful dark blue to show it was night time. Fairy lights were sticking through holes in the canvas, being stars. Angels were singing the Gloria and flying. If those angels were hanging from some form of string, I never saw it, and if the Gloria was some record player in behind the painted sky, it most certainly never reached my consciousness. The combination of the Gloria, the stars and the flying angels had me completely lost in Bethlehem. I went back many times to be lost again to that sparkling sky. Then the short cut home was down a dark lane by the old walls of Kilkenny. Someone had told me about a legless woman who would follow you. To this day I don’t know if I was being told about a drunken woman or a ghostly woman with no actual legs floating along behind you, but I had heard of the Bean Sí, and so I decided, that’s who it was. I knew she only went after the people of certain names, and mine wasn’t one of them so I was safe enough. Still the return from the paradise of holy Bethlehem was a breath held sprint down a crooked path. A bit like the Holy Family flying into Egypt after the joy of him being born and visited by Kings.
I was mad about the holy family, and I especially loved Mary. She was the perfect mother who was always holding her beautiful baby, and never putting him down to cry on his own. Not like the mothers who’d leave their babies stuck in prams outside shops. Babies know when their mother’s are gone, which is why they’d start crying the minute she was gone. I imagined Mary walking around High Street in her lovely blue and white floppy clothes. She’s be showing Baby Jesus the Jack Frost shining up at them. Stars below them as well as above them, and there’d be beautiful light shining all around them.
At school I was the maker of the paper mache donkey for the crib, while Tess Cullen got to make Virgin Mary. She did a lovely job, all blue and white with black lines to show the way her veil fell in womanly shapes over her shoulders. Tess was a great artist. You couldn’t argue with that, and though I put as much artistic talent into making the donkey that was to carry Mary, I knew there was no way a donkey would sparkle, no matter how hard I tried, and I couldn’t help thinking, if I had been the one making Mary, I would have used a little Jack Frost on her veil to show how close she was to stars.
Originally published in The Little Book of Christmas Memories by Liberties Press
IT SEEMS LIKE NOTHING CAN STOP THE BLOODBATH. We are seeing scenes so horrible that the physical reaction is to turn the head away, and hold on to the gut as it lurches with the horror of children, weak with hunger, shaking with trauma, silenced, frozen, limbs taken from their perfect bodies, mothers who want to be buried alive with their babies because death is the only release from the unbearable pain. This can never be unseen, or undone. And yet it continues.
Do they not know that killing children for the sake of power are ancient doings, for example, in the Bible, in Mythology. Remember The Slaughter of the Innocents. In Irish mythology, Balar King of the Fomhóire arranged to have his daughter Eithne’s children thrown into the sea to prevent a prophesy that he would be killed by his own grandson. He had imprisoned her in a tower in Tory Island for her whole life up until the moment nature outwitted him. In fact it was his own greed that caused the beautiful Cian to come to Tory having stolen his beautiful cow. Some, like me prefer the version where Cian not only made love to Eithne but to her handmaidens too, and they all had babies, Eithne bearing three, and all of them were thrown in to the sea by her father’s soldiers.
The stain on humanity repeats itself over and over which makes the repeaters extremely stupid, and we have never been comforted, we will never be comforted. Some of the supporters of war will go to church this Christmas to celebrate the birth of a child. Judaism also values children as the purest form of being created in God’s image.
My Irish Curse for them on Christmas Day is that the are caught in the gut by the contradictions they live out. I hope that the hypocrisy of supporting a war created by imbecilic madmen constipates. I hope the baby in the crib screams out in pain, so they see his limbs sever before their eyes, that he looks into their eyes while he hands over a sword for them to pierce his heart, his mother and father’s hearts, then casts blood all over their faces so that they will never be able to it wipe them clean.
I also wish for them to know that Eithne and her handmaiden’s children lived on by changing their shapes to seals, while a Druid called Biroge intervened. She brought one of Eithne’s children to the mainland to the world of his father’s people, The Tuatha Dé Danann. That child was Lugh who went on to fulfil the prophesy. He killed his grandfather Balar at the second battle of Maigh Tuireadh with stone from his sling. And so, to go back to stupidity, it’s not hard to see that some who have a certain interpretation of power are indeed stupid. they learn nothing and will always crumble in the end.
To quote Mahatma Gandhi “The moment the slave resolves that he will no longer be a slave, his fetters fall.“
Through myth, theatre and storytelling we can be faced with what we don’t yet know about ourselves. Stories lie in wait, full of possibilities that can bring us toward new understandings.
Myth, great theatre, (for example Shakespeare), films like Star Wars, the Lord of the Rings, and within the theories of Jungian psychology are all places where we are accompanied by archetypes. That means we are not meeting complete human beings, but aspects of human beings. These aspects are universal, wizard or witch, queen or king, wise person, druid or fool, and more, and that includes all the modern variations of the same. Along with these archetypes we can also meet universal themes, like war, love, loss, new life, death, the destruction of nature, and so on. We see characters fulfilling the prophesies they have tried to avoid. These universal themes and aspects of human beings can be triggering. Life may not have given us the opportunity to meet for instance, the loneliness of the goddess Macha who comes in from the cold only to be betrayed by the man she had learned to trust, or the shaming of the very young Cú Chulainn by a group of women who lifted their skirts to gain control over his temper, and on to all the other lonelinesses, joys and betrayals that we meet throughout life. Those hurts, qualities, or quirks find their mirror when you meet them in their mythic perfection.
The great Kerryman and thinker, John Moriarty described working with myth as a kind of harrowing. To meet our darker impulses, our personal shadow, or an aspect of self we don’t like or want to accept, but if we stay for long enough, we begin to see, because shadow is only shadow until a light is shone. Seeds can then be sown, and new shoots grow, but it is important to be aware that along the way, myth can be psychologically risky. A person might over identify with a character in the myth. For example, taking on the energy of a king with a lot of power that can give further food to a power identity, or identifying a victim within a story, only to support an inner victim that can be in the way of good mental health. I know that sounds a little frightening, but walking toward a myth with awareness, and an openness to what it has show us can become a guide toward our many contradictions. When we become aware of our contradictions we gain an understanding of our impingements. An example: ‘I want to be loved but I push you away.’
THEATRE
I began by suggesting myth and theatre as similar but they are not quite the same. The example I am about to describe illustrates the distance between the play and the audience. The audience is moved by the play, but as an audience member there is distance, therefore in my opinion, though theatre can be an intimate engagement, it is not as intimate as it can be with myth, and so less psychologically risky except sometimes for the actor. The separateness between audience and actor is depicted and displayed below.
This is a sculpture called ‘Theatre’ in Cabinteely Park, County Dublin Ireland by Agnes Conway
Below is the text that goes with it:
“A large scale sculptural group consisting of 6 “Performers” and 7 “Audience”, each cast in granite and measuring up to 7ft in height. Theatre is divided into two parts. The Performers (masks set on pillars) represent various human vices such as malice, greed, violence, while the audience holds itself apart from them.Theatre represents an aspiration to a more ideal world where the ability to recognise and accept the evils and flaws in human nature allows one to move forward without being changed or scarred by them.“
That wonderful sculpture and the accompanying text suggests the audiences involvement, while at the same their safe distance. Something is happening on a stage and the individual is moved, but there is some choice involved, conscious or unconscious as to whether the audience member engages with for instance, a shadow aspect that can be left on the stage.
There is no way to guarantee that a myth will not challenge unconscious aspects of a person, but there is a way to remain conscious about the possibility of the unconscious challenge. I am not the character though they might have a lot to teach me, I am me and the reason for the journey /process is for outcome, epiphany for wisdom and creativity.
Having said all that I don’t know if there is a best way to approach a character in a play or a myth, but I am sure from my experiences while writing my books TÁIN and SÍDH that it is worth knowing that spending time with a myth, particularly one that a person is drawn to, is holding something yet to be revealed, so it is better if it is approached with openness and some wariness. Maybe the way forward can be taken from theatre by making sure that the myth is approached by an inner ensemble; performers, audience and director. The performer for close connection, the audience for distance and director for the omniscient viewpoint, so the myth worker can then allow the magic of insight and wisdom that is unique to them, to happen. That would be ideal.
Before the four cycles of Irish Mythology there were other comings and goings
THE FIRST WAS CESSAIR who was said to be the granddaughter of Noah, who was refused passage on his great Ark, but she, being a resourceful woman made an ark of her own. She sailed across many oceans with forty nine-women and three men to become the first inhabitants of Ireland. This story also touches on the shape-changer, Fintan mac Bóchra, who was the only one to survive the great flood by taking the forms of a salmon, an eagle, and a hawk, and went on to survive for centuries only to become a human again – one who carried the wisdom within the stories of all the ages.
THE SECOND WERE DEALGNAT AND PARTHOLÓN who came three hundred years after Cessair’s people were gone. They sailed from Greece having committed terrible crimes. When the came to Ireland they cleared many forests, brought agriculture and a story about a big fight between husband and wife. Neglected, Dealgnat had found a lovely young man for herself. However this didn’t go down well with Partholón, and it became the very first judgement for adultery in Ireland. A sad ending ensued, because after all that prosperity and prowess, having won many battles agains the Fomhóire, (ghostly phantoms with a strong relationship with the sea, and chaos) the people of Dealgnat and Partholón came to their end because a filthy black plague killed them all in a week.
THE THIRD WERE NEMED’S PEOPLE who came from the Caspian sea. When the came to Ireland they too cleared many forests to reveal four lakes. For many years they prospered but the Fomhóire were always there to torment them. Many many battles were fought and in the end, due to another plague, they were weakened badly. They fled and as they did they split into two groups. Some went to Greece and were put to slavery to carry soil in bags onto the arid landscape in an attempt to make it fertile. After a time they escaped to return again as the fourth people to come to Ireland.
THE FOURTH WERE THE FIR BOLG (men of bags) divided Ireland into five provinces for their five kings including the sacred Cúige (fifth) at the centre of the four. They ruled for thirty seven years until the Tuatha Dé Danann, also said to be descendants of Nemed returned from the mythical northern cities of Falias, Gorias, Murias and Finias. The Tuatha Dé Danann defeated the Fir Bolg who were sent to live in Connacht which, though very beautiful, is the least fertile of the provinces. After this, The First Cycle of Irish Mythology begins with the tales of The Tuatha Dé Danann. The stories of these, people of the goddess Danu are woven right through all of the cycles, which is why I named my book SÍDH since the people of the goddess have never left. (Plural Sidhe, underground homes of the Tuatha Dé Danann)
THE FOUR CYCLES OF IRISH MYTHOLOGY :
THE MYTHOLOGICAL CYCLE is centred around the Tuatha Dé Danann, or the People of the Goddess Danu, a pantheon of deities who possess all the frailties of human behaviour. When they came to Ireland they brought four gifts, The Lia Fáil (a stone that cried out under a true king), The Cauldron of plenty that never emptied owned by The Daghda. The spear of Lugh when used in battle was never beaten and Fragarach the sword of Nuadu (their king). When they went underground they lived in the many Sidhe dwellings in Ireland. Some call them fairies but I like to think of them as similar to Tolkien’s elves, extremely skilled supernatural people, as capable of war, as they are of great love of nature. The Tuatha Dé Danann are not burdened by logic or chronology. Instead they enchant with dreamlike qualities, confusing with intense clarity. For instance in the story of Midir and Étaín, Fúamnach, sorceress and first wife of Prince Midir, cast his new love Étaín into a whole other lifetime with a spell laced with jealousy, and so the poor women lost her head for it. See SÍDH : Stories from the Women in Irish Mythology, to decide for yourself if she deserved it, or not.
THE ULSTER CYCLE contains many stories that are all connected to a complete whole that is Ireland’s great Epic Tale, An Táin Bó Cúailnge, or The Cattle Raid of Cooley. This main thread of this cycle is Queen Meadhbh of of Connacht who goes to war with Ulster for a bull. This is because she is not the equal to her husband Ailill in all possessions. He owns a bull and she does not, but I often wonder was that the real reason or did she have other scores to settle? This is the cycle that features the very famous Cú Chulainn who fights Meadhbh’s army single handedly because the men of Ulster were struck down by Macha’s Curse. The story of Macha is one of the many tributary stories contained in TÁIN : The Women’s Stories.
THE FENIAN CYCLE centres around Fionn mac Cumhaill, leader of the Fianna of Ireland who were a band of warriors, hunters and poets that lived in the wild, and were also welcome in the halls of kings. To be a member of the Fianna warriors had to prove themselves by completing amazing feats of strength and finesse. They were able to fight while running through a forest without disturbing a twig, write poetry, only ever marry for love and a lot more than that. The stories of the Fianna are full of mysterious happening, like the story of the beautiful Sadhbh, changed by a dark druid into the body of a deer, and who became the mother of Fionn’s son, Oisín who was the one who went with Niamh to Tír na nÓg (Land of the Young).
THE KING CYCLE traverses the two worlds of myth and history. There are many stories of the births of kings in the books TÁIN and SÍDH, and as you read them you will realise that the history part is questionable. For instance most kings and heroes have very interesting stories of their conceptions. A large bird comes to Mess Buachalla’s cow pen home to conceive King Conaire Mór who was the king who walked naked to Teamnair to claim his throne. Neasa mother of King Conchobar, mac Neasa’s copulated with the druid Cathbadh before she found a father for her child. That was High King Fachtna Fáthach, but unfortunately he was killed by Queen Meadhbh’s father King Eochaid Feidlech of Connacht. Another king tale is of Niall of the Nine Hostages who won his father’s crown by kissing a hag who turned into a beautiful woman. Of course they lay down with each other and that is in fact entirely symbolic because, if a king doesn’t respect the feminine in all her guises, he is a fool. These kings and many more turn up in the retellings I have written but since my stories are from the female perspective you might only be introduced to them.
This year at the Bard Summer School we will be exploring the wisdoms of Fintan, Fenius, Bran and the Irish Goddesses on Clare Island, Co Mayo, Ireland.
Below is a poem of mine written, with a lament in my heart, because those who have power in the world continue to think of our beautiful planet as an economy. I am reminded of the Tuatha Dé Danann’s departure into the hills after the Celts arrival in Ireland. Let us choose to believe that the Tuatha Dé Danann will never be gone, as long as people believe in the spirit alive in the land; always there, revealing secrets to those who are open, those with the capacity for true happiness. This poem is dedicated to you : The Keepers.
WOMEN AND POWER SERIES at Bard Mythologies : bardmythologies.com
Last week we talked about the dark feminine in the sorceress, Fuamnach. She was married to Prince Midir of Brí Leith (A hill in Co Longford). Together they had fostered the beautiful Aengus Óg who was son of Bóinn the river goddess and the Daghda, one of the principle gods of the Tuathe Dé Danann (People of the goddess Danú).
When Aengus had grown he left them to claim his inheritance which was Brú na Bóinne (Newgrange County Meath). Alas the couple missed Aengus terribly but when Midir went to visit him he left his wife behind, and while away he met the beautiful Étaín. Then since it was the way of the times that a man could have more than one wife, he brought her home. However Fuamnach’s jealousy didn’t bow to the way of the times and so her jealousy went very very far……
….. so far that she changed her rival into a fly. But a fly will never let you forget its presence.
From SÍDH : Stories from the Women in Irish Mythology. Illustration by Kathy Tynan : kathytynan.net
Wednesday 13th November at the Bard Mythologis Event: Women and Power
see bardmythologies.com
Along with me, the author of SÍDH : Stories from the Women Irish Mythology, Bard Mythologies will explore these stories and the matter of power. Maybe to find and highlight a whole new interpretation of power in today’s world.
Beginning Wednesday 6th November 6.30 – 8.30 for six weeks.
Along with me, the author of SÍDH : Stories from the Women Irish Mythology, Bard Mythologies will explore these stories and the matter of power. Maybe to find and highlight a whole new interpretation of power in today’s world.
