The Cailleach Bheurr

Long, long ago, there lived an old woman known to all living near her and even far beyond her ken, as Cailleach Bheurr. She did not belong to this world, having oft been heard to tell any who dared to ask her, ‘’When the ocean was a forest with its firewood, I was then a young lass.’’ Well be that as it may, and sure there is none of us who have need of doubting what she said, the Cailleach Beurr somehow managed to escape the clutches of death in a way that no one else ever could.Well then, on the western side of the island where she lived in her cottage alone with just herself and her animals with whom she was often heard to converse for long periods of time, and who, or so it seemed to any who happened to be passing by, that they answered her in their own language, a language that she appeared to understand. Not far from her home there was a beautiful lake with crystal clear blue water that reflected the glory and majesty of the luminous sky that always seemed to spread itself out above it, and this lake, it is said, never was ruffled by any a nere wind or breeze passing by, so that the surface of the lake shone and glimmered like a glittering mirror that seemed always to show the face of eternity in its depths. But it is also told how every one hundred years a strange thing used to happen in these whereabouts., and the strange thing was this, that about 2 years before another century ended or began, depending on how you saw it, or perhaps better said depending on your age at the turning, the appearance of the cailleach would alter beyond recognition, so that she would grow old and grey , haggard and stooped. But while at these times she may have looked just like any other old person, yet she was different from all others, as unlike them, she had the ability to change her appearance, and turn herself back into a young girl. She did this very easily by rising early just before sunrise and before any other living creature, human or animal, had risen to greet the day, and then she walked far out into the lake of Loch Bá. And so it was that in this way she became young again, constantly renewing herself and her life every hundred years.

But on one fateful morning, around the time of the changing of the centuries, the cailleach was walking down to the shore of the lake just as the golden rays of the sun were beginning to shimmer in the east when what did she hear but the barking of a dog from far off in the distance. It was then that the cailleach knew that she was doomed, and as she felt the life force drain from her body, she called out in a loud voice

‘’It’s early the dog spoke, in advance of me,

The dog, in advance of me; the dog in advance of me.

It’s early the dog spoke, in advance of me,

In the quiet of the morning, across Loch Bá.’’

Commentary on this folk tale: [ from The Book of the Cailleach: Stories of the Wise-Woman Healer, by Gearoid O Crualaoich]

‘’Evidence of the identification of the cailleach of this story with the archaic female sovereignty personification of landscape in the Celtic, and possible pre-Celtic, ancestral, cosmological tradition can be glimpsed in the assertion…that she was alive in a predeluvian era ‘when the ocean was a forest with its firewood’. The concept of the ancestral otherworld, the sacred, cosmological domain that surrounds and underlies human experience of physical reality, as a domain located beneath water, constitutes a recurrent theme in the allusion to the otherworld at the learned and literary level of early Irish tradtion.’’

Note also that the cailleach is a hag-goddess, usually translated in contemporary times as a witch, who found cyclical renewal in sacred waters. But note also how the hag-goddess was overwhelmed by the loud noise of a barking dog, a herdsman’s dog, who barked before she could reach the life-renewing sacred waters of the lake. ‘’The landscape is now speaking with the voice of human society, and the goddesses reign which marked the pre-human and natural world, has come to an end. A momentous cosmological shift has occurred.’’

The Little Red Apple Tearoom

 

Bridgette Hoatson never knew that it was her destiny to run the Little Red Apple Tearooms on the Island of the Temple People until she came and found the cottage in the apple orchard. Her tearooms are a favourite meeting place for travellers who stop to chat about books and tell stories of their Lemurian Adventures in her Tea House. But, of course, she also offers classic apple cider and plenty of apple pie.

Make sure to check out all the Elders. There is quite a gathering, just waiting to have their stories told.

Togetherness

 If we meet somewhere in passing

Please don’t nod or wave, don’t smile,

Do not in any way acknowledge me,

Much too late now for us to be old friends.

Those shards of glass or bone you see pitted

Deep into my face are the remnants

Of what you weren’t content to fracture

But had to shatter making clear

If you were not to be my chosen one

You would make certain no one would

Choose me.

If you hear of me, or where I am

Or who I’m with, please don’t think

You have the right to contact me:

Don’t pick up a telephone in the belief

That we will have a cozy chat and reminisce,

Share intimacies, be critical, make fun

Of last night’s dinner guests drinking too much

Or telling,  yet again,  stories of baby daughters

Adolescent sons; don’t even for a second

Imagine there will ever be a time when 

I’ll forget that demonic, violent stare

And the way your eyes glared into mine

But failed to see the fear and terror

You engendered there, on that raw night;

The horror of what I saw in you

Comes back in dreams, crushes 

Every semblance of trust I long to have;

You should be overjoyed, 

You got your way;

So don’t be fretting that you’re missing out

On time with me;

Believe it,  we’re together every day.

 Jan 

Wise Women

These ladies are friends of my Great Grandmother, Judith Smith, and came to celebrate

her Golden Wedding. They certainly represent my idea of “Elders” from the past.

Sylvia Kleindinst

Welcome

So now, let it go, let it go for me;

They cannot hurt you any more than this -

And you are loved so dear – it must not be

That you cling on to bitterest memory.

In my arms now, I ask of you

Can you try to put this to one side

And think no more of past hurt and past pain,

Will you try for me?

Do not keep this grief close to you heart -

Give what you can, and take, and even more

Bring your trust here, we give our welcome free;

And bring yourself - and what you want to be.

Jan

My Four Chambered Heart

I adore Judith Duerk and this prompt from the Gatekeeper is ripening in the womb of my creativity.

The Gatekeeper gives you a small silken bag… and invites you to fill
it from your conscious woundedness, from your deepest awareness as
woman… and lastly from your joy.

~~*~~*^*^*~~*~~

 

As I read about the bags that others crafted I fell in love with EACH and every one of them… I wondered what my bag would hold. The mandala here is a series of eight women – four with their heads towards the eye of the sixth chakra and four with their heads flying off the edge of the circle. Below the heads are small circles with breasts and below those are circles that many people see as “hearts.” So this led me to reflect a bit on a practice I learned from Angie Arriens. It is about checking in with the status of my four-chambered heart.

In this tradition, we ask ourselves where is my heart full, clear, open, and strong. It begins with a question to appease the inner critic.

Is the good, true, and beautiful within me as strong as the whispers
of diminishment?

What is the condition of my four-chambered heart?

• Where am I full hearted?
• Where am I clear hearted?
• Where am I open hearted?
• Where am I strong hearted?

When I am  half-hearted, I am not giving my full abiltities to the task at hand. When I am full hearted, I bring every bit of my being to anything I do. Today, in late October, as the nights are lenghtening, I am FULL HEARTED.

When my heart is filled with ambivalence and indifference, I am unable to move. This is when I must sit still and listen for the whisper. I often rush ahead, moving much faster than the pace of guidance. Today though, I am moving at a sustainable pace – not galloping, but perhaps loping or trotting. I am of CLEAR HEART today.

I work a lot with keeping my heart undefended. I struggle to remember that every break in my heart, cracks it wide open. Every wound is just the exact wounding I need to develop my gifts of soul. I am emerging from a time of entrenchment where my heart was very defended. As a moderator of a sacred circle, I felt under attack for my visions. In time, I am removing the defenses that guarded my heart. I am also tucking my heart away into a special transparent pouch that will allow it to be worn on my sleeve and then quickly protected if necessary. Soon I hope to have no need for that protection. Today I am OPEN HEARTED. OK – mostly open hearted – all right as open hearted as I can be in this moment. <that inner critic is something else!>
Rarely do I lack for courage. I may feel fear, but am still willing to be courageous. I am often STRONG HEARTED and it scares the living daylights out of most people.

~~*~~*^*^*~~*~~

And that dear Keeper of the Gate to the Cave of Ancients is what I am carrying in my Heart Bag. I am carrying my four chambered heart.

With Em here, I must be serious

yeh, right!

I had a free half-hour at work, so

papa
…………………………………………

moreless a Fitz

MORE and LESS

The words ‘more’ and ‘less’
capture the imagination;
being relative to most anything,
but denying totality of success.

Each person is ‘more’ in some way,
and always ‘less’ in others –
if only in their own perception
or duality of nature.

This ability to rank and order
sets us apart as human;
though the necessity questionable.

MORE or LESS

This common but self-abasing
statement of accountability
is a lazy by-word of many –

MORE or LESS interested in
politics, religion,
ecology or philosophy –

but unwilling to get beyond believing
into actually doing,
or knowing,
or being …

but that is a judgment too
that you could be ‘more’,
or somehow ‘less’
than I would choose.

MORE than LESS

Self-proclaimed leaders
would have you be absolute,
unto blind obedience,
about a cause, crusade or passion …

a cultist view
of politics, religion and all,
which is always destructive –
more than less …

Consider a far gentler world in which
a statement of inclusion such as:
‘Christian’ or ‘liberal’
simply meant
MORE than LESS,
with room for growing.

MORE of LESS

‘tis said that happiness
comes from contentment with what you have
rather than pursuit of having more …

yet, those who find awe
in simple things –
even innocence,
will always have more …

and “of what” not a valid question,
but an answer –

for those who understand need no explanation,
and those who do not,
none suffice.

MORE from LESS

Pity those who embrace
the limits of their world
as defining the universe …

and weep for they who imagine more
but accept less by decree of others …

run from those who cry ‘more’
while doing little to improve themselves …

and honor those who create –
making more of everything they touch,
accepting nothing less
from living.

Homage

I want to pay homage to those who have been here before

I want to remember that a name and a title doesn’t mean that I stop growing

I want to ask those who came before

To guide me on my life journey

And help to keep me humble

To teach me all that they’ve learned

How to help those around me

How to keep going when things get rough

And most of all how to gain wisdom enough

To pass on to my children

Who will one day be Elders too

by Stacey-Ann

Sparrow Girl New Stuff

Aside from adding a Sparrowgirl cafepress shop (www.cafepress.com/sparrowgirl), I’ve written some new stories. More finalized watercolour illustrations have started replacing the placeholder sketches.

stories at www.aletta.org/sparrowweb01.shtml

Moody Mountain

Moody
Mountain

 

They call it Superstition.

Aptly named, I think.

It hides not its many moods—

Sometimes it’s dark and brooding,

sometimes red and burning,

sometimes black and angry,

sinister and dangerous.

Shadows move across it

like ancient armies in formation.

It is always there…

a fortress beyond my window.

 

I see it in the morning

as the sun creeps up behind it.

I watch its color change

throughout the day

until, at last,

with a smoldering rosy glow

it blends into the night.

 

©Vi Jones

October 13, 2006

A bouquet of elder flowers

When Heather first set up the Elder’s cave, there was some discussion about what we called ourselves. I had suggested Elder Flowers and had long wanted to make a pictorial represention of the flowers, including Faucon. I have a large collection of used postage stamps and when I found I had nearly as many stamps from this particular series as there were Elders, I knew what I would do with them. Finding just the right bouquet, however, has taken me ages. So here is my offering of a bouquet of Elder flowers. The women featured on the stamps, from very different backgrounds and for very different reasons, became famous for their contributions to Germany’s history. We all come from various backgrounds and, maybe, will contribute our bit to the art of team blogging and the creation of a community spirit.

 

Women in German history (Frauen der deutsche Geschichte) is a definitive stamp series issued in the Federal Republic of Germany and West Berlin from 1986 to 1990, and in reunited Germany since 1990.

Paula Modersohn-Becker – 1876-1907 early expressionism artist and friend of Rainer Marie Rilke

Clara Schumann – wife of composer Robert Schumann, gifted pianist and composer in her own right

Therese Giehse – realized her passion for the theatre and acting at an early age. Though her family tried to change her mind about the theater she made her way to the stage anyway. She had a very intense friendship with the famous German writer Thomas Mann and his children Erika and Klaus. Klaus later dedicated his novel “Mephisto”, which was a portrait of actor Gustav Gruendgens, to her. She also found a good friend in the writer Bertolt Brecht – she was the first actress to play his “Mother Courage”. She was Jewish and decided to leave Germany when Hitler came to power, although it is known that he greatly appreciated her acting. In her exile in Switzerland she founded a kind of cabaret with Erika Mann. After the war she returned to Germany and began a new career in films.

Cilly Aussem – German female tennis player

Hannah Arendt – German political theorist

Fanny Hensel – German pianist and composer and sister of Felix Mendelssohn

Luise Henriette van Oranien – Princess Luise Henriette von Oranien (1627–1667) experimented in Brandenburg in the fields of potato breeding, animal husbandry and horticulture .

Emma Ihrer – 1857-1911 born in Glatz in 1857 and grew up in a middle-class, religious environment. At the age of 24, she went to Berlin and was affiliated with the Socialists and the Labor Unions. In 1885, she was also a co-founder and member of the board of the “Berliner Arbeiterinnenverein,” a society, in which she advocated for the interests of female workers. This society, however, was shut down by the police in 1886. In 1891, she edited a woman’s magazine that was later published under the title “Gleichheit” (equality).

Emma Ihrer kept fighting for the women and girls of the working class, although she was penalized and also arrested for doing so.

Marie Juchacz Marie Juchacz was born into a lower class family and perceived early in life the importance of organized self-help for the working people. In 1908 she joined the SPD (Social Democratic Party) and she was a member of the Reichstag between 1919 and 1933. Her major accomplishment was the German workers welfare fund, a charity organization that she helped to establish. Today this is one of biggest non-governmental welfare groups in Germany.  She died on 28 January 1956 in Düsseldorf.

Christine Teusch 1925-33 Secretary of the Presidium of the Reichstag. In 1919 she was member of the Nationalversamlung, 1920-33 of the Reichstag for Zemtrum, 1946-66 member of the Landtag (Assembly) and 1947-54 Minister of Culture in the State of Nordrhein-Westphalen. She lived (1888-1968)

Maria Sybilla Merian 1647–1717, Swiss naturalist and painter of insects and flowers; daughter of Matthäus Merian, the elder. Her first book on insects, with plates she engraved and colored, was published in 1699. The same year she went to Dutch Guiana to study tropical insects, and her work on that subject appeared in 1705. Her remarkable painting of a Guianan bird-eating spider was ridiculed as a flight of female fancy until 1863 when an English naturalist observed a similar spider in the Amazon forest. Merian’s careful research in natural history, combined with her exquisite pictorial studies, mostly in watercolor, earned her considerable esteem. The British Museum has two volumes of her drawings.

Dorothea Erxleben – 1715-1762 – From childhood on, Dorothea Erxleben’s father, Dr. Christian Leporin, taught her and her brothers about the healing arts. However, in order to be a certified doctor, she had to study medicine, and, at that time, universities did not admit women. She defended herself against these biases with her writing, “Gründliche Untersuchung der Ursachen, die das weibliche Geschlecht vom Studieren abhalten” from 1742, and also went to the Prussian King Frederick the Great in 1741, asking that the university allowed her to study. She didn’t make use of her royal approval right away, because she got married to the deacon Johann Christian Erxleben. Despite her new household, she expanded her knowledge in the medical field through her studies and medical practicums, causing envy among her colleagues. In order to counter her colleagues’ jealousy, she decided to take her exams after the birth of her fourth child. In 1754, Erxleben successfully passed her exams at the University of Halle. She was 39 years old.

And last but not least:  

Jean Pierre Pescatore - one of the most colourful Luxemburgers of the 19^th century. Philanthropist, patron of the arts and collector of paintings as well being a passionate orchid hunter with which he filled his greenhouses at his house in Saint-Cloud, France. On his death he left his collection of paintings and sufficient capital to set up a charitable foundation (which still exists).

 Troubadour