singing the ancestors, singing the land

The small group of priests make there way to the edge of the ancient temple circle of Woodhenge. Here is out of the way, far less in the public eye and perception than its more famous but younger sibling, Stonehenge, which lies but a short distance away as the crow flies – and today there are many crows cawing, exploring, chasing off the threat of beautiful majestic buzzards. The sky is a perfect azure blue, barely a cloud to be seen, and even as the Priest turns to the east, lighting his sage smudge-stick, so does the breeze rise gently in recognition of the gathering. The Priest turns slowly to the south, uttering words of prayer and welcome, seeking acceptance for what they do, casting the circle gently yet strong and deep, an invisible barrier to the outside world – a world that shimmers and sways slightly as he continues to the west, and then back to north, before returning to the east, completing his passage, confirming the circle is complete.

A Priestess takes up the words, honouring the three worlds, each present finding their own space, rooted – balanced – on the sacred earth, between sea and sky; each looking upward to honour the high skies and the air above our heads; the endless skies of cloud and star and moon.

Another Priestess finds the spirit of ancestors long dead move through her, words flowing almost unbidden, unconsciously, through her; words forming, flowing through the air as ancestors of this ancient sacred land are honoured, as ancestors of our own blood and heritage are honoured, and those of our teachers and our guides.

Incense burns bright and strong, wafted eastwards by the breeze, as each in turn finds words to honour the sprit of air, the element of air; of communication, of clarity, of freedom, of breath and breeze and howling gale, of the hope of spreading wings to take flight. Words of spontaneity, inspired by the moment, by the now; unplanned, unrehearsed.

And then as words subside into a sacred silence, the haunting song of the harp is taken up by the fourth present; sacred beautiful inspired music; music inspired by bards of old, by bards of her own lineage and that of this land; plaintive, utterly beautiful and moving. Tears fall from the eyes of the other two Priestesses as emotions mingle with the intellectual understandings of air; air and water moving in their own sweet ways, mingling, melding, molding; music of the three noble strains intermingled, of goltrai, of gantrai, of suantrai; music enchanting those present, hypnotic and beautiful; music of such poetry and emotion.

As the music ends, so does the cool breeze rise a little, the song taken up by the wind and the harp-strings alone, nature in harmony. The group listen, entranced. The old gods are honoured in quiet gentle words, and then the Awens are sounded, loud, strong, flowing; utterly beautiful.

Drum beat rises, then accompanying harp song, the occasional – almost discordant -sound of a rattle somehow a part of the whole; and then silence. A skylark calls, the buzzard calls, the crows call. The ancestors call.  Bread and Mead are shared, gentle conversation is shared between the four and then, when all are ready the circle is uncast, intention released, the rite ended – in peace as it began in peace.

Share this:

Photo: Rainbow

Have you seen Jack-In-The-Green?
With his Beltaine cloak hanging down.
He sits quietly under every tree —
in the folds of his velvet gown.
He drinks from the empty acorn cup
the dew that dawn sweetly bestows.
And taps his staff upon the ground —
signals the snowdrops it’s time to grow.

Must be fun being Jack-In-The-Green —
So much time to dance, and for song.
He wears the colours of shimmering summer —
And carries the green flag all the winter long.
Jack, do you never sleep —
does the green still run deep in your heart?
Or will these changing times,
motorways, powerlines,
now and always keep us apart?

The rowan, the oak and the holly tree
are the charges left for you.
And we gaze, entranced, at your green canopy
In awe at such wondrous views.
Each blade of grass whispers Jack-In-The-Green.
As we stand in bright summer’s light.
And we are the berries on that rowan and holly,
The acorn on the Oak.
We are the song of the harvest thrush.
Oh, and Jack? How long to winter’s night?

Photo: Trish Jackdaw

When I walked into the Stones I felt the crackling energy of the past few days of madness which had been there and I knew as I stepped in Peace that they accepted in peace
As we watched the sunrise I felt the Stones settle and us become part of the land, melting into and accepted by the land, the birds returning cautiously to the centre.
When Jack entered the circle I felt the ecstasy of him and as I danced up to him, and stared into his eyes, I felt connection with deep dark past time, the dance being an echo of the past time, I saw that dance before, long ago many times, sacred… danced with him before, ancient ancestor, dancing the sacred dance for the fertility, health of the tribe, eternal dance. It felt so right and centred and right. The echo of our ancestors.

Rainbow

Photo: Trish Jackdaw

And it rises yes it rises and we knew it would

Apocalyptic in it’s brightness in its whiteness and Tryw’s robe it glowed in likeness.

And the mist it did surround us and the Stones leaned in and the skylark larked above us and the ancients stirred beneath and groaned as the sacred lorries droned.

The priest she is behind us and smiles a truth toward the Eastish place and keeps her frown beneath a natty red bandana and her hands in folds of green flowing cloak and whispers to her mates..
Who’s that all green of face?!

An antlered lad come leapeth forward all secrets in his purse
He weaves amongst the women
And waves his erect and mighty Stick.

There’s a girl with yellow hair where rainbows play within
Her voice is smooth and honey sweet whilst she seduces us with sticky bread and mead and meanwhile the green lad keels over dead and dies.

And Lisa! Lisa! smiles for miles across the misty plains she is delighted is delightful and the drumming it gets out of hand.
A changeling she can do the splits and loves her friends to bits and sighs at shiny things and bunnies fluffy nibble grass quite used to all the din.

© Trish Fraser 27.06.2008

Share this:

Tuesday 24 June 2008
Alban Hefin (Midsummer) Gathering

The midsummer gathering will be from 4:30am-6:30am. It is suggested that those with tickets gather from 4am in Stonehenge car park. You must bring your tickets with you as you will need to affix the car park pass to the bottom right hand corner of the windscreen in order to enter the car park. The car park must be cleared by 7am. Arrangements subject to final confirmation by English Heritage.

Tickets will be on sale to TDN members only from All Fools’ Day (1 April) and to all comers from Beltaine (1 May). Please order early to avoid disappointment!

Tickets available only in advance, price £2 each.

Please send £2 per ticket (max 6 per request), and a stamped self addressed envelope (or IRCs) to:
Sue Bouvier,
186 Swievelands Road,
Biggin Hill,
Kent TN16 3QS.
Please make cheques out to ‘The Druid Network’.

Please note that tickets will be sent to successful applicants in early June.

As the Gorsedd works on a Special Access pass, the Cor Gawr rituals are ticketed events, with a number limit of 100 people. The tickets are often sold out up to a month before the date, so do book early. There is a maximum of 6 tickets per application. We ask for £2 per person, please, to cover our admin costs. Please send stamped addressed envelope or IRCs (see below for address). If you have booked multiple tickets, please include the names of everyone you have booked tickets for in your request. Please note that tickets must be paid for in advance, and cannot be picked up at the site. They must be brought with you to the Gorsedd as they contain a pass for the car park without which you will not be admitted. Please make cheques payable to ‘The Druid Network’.

The Gorsedd of Bards of Cor Gawr

This Gorsedd was inaugurated in the late 1990s.It was made possible by the strenuous efforts of several individuals and Druid orders who had a passionate idea that serious Druid ritual could once more be possible at Stonehenge. As a result of years of hard work and negotiation, an access committee was set up which has helped to facilitate both managed open access for the Summer Solstice, as well as smaller gatherings at other times. The Gorsedd has been celebrating for several years, and continues to hold ritual within the stones at Midsummer and Midwinter.

The gatherings at Cor Gawr are made up by people from all walks of life both within and outside of our tradition. They come from all across the British Isles as well as from Europe and beyond. Many of these folks come back year after year to celebrate our native tradition, also bringing with them their own words and offerings to enrich the experience for all.

At each gathering there is always the opportunity to step forward for a Bardic Initiation. This iis is a very simple, but powerful rite in which a person can make a personal dedication to the ways of the Bard in whichever form they feel drawn, be it poetry, art, music, storytelling, or a whole host of other creative talents which can be used to further themselves and the community at large.

The two gatherings are very different, since we meet for the sunrise at Midsummer and celebrate the light and growth and potency that it brings. Whereas, at Midwinter we gather at sundown to slip into the black cold of the winter night and reflect on the year that has passed and to learn from our experience and carry new ideas through the depth of winter in the knowledge that they may bear fruit in the next year.

The rites generally last for about two hours, and begin with honouring the ancestors and spirits of place and the four directions. Time is made for the particular significance of each gathering, and prayers can be made, as well as offerings. The ritual is designed in such a way that you may engage with some, part, or all of it depending on what it is that brought you to it and hence your purpose for being there. The Gorsedd ends with the sharing of bread and mead during which there is an opportunity to share stories, songs or dance.

The Gorsedd is open to all. Though, in agreement with English Heritage, we need to keep the number to around 100 people due to health and safety. In order to achieve this, we issue tickets. The cost of a ticket covers our administration, and any monies left are put in to the Druid Network tree planting fund.

Because the Access Committee has now allowed for the temple to be completely open overnight and for the dawn of the Summer Solstice, the Gorsedd of Cor Gawr, meeting closer to the traditional date of Midsummer (usually 24 June), offers members of the Druid and Pagan community an opportunity for focused ritual, meditation and celebration with a smaller group. From December 2005, the rites will be led by Christine Cleere (Vixen), together with a small group of supporting priests. For more information about the Gorsedd rites you can contact Christine here.

For more information about the Stonehenge Solstice Open Access contact Kestrel (Angela Grant).

Specific dates for these rites, around Midwinter and Midsummer, are posted on the Cor Gawr page provisional dates are:

Please note that all events are subject to cancellation or change at the last minute due to damage or disturbance. The Gorsedd works on a Special Access pass and so the Cor Gawr rituals are ticketed events, with a number limit of 100 people. Please visit http://druidnetwork.org/en/sacredsites/stonehenge/corgawr/index.html for more details and for the latest ticketing information.

Share this:

Imbolc is just a few days away and as it seems to do every year at this time, the weather has turned dramatically windy and stormy. As I write this gales batter my home on the south coast of England, with gusts of 70mph forecast and the threat of ’structural damage’ being broadcast across the media. When I hear these warnings I always wonder what I should do, since it seems impossible for me to move my home and ’structures’ to less threatened parts of the country. It gives me a small insight into how folk must feel when there is an imminent flood warning issued which affects where you lie. Yes, we can remove precious objects from the immediate area, perhaps move furniture upstairs and so forth; but then after that? We have to sit and wait for the powers of nature to take their course. No amount of money can ever fully control these elemental forces, some of which we have unleashed with our incessant demands for more power… (double meaning intended).

Imbolc has always seemed the most challenging and difficult time of year to me, and our Grove rites always seem to have reflected that. From our first ever gathering on a soaking, drenching wet and windy morning in Bernwood, when everything and everybody got utterly soaked – and when I received a pre-dawn phone call from an individual who would have been coming along to join us for the first time asking if we were going to ‘postpone’ the rite because it was a bit wet – through to the present day, Imbolc has always presented unique challenges. This year seems no different, and so I often think about how the goddess Brighid is perceived by others, and how their relationship has developed.

As with many pagan deities our perceptions seem shaped not so much by personal relationship and connection, but more by the writings of others; and so a modern ‘mythology’ develops and shapes perceptions. Brighid is often seen as a kind and gentle guiding protecting goddess – and this she can be. But for me she does not offer that protection simply or easily. What makes her even more elusive is that she is so entwined with the Christian Saint of the same name, and to attempt to disentangle the two in a scholarly sense seems an impossible and fruitless task.

Some interesting writings on Brighid can be found at http://www.maryjones.us/jce/brigit.html. In particular her possible connections with the Welsh boar Twrch Trywth seems of significance – at least to me! And her ‘invention’ of keening seems to bely her gentle and controlled image:

According to Lebor Gabala Erenn, “{w}ith them were, and were heard, the three demoniac shouts after rapine in Ireland, whistling and weeping and lamentation.” This is reminicent of the tradition that Brigit was the inventor of keening:

“Bríg came and keened for her son. At first she shrieked, in the end she wept. Then for the first time weeping and shrieking were heard in Ireland. (Now she is the Bríg who invented a whistle for signalling at night.)”

–The Second Battle of Magh Turedh

                             from Jones Celtic Encyclopaedia 

For this writer she is much more than this gentle goddess of hearth and home, and I wrote these words at Imbolc a few years ago that seem to sum up how she appears for me:

You seek comfort of my arms?
You seek the nourishment of my mother’s milk?
The reassurance and protection of my guiding light?
And yet,
and yet….
I am no Christian Saint, gentle and kind,
Overflowing with love and tenderness.
I am old beyond time,
Older than you can know.
I am the challenge of springtime,
Bare branches outlined against a low grey sky.
I am the chill biting winds of spring, clawing,
Drawing rich red blood from your cheek.
I am the frozen earth beneath your feet,
Daring new shoots to challenge the cold
I am the pain of childbirth, searing through your body,
Screaming in anguish and praying for release.
I am the inspiration of poets,
The muse who dares take you beyond all you know.
I am the promise of hearth and home,
Of warmth and comfort, if it is to be found.
I am the flame that never dies,
That may turn you to ash in searing pain.
I am the forge that transforms your soul,
Tempering you into what you can be.
I am Brighid, triple inspiration;
Healing – for those who feel me.
Creativity – for those who hear me..
Transformation – for those who know me!
Do you know me?
Dare you know me?
…… Dare you?

After the storms there is, it seems, to be a brief respite, before they return on Sunday and through next week.

del.icio.us Tags: weather,brighid,imbolc

Share this:

At around 3:20 yesterday afternoon the sky became a dark morass of clouds and rain fell like a torrent from an unseen waterfall high over my head. At the time I had just set up the altar for the rite of passing I was about to hold for the dear friend who died a few weeks before. The chalice of water had been placed upon the altar cloth and the incense prepared, along with an apple for his onward journey, a small stone and, of course, the mead. Decorated with Oak and Hawthorn and dark blackberry bearing Briar, I hoped it was a fitting tribute to the person I had come to know and like so much, and that the family and guests would approve of the rite that I had prepared for him, working with his wife and two daughters.

It felt as if he was having his last tease, as full of mischief as ever, though later a playful breeze seemed to increase in strength every time I attempted to light the replaced and dry again incense. I could see his eyes twinkling as he drenched me under the Oak beside which his body was to be placed.

As I became soaked I looked up to the cloud laden sky that had been so clear just a few minutes before and laughed with him, and in what seemed but a few moments the sky changed to an unbroken blue again, a gentle warming breeze rose up and the sun shone. The rite itself was conducted in warm sunshine and seemed a beautiful and poignant send off for someone who I had been honoured to know, more honoured to have ask me to conduct his rite of passing and, as the words of those remembering him flowed, became even more honoured to have been present at his passing. It would be inappropriate of me to reveal too many details, but he was, as I was now discovering, a truly remarkable man who had lived a life full of beauty and tragedy but who never ever lost his will to make things better for others, to celebrate the things he felt important and who, right to the end of his life, never let up the fight for environmental action. He was an accomplished historian and an excellent musician; though I knew he played the flute he was so modest of his abilities that it should have been no surprise to learn he was more than skilled on that instrument as well as the violin and piano. That he had found his Druidry so late in his life was, I think, something that allowed him to reconcile his search for spiritual certainty with his ethics and outlook on life.

Journey well Philip. I bid you ‘Hail and farewell!’, for now.

Share this: