Amazon.com Widgets
Currently viewing the tag: "Brighid"

A Daily Practice Matters

Written By on

This morning we slept in until 7:30. That may not seem incredibly early to some (it isn’t all that early for my husband and I), but it’s a vacation compared to the day of surgery and the first day of recovery.

We woke to discover that my kid was experiencing some sharp pain, a common experience after top surgery. My husband and my kid’s mom stepped into action, assessing where the pain was and how it rated on a scale from 1 to 10. They administered a bit more pain medication, and then called the hospital to speak with a nurse.

Meanwhile, I started to feel myself getting tense.

I came into the living room of our extended-stay hotel room, where my husband and I sleep (pullout beds are an assault to one’s back, so we’ve resorted to pulling the 4 inch mattress onto the floor). I sat on the couch and thought of my shrine. I miss my home, more so even than on normal business trips. I miss the accessories of my daily practice, the smell of my incense, and the sanctity of my space.

I clutched the small pouch I wear around my neck. Inside is a piece of wood which was collected at the place where Isaac Bonewits’s ashes were spread, a gift to me from a big-hearted ADF Druid. On the outside is Brighid’s cross.

I held this little pouch and thought about my patron and about Isaac, and I prayed. I prayed that my kid would be spared the pain, that the Goddess would be near, and that She would provide a sense of peace. I didn’t have much time to pray, or to do any sort of elaborate ritual, but neither were necessary.

You can open the heart with just a few simple words.

Why a daily practice matters

It becomes clear in moments of great stress why a consistent daily practice is so important.

When I’m home, I do ritual every morning. My ritual, as I’ve written about before, is built around an ADF liturgy. There are short forms of this liturgy and very long forms. But the length or structure of one’s personal liturgy isn’t as important (in my opinion) as is the ease with which that the liturgy can become internalized.

My daily practice has carved a groove deep into my consciousness. It has created an awareness of the presence of the Kindred — the Divine as I recognize Them — that I can call upon in a moment’s notice. I may not engage in the same sort of ritual working, but I can connect with Them nonetheless.

And that is why a daily practice matters.

Allowing my practice to be rooted in liturgical language is useful to me because it provides me with phrases that can be memorized and called upon when needed. My liturgical phrases are cues for the heart to soften, for the mind to quicken, or for the body to release whatever tension it’s been holding.

For example, when I light Brighid’s candle at home I say or speak internally these words:

“From land to land, from hand to hand, from flame to flame.”

This reminds me that the fire in my little Zippo lighter was given to be from a Druid who visited Kildare, and who brought back with her the flame of the Goddess. Using those words gives me a sense of connection to both my tradition and to a sacred place.

When I extinguish the flame I say,

“The fire of Brighid is the flame in my heart.”

This reminds me that, although the external fire may go out, the internal fire remains.

By speaking these words daily, I’m able to create a deep, meaningful practice. Then, when I’m sitting in some drab room in a corporate hotel, I can recall those words, say them under my breath or in my mind, and remember that feeling of reverence and sanctity.

It helps.

The Fire Burns On

After a few phone calls, we learned that the pain is normal, and that there’s nothing to worry about. The morning went on as planned, with the kid reclining in bed and the rest of us trying to keep on top of our other responsibilities.

But there was a fire burning in my heart again. All it took was a few words to remind me of that.

Do you have simple phrases that connect you to a regular practice? Is your tradition liturgical, or do you incorporate some kind of steady ritual language or form into your daily practice?

What words come to you in moments of worry?

[After you’ve posted your comment, be sure to check out the new feature on Bishop In The Grove — Letters!]

WARNING: Call on a God, and He just might show up.

Written By on

Overlooking El Matador beach

I drove an hour to Malibu for my Spring Equinox ritual. The location was a secluded, public beach called “El Matador.” The site opened at 8, and I arrived just a few minutes after the top of the hour.

I followed the dirt trail down the edge of the cliff side, wearing jeans and work boots and too many layers. I’d overdressed, fearing that the ocean would bring a chill to my skin, but the sun was already up and it was plenty warm.

 

Once at the bottom, I started searching out a spot for my ritual. There were several coves and nooks that traced the edge of the beach, and I wanted to make sure I was far enough from the path that I’d have some privacy. I wasn’t exactly certain how this was going to go, and I didn’t want an audience.

 

I climbed over and around a few large crags, timing my stride with the crashing of the tide. I waited until it moved back, and then ran to the next high clearing. The sand was saturated and sinking, and it swallowed my boots with every step.

I came upon a clearing. This would be where I performed my first solo, High Day ritual.

My offerings, my boots, and my army bag

I brought with me a loaf of locally baked wheat bread and a bottle of locally brewed beer as my offerings. Something about bringing offerings made in the area felt right. I carried the beer and bread in my hunter green backpack, along with my tarot cards, my travel altar, and my two Pagan prayer books. I didn’t know if I’d use the books, but it seemed like I should have them nearby in the event that I needed to find words to speak.

I set down my bag, took out the bread and the beer, and began to take off my clothes. I’d leave on my jeans, but nothing else. I removed all of the ritual items from my backpack and laid them on dry reeds.

I tried to twist off the beer top, but it wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t the kind, and I had no opener with me. I put the edge of my key along the bottle cap and tried to pry it open, but it slipped and my finger dragged across the sharp lip, slicing two small gashes near my knuckle. I sucked off the blood and continued to try to open the beer by dragging the bottle top along the edge of the rocks, being careful not to break the glass. It budged a little; enough to allow a trickle of alcohol to pour out.

That would have to do.

I set my ritual items at what seemed like a good distance away from the water, placed my new hand-made stole over my naked shoulders, and walked barefoot towards the sea.

I lifted my hands and began.

The ocean crashed louder.

I thanked and praised the Earth Mother, and I found that the words came fast and easy. There is something qualitatively different about outdoor ritual, especially in the moments where you acknowledge the power of the land. I noticed this right away.

I called on my Gatekeeper, Arawn. I invited the Kindred: first the Nature Spirits (which needed no invitation, really), then the Ancestors, then the Shining Ones. I called upon Brighid, for I have a deep connection with her, and it seemed right that I praise her. I’d never before made offerings to a God that I didn’t already have some sort of relationship with. That is…until the next moment.

I called on Manannán mac Lir.

Then, things changed.

I spoke of the greatness of the ocean, of the power and strength of the water, and I gave him praise. I said that I had offerings of beer that I would give to him, and I turned to retrieve the bottle. Once I had it in my hand, I knelt down and began to allow a trickle of alcohol to pour onto the sand. Just then, the tide rushed in — a good twenty feet higher than it had at any moment prior — and pushed me off-balance! The water rushed up towards my tiny, portable altar and consumed it, putting out my little candle and filling my tin with sand. I laughed out loud, amazed at what had happened, and rushed to grab my belongings before the water swept them away.

It took me a moment to recompose myself. I felt small, and slightly shaken. Keeping the form of my ritual, I turned over three cards to get a message or omen from the Kindred, and the cards were sobering. They affirmed my feeling that I did not realize how very real all of this was.

I felt humbled in that moment.

I gave thanks to Manannán, Brighid, and the Kindred, called on Arawn to close the gates, gave thanks to the Earth Mother, and was finished. I staggered back to my wet pile of possessions, gathered them up, and began the journey back to the beginning.

My Equinox ritual was not a heady experience. In fact, I’m not even sure what to think about it. I encountered something much greater than I’d imagined. I can only describe this feeling as a visceral reverence.

It is a new season, indeed.

Have you ever had a ritual experience that shook you to the core; one that took you out of your head and brought you into deeper communion with the world around you? If so, how did it change you? Did it affect the way you think about yourself, about the mysteries of the universe, about the nature of the Gods?

The Action of Worship

Written By on

My religion is experienced in the doing.

This became clear to me as I entered the sacred space of our ADF ritual at Pantheacon, lifted my voice to invoke the spirit of Inspiration, and, for a moment, left my mind behind.

When I stepped in front of the altar and began to sing, I was performing a religious and magickal act. It was spontaneous and improvisational, and it originated from within my heart. It was the purest offering I could make.

In that moment, I was not thinking about what it meant to be a Druid. I was not weighing the strengths and weaknesses of the various Druid traditions, or squabbling over the definition of a word or title. No – I was invoking. I was calling down, stirring up, igniting the fire of inspiration in my own heart and in the hearts of all those present.

There was nothing intellectual about it.

“Worship requires action – it is not an intellectual task.”

These words came from Jean “Drum” Pagano, a man I met during my weekend in San Jose. Drum has been involved with ADF since the earliest days, and he serves in various leadership positions within the organization. Drum’s voice, in the few conversations we had in person and through his written word, resonates deeply with me.

Have you ever met someone and felt instantly as though you understood something about them, as though something inside them was very similar to something inside you?

That’s how it felt when I met Drum.

Drum says that worship requires action, and I heard that very message echoed by other Pagan leaders during the conference. So much of what we do in our day-to-day lives is mind work. We blog about our ideas, we argue about our differences, we share memes on Facebook ad nauseam (which, in my opinion, is very low mind work), and we allow this to consume great portions of our day.

What happens, then, when we spend our lives in our mind, on our screens, and even in the pages of our books, but we do not practice the action of worship?

It is no surprise that during November and December of last year, a time when I felt most conflicted about my religious path, that my altar was a wasteland; vacant, and unused. I did not approach it because I was uncertain if I believed in the words that I was saying each morning. I thought about it, and thought about it, and when I couldn’t decide how to think about it, I did nothing.

(If you were reading my blog during that time, you might remember a change in my tone. If you weren’t, you’ll find evidence of the change in the Archives.)

The result of my lack of doing was a period of spiritual stasis. In the absence of regular worship I became a bit more cynical, a little jaded even, and there was no sign of the fire in my heart which I speak of so often. I sing from this fire. I write from this fire. I make love from this fire. Worship keeps the fire burning, even as worship is an extension of this fire.

But then, after I became tired of the cold, dim reality of a life without reverence, I began my daily practice again. When I did, something changed.

I lit a candle, prepared a chalice of water, and laid out a wand made of wood. I gave thanks to the Mother. I called upon the God who had aided me before in the creation of sacred space, and was happy to discover that I could feel His presence again. I made offerings to the Gods and Goddesses, known and unknown, to the Ancestors, and to the Spirits of the Land. I lit a fire for Brighid, and gave thanks to Her. I did all of these things, stumbling from time to time, but reverent as I could muster, and my consciousness began to shift back toward the fire.

Worship requires action. You cannot think yourself into a state of transpersonal awareness. You must do something.

I wonder (more of an imaginative act than an intellection one) if you’ve experienced something similar. Have you been through periods when you thought more than you felt? And, if so, did that throw you off? Perhaps you have a different relationship to the intellect altogether. Perhaps it is a starting point for your experience of worship.

I always love to know what my readers think, but this time I’m going ask:

What do you do?

I Keep Vigil to the Fire: Imbolc Poetry for a Goddess

Written By on

Today, pious Pagans around the globe are posting poetry online in honor of the Goddess, Brighid (otherwise known as Brigid, Brigit, or simply, “exalted one”).

I join them here on Bishop In The Grove.

Imbolc, as I wrote about yesterday, may have milky origins, but the day and the season speak to something much deeper than a single agricultural marker can convey. On Imbolc, we recognize the primal fire within us, and when we speak from that place with a clear, honest voice, beautiful transformation can occur.

Poetry is born. It is our gift from the Goddess, and it, in turn, is our gift to the Goddess. Poetry creates change. It is alchemical. It is magick, in the traditional sense. But, it is also available to each of us, regardless of our training, our initiations, or identifiers. We need not be professional poets to be poets. We can be poets simply by speaking truly of what we know, of what we feel, and of what passions move us to act, or be still.

We are poets because we each have words on our tongues, in our hearts, and on our flesh. When we release these words into our bloodstream, through our sweat, into the air and onto the page, we participate in the re-enchantment of the world.

So, I share this poem with you. It came to me in the darkness of the night, and I pray that it be a light in honor of the Goddess, Brighid. It is my offering.

Vigil

I keep vigil
to the fire
in my heart.

I keep vigil
down the sidewalk,
through the door,
between the empty lines
of chit-chat talk on
threaded screens,
in middle days
of winter nights,
where no one sees
except the Bride
for whom the flame is lit.

I keep vigil
to the fire
in my heart.

 

Please share with me in keeping vigil. Copy the three lines:

I keep vigil
to the fire
in my heart.

Post them into the comment box below, and then paint a portrait of how you keep vigil to the fire. Where does it find you, and in what situations do you seek it? Let the words rise into your consciousness like incense on the altar, and then let the poem tell the story. Once you feel like you’ve described your experience of this personal, internal vigil to the Sacred Fire, copy those three lines again, closing out the poem.

Share with us your inspiration here on Bishop In The Grove as an offering to Brighid, and then share this post with anyone who might be touched by this intentional movement of inspiration.

We keep the fire lit, and we share the fire. The fire is out birthright, our inheritance, and the fire will prepare us for our collective rebirth.

Many thanks to T. Thorn Coyle and the creators of the 7th Annual Brigid Poetry Festival for the inspiration to write this poem and encourage the creation of devotional poetry. Please visit the Festival’s Facebook page and share with them your inspired creation!

Blessings be to you.

The Lactating Ewes of Imbolc

Written By on

I don’t know much about cows.

Or sheep.

Lollie-Pop from Cape Town, South Africa

By "Lollie-Pop" on Wikimedia

 

I know that cows tip (not from personal experience, though). I know that sheep are cute, and I love their hair. I was just working with some last night.

I also, on occasion, like to eat a bit of both.

I’m a city boy, born and bred. I don’t really pattern my day-to-day life around the ways of farm animals. A few of my more hipster friends are keeping bees and chickens. They have a different relationship to animals than I do, because they care for them. But me? I have 3 dogs and a teenager (who is a bit of a farm animal), but they all fall into the same patterns of city life as do my husband and I.

And yet somehow I find myself — an urbanite, a man with no direct connection to the ways of the farm — pondering the significance of a lactating ewe.

Thank you, Paganism.

Imbolc is upon us. Some have already celebrated the holiday, and many Pagans across the land are making preparations for their grove gatherings, their circle circlings, and their solitary rituals. For some, Imbolc is celebrated with the same fervor and devotion that many reserve for Yule. All eight are equal, right? But for others, Imbolc is somewhat of an obscure spoke on the Wheel of the Year, and I think that may have something to do with the whole livestock thing.

It is said that for the ancient Celts, Imbolc (Óimelc in Middle Irish or Ouimelko in Old Irish) was celebrated when the ewes began to produce milk…or something to that effect. Their lactation was a sign of new life returning to the world. Google “imbolc, cows, sheep” and you can preview a number of sites which will tell you some variation of that story, and I’ve got a half a dozen books on my shelf that say as much.

While I feel a kind of Pagan obligation to accept the lactation of ewes in ancient Celtic culture as deeply relevant, I’m having a little difficulty doing so. I live in a culture that has put a concrete chasm between the pasture and the dinner table, and I participate in that culture. I’m very much a part of it. I’m not growing my own food, or keeping sheep, or doing anything remotely agricultural.

Should I be, though? I mean, as a Pagan, should I be taking steps in that direction?

Sometimes I think the greatest gift that Neopagan traditions offer modern city dwellers, like myself, is a blueprint for what life was like before the Industrial Age so that we (or our descendants) might be better prepared for what life will be like after our industries, grids and interwebs have all come apart. It’s a little Thunderdome–y, I know, but it may not be that far off from the truth.

Our way of life — MY way of life — is not sustainable. Not for generations, at least, and arguably not even for the duration of my lifetime. I consume more than my fair share, globally speaking. Most Americans do. Even Pagans.

It is conceivable that in two or three generations time, all of the conveniences that we enjoy now — the readily available food, power, and imported resources — will be little more than a page from the history books… presuming we still have books.

My beekeeping friends, along with their pickle canning counterparts in Brooklyn, the rooftop gardeners in Chicago, and the urban homesteaders in warehouses across the country may have a leg up on the rest of us. They’re preparing themselves for a time when there will be no Safeways, Krogers, King Soopers, or Wal-Marts. They’re reconnecting with the rhythms of life in a way that Pagans, like myself, sometimes only talk about.

(I feel like I’m having some sort of reckoning here.)

Imbolc is as a fire celebration, and fire is much easier for me to wrap my mind around. Fire represents inspiration to me, and passion. I honor Brighid every time I approach my altar, and this is Her holiday; Her fire.

Perhaps, though, there can be a connection between the fire of inspiration — the fire of new ideas, new patterns, new creation — and this inquiry into my food, my lifestyle, and how those things intersect with being a Pagan in the modern world. Perhaps on this Imbolc, Brighid will ignite some fire in me that will illuminate ways in which I can better align myself with the rhythms of the earth. Perhaps I will see in the mind of my heart some memory of a simpler time; an ancient world that my spirit belonged to, and still belongs to. Perhaps when that happens I will think of the ewe, and the newborn sheep, and I will see in them something true about the world, about myself, and about the Great Mystery to which we all belong.

That would be something.

Until then, I’m going to go knit my wool shawl and think about what to make for lunch.

I Think I Saw A Goddess

Written By on

From Ian Corrigan’s blog, Into the Mound:

1: The Cosmos is holographic – the whole is repeated within the parts. Especially, the human microcosm reflects the macrocosm.

2: The Gods exist in the macrocosm.

3: Therefor, their reflections exist in each individual human microcosm. These reflections are what Jung perceived as the ‘archetypes’.

4: Thus, when we invoke the Gods, and they draw near to us, their reflection draws near to our conscious awareness. Often it is only these internal daemons of the Gods that we actually perceive in our invocations, and that can be sufficient. The Gods act as and in those reflections just as they do as and through an idol of gold. Sometimes we are able to expand our awareness outside of our microcosmic bubble, and perceive the God more directly… Those are the big events…

 

Eyes closed, offerings made and a candle was lit for Brighid. My breath grew long and slow. The blackness of my mind became illuminated with color, and image. Before me was a green pasture stretching out towards the other edge of darkness. In front of me stood a large tree, next to which was a stone well (not unlike the one I’d seen at the holy site in County Kildare). Between these two sat a third.

She was radiant, and soft. She sat on the ground, and there was food in front of her. Her hair was golden, and he face pale. She emanated light.

I approached her and sat down. I could not see the details of her face, but I sensed that if I could I would see a gentle smile. She seemed at once very young and unfathomably old. She was beautiful.

I stayed only for a moment, and then I stood and backed away in the direction that I’d come. She maintained her focus on me until it all dissolved into the blackness again.

 

I gazed on this scene for only a moment, but what I saw, however brief, was unique to my experiences in meditation. There seemed to be an interaction between my imagination (a key component in meditative work) and something else; something other. It did not make me tremble, as did my first interaction with Arawn. Instead, it brought a feeling of peace and tranquility.

I take it as a blessing.

 

Praise be to the Bright One, who is, Herself, the Fire! She rests beside the Tree and the Well, and her radiance is a blessing to behold!


The Kindred Speak Through the Tarot

Written By on

I don’t normally share the details of my daily meditation outside of one of my weekly recaps. But today, in light of the power and poignancy of the experience I just had, I’m making an exception.

I started the devotional with the Two Powers meditation. I was a tree, the greatest tree ever to stand, and I pulled the water from the ground, through my roots, into my being. I felt the sun above me, and I felt the heat pour into me. The two powers mixed in the middle, and my tree-body tingled. I was ready to begin.

Each day when I approach my altar, I call out to Arawn, Welsh god of the Underworld, and ask him to join his magic with mine. With our magic joined, I ask for him to: take the candle flame and transform it, that it may become the Sacred Fire, the gateway to the Heavens; take the chalice of water and transform it, that it may become the Sacred Well, the gateway to the Otherworld; take the wand made of wood and transform it, that it may become the Sacred, World tree, connecting the Heavens and the Otherworld, standing as a gateway in the Middle Earth.

Once the gates are opened, I make my offerings to the Kindred. Typically, those are olive oil for the Shining Ones, oats for the Ancestors, & sugar for the Nature Spirits. Then, with a special candle lit, I offer up my heart to Brighid as a living sacrifice of my praise & thanksgiving, my respect and honor, my love and worship. I save her offering for last.

For a while now I’ve been heading straight to my tarot table after all of my offerings are made. Today, though, I did something different. I stood before my altar, still very much in the same space I’d been in during offerings, and I spoke out loud a request to the Kindred. I asked for their assistance as I shuffled the cards. I asked that they provide me guidance and direction, a clear point of focus, an Omen. Usually, I’d ask this after I sat down at my table, and I’d have to re-center before I did it. Today I never lost that center. My request came directly after offerings were made, and I think that may have had an impact on what happened next.

I shuffled the cards, just as I explained in the recap of Weeks 5 & 6, and I cut the three times. Then, it happened:

Two of Swords   |   Two of Cups   |   Two of Pentacles

Three 2’s!?

Somehow I knew after the second 2 that I would pull the third. Three 2’s. This is not ordinary. And, I’ve been pulling some of the same cards in every spread lately, which I take as a sign to me of one or more themes running constant through my life. But none of those cards weren’t present today. Today I was shown a different kind of message.

I read 2’s as cards representing choice. Interestingly, the only 2 not represented in this spread is the 2 of Wands, a suit most closely associated with Will, or making choices. There was no clear choice to be made; there was only the message given that I am moving into a climate of choice, and that I need to remain aware and alert.

I must be willing to suspend my intellect and trust my intuition (2 of Swords). I must remember that I have already chosen to be in the relationships I’m in, and now it is a matter of the heart whether or not I choose to experience the positive or negative aspects of those relationships (2 of Cups). I must maintain my balance, be clever and cunning, and – even as I stand amidst a raging storm – be light on my feet (2 of Pentacles).

This Omen was a true blessings from the Kindred. I just had to share it.

My Heart Is Your Hearth: Imbolc 2011

Written By on

My heart is your hearth.

– A prayer offered to Brighid during my morning devotional

I began preparing for Imbolc long before the first snow. I knew Winter would be a season of great creative work for me, and I decided that the way I would make it through that work successfully was to consider all of it one big offering to Brighid. I would lift the work up in her honor, and remember her fire as I made my way through the ups and downs of the creative process.

My music would be my offering at Imbolc.

On the evening of February 2nd, I attended an Imbolc ritual at the Jefferson Unitarian Universalist Church in Golden, Colorado, performed in traditional ADF style by Tony and Jorja from the Golden Branch Silver Horn Grove. The ritual itself was simple, but very pleasant. The environment was beautiful, and while this wasn’t an “official” ADF gathering (the UU’s are open to people of all traditions, including Pagans), I was glad that the rite was in a format I was familiar with.

There were two altars. On the larger of the two sat a statue of Brighid, in triple-goddess form, surrounded by yellow candles, in front of which was a large bowl for liquid offerings and a plate for dry offerings. The smaller altar was a place where attendants could leave items to be blessed, like their jewelry or tools. I brough several items, including two writing tools, a few musical tools, a wall plaque of Brighid and a Brighid’s cross I wear around my neck.

We were led through a basic mediation, which was designed to bring to our awareness the first moment of realization that Spring is on its way. The second was the Two Powers meditation, and this was the first time that I’d ever been led through it by someone else. If I could have changed anything about the meditation, I would have chosen to spend more time in the moment where the Two Powers meet. That is, to me, where the true magic comes from.

Once Manannan Mac Lir was called and the Gates opened, offerings were made to the Kindred. Then, we were invited to make our offering to Brighid. Interestingly, I found myself a little nervous at this point. I’d brought a small vial of oil to give as a public offering, but I knew that my true offering was something I couldn’t place in a bowl or on a dish. I hadn’t figured out how I would express what I’d done in this public setting.

So, I approached the altar and poured the oil into the ritual bowl. I closed my eyes and lifted up my heart to Brighid, as I have done every morning since I began my creative project. Then, I walked back to my chair, hoping that this public expression would be sufficient; that my private work would be pleasing to Her, and that She would understand all of what I had done in honor of Her. I completed my creative project by Imbolc, and offered it to Her and to the world during my trip to Los Angeles, just as I said I would do.

Imbolc is a High Day where we acknowledge and honor Brighid, yes. But, I think it is also an opportunity to acknowledge and honor all of the qualities which She represents in us. By being creative, by forging transformation in our personal or professional life, by deepening our sense of belonging in the world, we honor Brighid. We embody Her in our lives.

That may be the most meaningful offering we can make.