Saturday, 21 December 2013

The White Flame

Winter is harsh and difficult. Not for nothing did the Romans call their Winter Solstice festival, “Saturnalia,” ruled by Saturn, the planet which has a reputation of being a hard task-master.  While its polar opposite, Jupiter, teaches by supporting us, giving us a hand-up, opening doors, Saturn teaches by removing supports and throwing us back on our own resources. It’s easy to be positive relaxing on a sunny beach in July – but who are we when the temperature drops below freezing, the snowy fields are bare, and icy roads make even going for a walk a dangerous proposition?  Like the naked trees outside my window, stripped of their summer glory, we too are laid bare at this season of death, with only our inner resources to sustain us through the nights of darkness.

This year, in particular, many people are finding it hard to cling on to hope in the face of so many global crises, including economic downturns which have led to the loss of jobs and even homes, the failure of climate change talks and the accelerating extinction of species, not to mention the news that leaders of many nations throughout the world have been exposed as weak and self-serving at best, and dishonest and corrupt at worst.

So it is that at the Winter Solstice we look for stories that remind us that, in this world of opposites, the seed of Light is always born in the darkest hour. It was for this reason that the birth date of Jesus Christ, originally set in the springtime, was changed to late December by the Roman church in order to bring it in line with the age-old pagan myths about the return of the Sun after the longest night of the year.

A story that I have always loved is told about the late English novelist and playwright, J.B. Priestley, who had a vision in the form of a lucid dream in which he was fully conscious. He found himself looking down from a high tower beneath which a vast flock of birds were migrating. As he looked on, time appeared to accelerate as if he were part of a movie that had mysteriously sped up. In front of his eyes generations of birds of every known species grew frail and died, to be replaced in a great aerial stream by newborn fledglings who also grew older and died within what seemed like seconds. Priestley was overcome with sadness to see each life pass by without apparent purpose. At this point he thought that it might be better if all living creatures, including ourselves, could be spared this apparently futile struggle. As if in answer to this thought, time moved up another gear causing the birds to rush past in a blur, and within this vast carpet of feathers he noticed a white flame leaping from body to body. He understood this to be the flame of life itself. ‘What I had thought was tragedy,’ he later wrote, ‘was mere emptiness or a shadow show . . . I have never felt before such deep happiness as I knew at the time of my dream of the tower and the birds.'

Priestley’s vision reminds us of the infinite and imperishable creative power of life that underlies the constantly-changing world of appearances in which we live. However storm-tossed we may be on the ocean of life, all things pass and change, while beneath it all, the white flame continues to burn through all eternity.

This Winter Solstice light a candle, and as the flame blossoms into life, attune yourself to the undying White Flame. Feel an answering flame spring into life within the centre of your body. Let it glow and grow to fill your body, encompass your home and family, and send it to all those who struggle in the darkness. Remember that you yourself are a spark of the One Radiant Light that shines through all the worlds, and that you can call upon this Light to illumine all your days and nights and inspire you to be part of the healing of our planet.

Sunday, 27 October 2013

Melangell and the Hares

In the deep fastnesses of the Berwyn Mountains stands a small church surrounded by ancient yews more than 2000 years old. It is dedicated to the Celtic holy woman, Melangell, who came there in the sixth century. Legend tells how a prince named Brochwel was out hunting in the forest when his hounds started a hare. The terrified creature ran as fast as the wind and sought refuge in a bramble thicket. The prince galloped after the eager pack, urging them to move in for the kill, but was astonished to find them backing away, their tails between their legs. The more he shouted, the more the dogs fled howling in fear.

© MOMA, Wales

Brochwel rode up to the thicket, and there he saw a beautiful maiden, deep in divine contemplation. The hare was crouched under the hem of her cloak, its wide amber eyes boldly facing down the dogs. The astonished prince asked the young woman how long she had dwelt alone in so remote a spot; she replied that in fifteen years she had never seen the face of man. She gave her name as Melangell, the daughter of an Irish king who wanted her to marry an old chieftain. Swift as a hare she fled to Wales to preserve her virginity and live a holy life in the wilderness of the Tanat valley. The prince was so moved by her story that he gave her this part of his lands to be a sanctuary forever.  Hares were given her special protection and it was forbidden to hunt them. From that time forth they accompanied her everywhere she went, and became known as "Melangell's lambs."

Melangell's reputation for holiness grew, and pilgrims from all over Wales made the dangerous journey over boggy moorland and through treacherous mountain passes, seeking healing and refuge, as the hare had once done, beneath her cloak of compassion. Many miracles took place at her woodland sanctuary and sacred spring on the hillside above. Around 1160 C.E. a stone church was built with a shrine where people could come to venerate her bones.

But who was Melangell? Walking through the lychgate of ancient stones into this hushed and holy circle of yews, it's tempting to believe that this was a much earlier pagan site dedicated to a pagan goddess. Archaeologists have discovered evidence of a nearby Bronze Age settlement, while many round barrows, ring cairns, and standing stones dot the higher ground testament to a long-forgotten Neolithic race. On the opposite side of the river is a rock ledge known as ‘Gwely Melangell’ (Melangell’s Bed) where the saint was said to have slept. Yet it is also known as ‘Gwely y Gawres’ (the Giantess’s Bed), presumably based on an older legend of a female giant who lived in the valley.[i] Throughout Wales and other Celtic countries, significant natural or constructed rock features in the landscape are associated with giantesses and goddesses, and are often named "the Hag's Seat" or "the Old Woman's Bed."  

Up above the Pennant valley rears the mountain peak of Cadair Bronwen, "Bronwen's Seat," the highest point in the Berwyns. Bronwen may have been an early mountain goddess, perhaps cognate with Branwen, sister of the god Brân in Welsh legend. And over to the north-east on the island of Anglesey stands a megalithic chambered cairn called "Barclodiad y Gawres," the Giantess's Apronful. It was said to have been created by a giantess who was carrying the huge boulders in her apron. The weight was too much for the apron strings, and the stones fell to form the cairn. The same story is found in Scotland and Ireland to explain the creation of rocky hills and chambered cairns, and hints of a long-forgotten primordial myth of an earth-shaper goddess.

Hare in Forest by Hans Hoffmann (German, about 1530 - 1591)
The hare, that elusive creature of shadows and twilight, has long been associated with magic and the feminine in these islands. One has only to think of the well-known story of Boudicca, queen of the Iceni tribe, on the eve of the British uprising against the Roman occupation of Britain. Invoking the lunar warrior goddess, Andraste, to come to their aid, the queen released a hare from a fold in her dress and watched its movements to divine the outcome of the battle. Perhaps she was modelling herself after Northern goddesses associated with hares like Freyja, who was served by hare attendants, and Dame Holda, who was followed by a train of hares bearing torches.

Certainly the hare was a sacred animal in Britain, as Julius Caesar noted in his Commentaries, and borne out by the long-standing taboo on eating their flesh, which in some parts of Wales and Ireland has survived within living memory. In County Kerry it was forbidden to eat a hare in case it was your grandmother, as a spine-chillingly beautiful poem by poet, Bob Beagrey attests.[ii]
As hares were once associated with goddesses, so they were later regarded as faeries and inevitably, as witches up to no good, perhaps because the hare was a popular familiar of the country witch. The young Scottish witch, Isobel Gowdie, at her trial for witchcraft in 1662, recited the charms that turned her and her sisters into hares, in which shape they leaped away to meet the Queen of Elphame in her home "under the hills."

I shall go into a hare,
Wi’ sorrow and sighing and mickle care;
And I shall go in the devil’s name
Aye, till I come home again.

To change back, she would say:

Hare, hare, God send thee care.
I am in a hare's likeness now,
But I shall be in a woman's likeness even now.

In Wales such "hare witches" ran in families. The Victorian folklorist, Sir John Rhys, tells how his own nurse belonged to one such family and how his mother was considered to be rather reckless in entrusting him to her care, "as she might run away at any moment, leaving her charge to take care of itself."[iii] An early poem by Walter de la Mare perfectly captures this long-standing belief:

In the black furrow of a field
I saw an old witch-hare this night;
And she cocked a lissome ear,
And she eyed the moon so bright,
And she nibbled o' the green;
And I whispered "Whsst! witch-hare",
Away like a ghostie o'er the field
She fled, and left the moonlight there.

It's the usual story of a creature once revered as a goddess, demoted to the rank of woodland spirit, and finally to an evil witch. Yet somehow, the legend of Melangell managed to preserve the old memory of the hare as a sacred creature to be protected and cared for, a view appealing to all those who care about living creatures of the wild. This is no doubt one of the reasons that the old paths, until recently mere overgrown and muddy tracks weaving through bog and moorland, are now eagerly trodden by modern pilgrims in search of spiritual inspiration and renewal at her shrine.

Inside the low, narrow stone building, which dates from the twelfth century, a rood screen carved with oak leaves and acorns depicts the legend which made Melangell famous.  Beyond this is her canopied shrine, recently rebuilt centuries after the stones were scattered at the Reformation, and now held in high regard as the earliest surviving Romanesque shrine in Britain. Today it is glowing with candles lit by pilgrims who come to pray for healing, as they did of old. Its golden sandstone walls are carved with designs of foliage reminiscent of her original woodland refuge. It would have originally been painted and must have given the effect of enfolding Melangell in "the leafy sanctuary she symbolised, a local deity of the regenerative earth and of the sanctity of life."[iv]

 John Andrew Boyle. The Hare in Myth and Reality: A Review Article. Folklore, Vol. 84, No. 4 (Winter, 1973), p. 315. Online at
T.J. Hughes. Wales's Best One Hundred Churches. Seren: Bridgend, Wales, 2006, p. 184.

Thursday, 8 November 2012

Wild Wales: In the Footsteps of George Borrow

When I was about twelve years old I used to sit in school wanting to be outside walking on the hills with the wind in my hair –  far, far away from the stifling confinement of the classroom. Somewhere I came across a quotation from a book called, mysteriously, Lavengro, written by the 19th century writer, George Borrow. I’d never heard of him before, but meticulously copied out his words in my school exercise book:

George Borrow
"There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?"

Much later I was to learn that George Borrow walked all over the land in the days before it was sliced up by motorways, and gathered his adventures into a few memorable books.  In the words of an early biographer, “All his major works are journeys, interspersed with travellers’ tales, strange encounters, and graphic scenes in taverns and hostelries along his way.” He chronicled “his wanderings in green lanes, his "love of Nature unconfined," his acquaintance with the gypsies, his passion for The Wild.” Borrow was deeply inspired by a landscape free from “dark satanic mills,” and by the gypsies he met, the Romani people who made the road their home. One of them gave him those words I wrote in my school book.

In 1862, Borrow transformed his notebooks written on a walk through Wales into a book, Wild Wales, which today is considered to be one of the best accounts of the country in that era. This was in my mind last Sunday when David and I stayed at the George Borrow Inn in mid-Wales,  a 17th century hotel in the foothills of the Cambrian Mountains, perched on the edge of what Borrow called “a deep and awful chasm, at the bottom of which chafed and foamed the Rheidol.”

He recounted staying there on a “rainy and boisterous night which was succeeded by a bright and beautiful morning,” and oddly enough we had the same weather:  We awoke to a single, miraculous day of pure sunlight, the only one in an endless march of dull grey skies. As soon as the sun burst over the hills we drove a few miles to Devil’s Bridge, where Borrow had walked on another November morning over 150 years ago, as he described in his book with Gothic relish:

To view it properly, and the wonders connected with it, you must pass over the bridge above it, and descend a precipitous dingle on the eastern side till you come to a small platform in a crag. Below you now is a frightful cavity, at the bottom of which the waters of the Monks’ River, which comes tumbling from a glen to the east, whirl, boil, and hiss in a horrid pot or cauldron, called in the language of the country Twll yn y graig, or the hole in the rock, in a manner truly tremendous. On your right is a slit, probably caused by volcanic force, through which the waters after whirling in the cauldron eventually escape. The slit is wonderfully narrow, considering its altitude which is very great — considerably upwards of a hundred feet. Nearly above you, crossing the slit, which is partially wrapt in darkness, is the far-famed bridge, the Bridge of the Evil Man . . .

Gaze on these objects, namely, the horrid seething pot or cauldron, the gloomy volcanic slit, and the spectral, shadowy Devil’s Bridge for about three minutes, allowing a minute to each, then scramble up the bank and repair to your inn, and have no more sight-seeing that day, for you have seen enough. And if pleasant recollections do not haunt you through life of the noble falls and the beautiful wooded dingles to the west of the bridge of the Evil One, and awful and mysterious ones of the monks’ boiling cauldron, the long, savage, shadowy cleft, and the grey, crumbling, spectral bridge, I say boldly that you must be a very unpoetical person indeed.

Since we were made of sterner stuff than to retire to the inn for the rest of the day, we made our way to the wild beauty of the Hafod Uchtryd Estate in the Ystwyth Valley. Less dramatic than the Devil’s Bridge, it is a remote and lovely place, originally the hunting-grounds of Welsh chieftains. In later times it became home to the landed gentry, where splendid house-parties were held, its walls resounding to the music of harpers and the poems of bards. Sadly, in the year 1807, a terrible fire broke out and burned it to the ground. Gone forever was its magnificent octagonal library full of irreplaceable treasures and rare books, including manuscripts on natural history, medicine, poetry and literature, in Welsh, French and Latin, some dating from the Middle Ages. Borrow remembered this tragic event on his visit:

This fire is generally called the great fire of Hafod, and some of those who witnessed it have been heard to say that its violence was so great that burning rafters mixed with flaming books were hurled high above the summits of the hills. The loss of the house was a matter of triviality compared with that of the library.

Today the estate is owned by the Forestry Commission who are working at restoring the original landscaped walks. Borrow described it very much as we experienced it on Monday:

The scenery was exceedingly beautiful. Below me was a bright green valley, at the bottom of which the Ystwyth ran brawling, now hid amongst groves, now showing a long stretch of water. Beyond the river to the east was a noble mountain, richly wooded.

Since he too visited it in November, he must have seen the glorious colours of the autumn trees, the dying fall of a bygone era . . .and maybe also a red kite, wheeling through a hallowed sky of impossible, infinite blue.
 Photos by David J. Watkins

Wednesday, 15 August 2012

Touched by the Flame

I recently returned from Co. Sligo, a part of Ireland its most famous poet, WB Yeats, called "The Land of Hearts Desire." The name recalls those evocative Irish names for the Otherworld: Land of the Ever-Living, Land-under-Wave, the Land of Light, and it's easy to see why. This is a place where farmers will not cut down a hawthorn for fear of offending the faeries to whom these trees are sacred; where, if you're sick, you are more likely to visit a neighbour who "has the cure" than see a doctor.

Above all, it's a land where the presence of the Shining Ones can be sensed everywhere. The old tales tell how the race of Immortals called the Tuatha De Danann – the People of the goddess Danu – lived in Ireland thousands of years until they were conquered by the invading Celts. They struck a bargain with the newcomers: Rather than leave the land they loved, they would go into the caves, springs, and chambered cairns, and live their lives within the "Hollow Hills." Manannán mac Lir, the sea god, spread a Cloak of Invisibility about them so that they could not be seen at those times when they emerged into the upper world.

But did they really disappear, or was it that our perceptions became so dulled by material things that our natural ability to perceive the world of Spirit became atrophied? For those who never lost their vision of the true reality, like Yeats’ fellow poet, A.E., (George Russell) the gods never really left at all:

"So did I feel one warm summer day lying idly on the hillside, not then thinking of anything but the sunlight, and how sweet it was to drowse there, when, suddenly, I . . . heard first a music as of bells going away, away into that wondrous underland whither, as legend relates, the Danaan gods withdrew; and then the heart of the hills was open to me, and I knew there was no hill for those who were there, and they were unconscious of the ponderous mountain piled above the palaces of light, and the winds were sparkling and diamond clear, yet full of color as an opal, as they glittered through the valley, and I knew the Golden Age was all about me, and it was we who had been blind to it but that it had never passed away from the world.”

The Shining Ones are still with us: It is we who have banished them into the depths of the collective unconscious. But if we choose to open our minds, hearts and all our senses to the living presence of Spirit that is all around us and within us on our beautiful planet home, then the Land of Heart's Desire will reveal itself to us in all its beauty and power, as surely as it did for AE, when he wrote:
For the great gates of the mountains have opened once again,
And the sound of song and dancing fall upon the ears of men,
And the Land of Youth lies gleaming, flushed with rainbow light and mirth,
And the old enchantment lingers in the honey-heart of earth.

(Paintings by A.E.)

Sunday, 22 July 2012

The Faery Lore of Foxgloves

Faery gloves
Faery caps and bells -
Foxgloves are the Folks' Gloves,
the Good Folk, that is,
and you'd better not forget it if you think to cut them down.

In the Faery Glen
on the Isle of Skye,
foxgloves stand like watchful sentinels of the Hidden People.
On Highland hillsides they march in crimson,
like the hosts of trooping faeries.

In Ireland’s wooded hollows,
glowing purple in the dusk,
foxglove is the lus na mban sidhe,
the Plant of the Faery Woman.

In Donegal, the blossoms are meíríní púca, Puck's fingers,
or méaracan sídhe, Shilly Thimbles, Thimbles of the Sídhe.
When a foxglove bows its head, a faery is passing by.
Faeries have been seen dancing beneath them in the Welsh Marches, not so long ago.
And in Ireland, according to a story told to Yeats, they often hide under the leaves
where the casual observer mistakes their red caps for the crimson bells.

Foxgloves are also called bee-catchers and beehives in the West Country.
It is said that the path of brown and white spots on the floor of each bell are
the marks of elven fingers,
designed to lead the bee towards the nectar.

Whoever was responsible,
foxgloves have certainly been designed
with the foraging bee in mind.
Each bell has a projecting lower lip for a landing pad,
from which the bee can proceed down the illuminated runway.
The anthers of the stamens lie flat along the inside "roof" of the bell
so that its pollen rubs off on the bee’s back.
The bee then transfers the pollen to the next flower enabling it to produce seeds:
1 to 2 million from each plant.

Foxgloves have a darker side:
They belong to the dead
whose blood and bones make fertile soil.
So their blossoms are also
Dead Man's Thimbles,
Dead Man’s Bellows, (the phallus)
or, in Scotland, ciochan nan cailleachan marblia:
Dead old woman's paps.
In Wales they are Dead Men’s Bells.
If you hear them ringing, you will not be long for this world.

Meddle with a foxglove
and you may become faery-struck.
Yet it can also cure any misfortune caused by the faeries.
If a child is Taken and a squalling changeling left in its place,
place foxglove leaves beneath its crib.
The faeries will bring back the stolen child.

In Ireland it is lus-mor, the Great Plant,
because of its healing virtues.
And in Wales it was one of the healing herbs
taught by the faery woman of Llyn y Fan Fach to her half-human sons,
who became the famous Physicians of Myddfai. Here foxgloves are bysedd ellyllon, Fingers of the Elves.

Foxgloves are also Witches' Fingers,
once prized by the wise women of old,
for the treatment of sores, ulcers and wounds, and all manner of ills
from the common cold to the King's Evil,
but especially in the treatment of heart conditions.

It was a wise woman of Shropshire who taught one Dr. Withering
how to use it for cardiac complaints in the 18th century.
Today foxgloves are cultivated on huge farms in the eastern United States
solely for medicinal purposes.
Digitalis, its botanical name, means "fingers."
Whose fingers?

Foxgloves by Mary Webb
  The foxglove bells, with lolling tongue,
Will not reveal what peals were rung
In Faery, in Faery,
A thousand ages gone.
All the golden clappers hang
As if but now the changes rang;
Only from the mottled throat
Never any echoes float.
Quite forgotten, in the wood,
Pale, crowded steeples rise;
All the time that they have stood
None has heard their melodies.
Deep, deep in wizardry
All the foxglove belfries stand.
Should they startle over the land,
None would know what bells they be.
Never any wind can ring them,
Nor the great black bees that swing them–
Every crimson bell, down-slanted,
Is so utterly enchanted.