Cultural Mythology: Myth, culture, and consciousness

January

                                   When snow brings sleep and silence covers all,                
                                   Raven dreams skyward to pluck the light once more
                                   from heaven's roof. Waking, framed funereal
                                   against the ash-gray sky, brown fields before
                                   him capped in spinning white, the wind roars
                                   echo to his hoarse quork and rattle call---
                                   to hunt with corvid cunning, swooping low
                                   for any darting, glint-eyed catch---he alone
                                   champion, prime, primal, predatory one
                                   can hold back cold, hunger, death and night.
                                   Norse god Hrafn, who first captured the sun,
                                   hurled it down to make the dark world bright,
                                   black against the crystal curtain soaring
                                   pine high, greets winter's stroke upon his wings.

---Julianna McCarthy, from A Bird As Black As The Sun: California Poets on Crows and Ravens. The image is Odin's Raven by Jennifer Webb.

I just couldn't resist wrapping up this meditation on Odin with a poem--- and I see his messengers everywhere here in the Mojave. This is a great book of poetry by the way, if these smart birds speak to you too.

Happy Thanksgiving

        Messenger

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird--
   equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
   keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
   astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
   and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
   to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
   that we live forever.

--Mary Oliver, from Thirst: Poems by Mary Oliver

(the image is mine, called "Leaf Seed.")

Real magic

To Jessie

I found a butterfly wing
on the stone steps;
deep copper,
magic irridescence,
tiny yellow suns,
a microcosm of nature's perfect
attention to detail;
I carried it to the truck
carefully placed
that delicacy
on the dirty rough seat;
It would be a gift
for my young daughter
still in her magic,
still child enough
to see
the magic in it.

I returned to work,
filled my head with measurements,
plans,
regrets,
imagined conversations,
the stuff work days
are made of;

It was the next day,
biking at the lake,
coming around a rocky bend,
I remembered the wing.
Of course, it could
not have survived.

Before long the
grit of life
will mercifully toughen her skin;
her wonder will retreat
to a safe depth
and will resurface again only
in later years;
Some brisk fall morning,
drinking coffee on her porch,
she will have a vision
of an ungiven gift
from a busy father.

---Phillip Rosenberg from Raised in the Shadow.

Where the wind blows

As always I begin with the caveat that a good story can be read from many different directions. I titled my telling "The Cauldron of Inspiration and the Birth of Taliesin" instead of "Cerridwen and Taliesin" because I feel that she is in service to the real magic in the story--- the muse.

The uncanny witch is an instigator. She gets things going in ways that we can't predict or control. In the form of Cerridwen she seeds the imagination by opening a creative doorway that Gwion, who literally becomes a seed and then seeds her, steps through. I love that Cerridwen lives on an island in the middle of a large lake (Lake Bala is four miles long and one mile wide and sacred in the Welsh tradition). As a reflective body, a lake suggests the play between the surface and the depths and often symbolizes a portal into the unconscious.

Cerridwen brews the potion, but does she get what she wants? The fire flares and the cauldron sputters and suddenly the gifts that she intended for her son Morvran are given instead to Gwion, who is reborn as the great bard Taliesin. In the end she is mother to a wise poet, despite her hostility to Gwion. Something works out perfectly and a marvelous boon is given to the world, but not in the form that Cerridwen intended. She can conjure and bring forth but she cannot control who will be gifted. Such is the muse. Which leads me to Taliesin's riddle and its possible significance. Apparently no one in the court had sufficient knowledge of the wind to come up with that answer, and here the story repeats that central message about the unpredictable power of creative inspiration.

What is the wind? From the Greek pneuma, Hebrew ruach, and Arabic ruh, this wind is the divine breath of creation, the Holy Spirit, the disperser of seeds. It is that unpredictable factor that moves or compels us to change course, perhaps pushing us in the direction of our destiny. It is another metaphor for the inspiration that takes form as the bard Taliesin.

This is a beautifully layered story of echoing themes. I'll end with one more to ponder: the shapeshifting during Cerridwen's pursuit of Gwion. Shapeshifting reveals the protean nature of the material world. One thing can become another because everything is One thing. And what wisdom did the potion impart, to fuel the creativity of the poet? The ability to know past, present, and future and to apprehend the underlying unity of all things. So is this "just" an old fairy tale with a fun bit of magic or a Celtic commentary on the Tao?

 

Happy Samhain

Halloween was originally Samhain, the Celtic New Year’s Eve. Samhain is a very "thin" time of the year when inhabitants of the visible and invisible realms can easily pass through the veil that separates the two worlds. This is a time when communication with the other side is especially fruitful and we're invited to court the unknown and honor the unseen. This notion of a spirit world behind the visible is both sensationalized and trivialized in our popular imagination, but the crux of the Celtic idea is simply that spirit, psyche, the divine (pick your term) are not far away in some transcendent, distant dimension but immanent in the material world. The ability to apprehend this is the gift of a sensitive heart and poetic imagination.

Samhain marks the descent into the deep dark and offers the promise of rebirth at the winter solstice (Dec 22nd), the longest night of the year. Everything that dies at this time can be transformed, so say goodbye to something that must be left behind and plant seeds of the new. Eat an apple, the fruit of immortality, and bring yourself closer to the spirits that surround us. Show reverence and may you be gifted with inspiration and a poetic tongue.

Sleeping in the Forest

I thought the earth
remembered me, she
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds. I slept
as never before, a stone
on the riverbed, nothing
between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees. All night
I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

---Mary Oliver

The cauldron of inspiration and the birth of Taliesin (part 2 of 2)

At last the year and a day was up. The last herb had been duly added. The pot had simmered, the contents stirred, and Cerridwen, with great anticipation, brought the son Morvran into the room to receive her blessing and the three potent drops of the potion. Gwion stood by the pot with his long spoon in his hand. “Come,” she said to her young servant,” and bring forth what I have created for my son.” Gwion moved to serve Morvran his portion when the fire leapt and the great pot sputtered and several drops flew out and landed on Gwion’s tender fingers.

Without a thought he thrust the burning fingers into his mouth and instantly he knew all that was true, and he knew that he had stolen Morvran’s birthright and that Cerridwen would kill him.

Young Gwion ran for the door. Cerridwen dropped her son and followed him, arms outstretched. “Come back here,” she cried, “there is no escape from what comes next!” But Gwion understood the full extent of his powers and turned himself into a hare. In rabbit form he raced across the fields fifty times faster than any boy could run. But Cerridwen turned herself into a greyhound and swiftly followed, snapping at his heels.

When he reached the river Gwion jumped in and turned himself into a fish. Down, down, down into the cold depths he dove. His silver fins flashed. But Cerridwen turned herself into an otter, sleek and greedy, and dove after him.

Feeling her whiskers brush his tail, Gwion burst from the water into the sunlight, turned himself into a bird, and flew away. But Cerridwen turned herself into a hawk and followed close behind. In the final moments, before she could plunge down to grip him in her sharp talons, Gwion spied a farmyard and barn down below. He ceased his flapping and as he fell to the earth, changed himself into a grain of wheat on the threshing floor.

Cerridwen followed him down to the farmyard. “Oh you are clever my dear Gwion,” she said, “But not clever enough.” She turned herself into a black hen and began scratching the ground and sorting the many seeds. Until finally she found Gwion and ate him.

Full of frustration at her wasted efforts, Cerridwen went home to the island in the middle of lake Bala. Days passed. To her horror she discovered that she was pregnant and knew it was that little grain of wheat. She decided to kill the child as soon as it was born. But the baby boy was so beautiful that she could not raise her hand against him.

Two days before May Day she sewed him into a leather bag and threw him into the sea.The baby drifted into Cardigan Bay and was found by Prince Elphin, who had come there to net fish. Because the boy was so beautiful, Prince Elphin named him Taliesin, which means “shining brow,” and took the child home and brought him up as his own.

All was well for several years, until royal enemies imprisoned Prince Elphin. The child Taliesin went to the court to demand his release. Everyone laughed although many were impressed by his boldness. “My lord,“ the boy said to the king, “If this be your court, and you are a true king, make me a wager for the life of my guardian. I will pose a riddle to you and your court. If any one can answer it I will go quietly home, but if I confound you all, then Elphin goes free.”

“I see no harm in that,” answered the king, quite certain that no child could perplex him and all the wise men in his court. “Proceed with your riddle.”

“Discover what it is,” said the boy, “The strong creature that can wreak havoc, from before the Flood, Without flesh, without bone, without vein, without blood, without head, without feet… in field and in forest roams… without hand, without foot. It is also as wide as the surface of the earth, and it was not born, nor was it seen.”

The great men of the court pondered and even the poets, the bards of the courts were called. But none knew the answer. So the prince was freed and thus began the fame of Taliesin, the greatest bard to ever live. It is said that he even sang for King Arthur. And the answer to his riddle: the wind.

(Running hare illustration by Tracey Long. Black hen illustration by Anne-Marie Perks)

The cauldron of inspiration and the birth of Taliesin (part 1 of 2)

The days are getting short and winter is approaching. The ancient Celts called this period between Halloween (All Saint's Day/Samhain) and the winter solstice (Dec. 22nd) the season of sleep. Winter nights are also the traditional time for storytelling. The story that I'm about to tell is drawn from Celtic mythology. It is part of the Welsh Mabinogion, a collection of eleven medieval tales, and the Book of Taliesin. Texts date from 14th to 16th century but the original language suggest that these tales may have been told as early as the 6th century. 

I read it as a story about the muse, but something else may speak to you.

The Cauldron of Inspiration and the Birth of Taliesin

Long ago, when the world was a bit younger than it is today, there was no veil separating the realm of the seen from the realm of the unseen. What we call elves and fairies and spirits moved freely among human beings. But that time is past. Humans needed to grasp at what is “real” in their eyes, at what is felt in their hands, and so the curtain was hung. But it is still “just” a curtain and there are times and places where the fabric is thin. Very thin.

In the early days of the two worlds there was a woman named Cerridwen who moved between the realms. Some say she was a moon goddess or the Great Mother of the grains, others call her a sorceress, but I won’t pretend to know such things. It is said that she was quite beautiful, with flowing dark hair and skin like milk, and she surely possessed great magic, as our story will reveal.

Cerridwen lived with her husband and three children on an island in Bala Lake, in the hard rock country of northern Gwynedd. Her oldest son, Afagddu was well blessed. Her only daughter Creirwy, was the fairest maiden for miles around with a voice like silver bells. But her middle child, the boy called Morvran, was ugly and ill formed. This caused his mother great concern. It is hard to get along well in the world without some measure of beauty and grace. Cerridwen decided to concoct a potion that would instill wisdom in her son Morvran, and a poetic tongue, so that he too would prosper. His face cannot be beautiful, she thought, but his voice, his words, and his thoughts-- these will be.

She built a fire and took out her great cauldron, called Awen, and filled it with water and honey, acorns, barley, and other grains. Her magic would take one year and a day to complete and the fire must be kept and the pot must be stirred this whole time lest the contents burn and stick. Cerridwen called upon her ancient manservant Morda. “You sir,” she said, “must tend this fire day and night and make sure that it does not go out.” Morda was half-blind and could manage no more than this, so she also called the young Gwion, a servant boy, and gave him the important task of stirring the pot. “This is your job for one year and one day,” she told the lad, “See that you perform it faithfully--- or suffer the consequences.”

The desired potion was powerful indeed and tricky to bring to completion. Every day Cerridwen went into the woods and fields to find the herbs and other ingredients necessary to make her son wise. These she chopped and ground and handled carefully, and added to her great cauldron when the astrological signs were right, often under the light of the full moon, or perhaps in the deep darkness of the new. She said the right prayers and sang the right songs and brought all of her powers to the task, even in silence. Although a great pot sat simmering on the fire, all that could be consumed were the first three drops. Whoever partook of the first three drops would instantly know past, present, and future, and perceive the underlying unity of all things. But the rest was poison.

Slowly, slowly, day by day, and night by night, the vital strength of Cerridwen’s potion took shape and grew. And always Morda tended the fire and Gwion stirred the pot.

 

The madness of love

The madness of love
Is a blessed fate;
And if we understood this
We would seek no other:
It brings into unity
What was divided,
And this is the truth:
Bitterness it makes sweet,
It makes the stranger a neighbor,
And what was lowly it raises on high.

Hadewijch of Antwerp, 13th century, translated by Oliver Davies

Each Step

Nowhere on this earth
is it not a place where the lovers
turn lightly in sleep in each other's arms,
the blue pastures of dusk flowing gladly
into the dawn.

Nowhere that is not reached by the scent
of good bread
through an open window,
by the flash of fish in the flashing of summer streams,
or the trees unfolding their praises--
apricots, pears--of the winter-chill nights.

Briefly, briefly, we see it, and forget.
As if the spell were too powerful to hold on the tongue,
as if we preferred the weight to the prize.

Like a horse
that carries on his own back
the sacks of oats he will need, unsuspecting,
looking always ahead,
over the mountains, to where the sweet springs lie.

He remembers this much from his youth,
the taste of things, cold and pure--
while the water-sound sings on and on, unlistened to,
in his ears;
while each step is nothing less than the glistening
river-body reentering home.

---Jane Hirshfield, from October Palace

(image is "White Horse Walking Away" by George Woodcock)

The Song of Wandering Aengus

•  

  WENT out to the hazel wood,                                 

  Because a fire was in my head,

  And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

  And hooked a berry to a thread;

   

  And when white moths were on the wing,

  And moth-like stars were flickering out,

  I dropped the berry in a stream

  And caught a little silver trout.

   

  When I had laid it on the floor

  I went to blow the fire a-flame,

  But something rustled on the floor,

  And some one called me by my name:

  It had become a glimmering girl

  With apple blossom in her hair

  Who called me by my name and ran

  And faded through the brightening air.

   

  Though I am old with wandering

  Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

  I will find out where she has gone,

  And kiss her lips and take her hands;

  And walk among long dappled grass,

  And pluck till time and times are done

  The silver apples of the moon,

  The golden apples of the sun.

  ---W.B. Yeats

I read this poem as Yeat's life-changing encounter with his version of the "golden wreath." Once glimpsed, it is never forgotten. The image is The Golden Apple Tree by Arthur Rackham. For background on my reference to the golden wreath, see the post Valemon.