Here is the solstice sun rising over the Irish Sea this morning, posted by my friend, Dave. Happy Solstice to all you pagans, neo-pagans, New Agers, old hippies, new hippies and the like! And thanks Dave for a fabulous video.
My big bro' sent me this pic of his car in Toronto. YES I DO MISS THE SNOW! Some of you will remember the pic of me making a snow-woman in the Murcia mountains last Christmas. (The very next week, I was paddling in the Mediterranean on a beach in Alicante only two hours away!) I am truly hoping and dreaming that I will be posting a pic of me in the snow around Finn's Dad's eco-fort in Sligo where we are celebrating the Great Feast. And for those of you who didn't look the last time here is the chieftain's eco-rath: www.gyreum.com.
Little time to blog these days as I dash about for Christmas and work feverishly on the new website design. My main job is gathering information for Terry and approving what he does (i.e. making suggestions and changing my mind and generally driving the poor man mad). But it is shaping up beautifully. I love it already! My hope and dream is to have it up before I head off for my holidays. Meanwhile, here's a little pic of snowy Wicklow. Last year, not this, but you never know.
Here's a mad dash through Eire on a púca (fairy horse). The music is the Bothy Band playing "Garráin Ghlasa na hEireann", the Green Groves of Ireland.
Friday saw me at the Dancehall in Talbot Street for the launch of Joan Davis's two books, CD, and DVD of "Maya Lila" (loosely translated from Sanskrit as "illusion" and "play"). Together they document and celebrate her research, art, and work "bringing authentic movement into performance." Joan Davis holds iconic status here as the woman who single-handedly brought contemporary dance to Ireland. Now she is pioneering this incredible new work which involves breaking down the barriers between dancer/performer and audience/witness. I've been fortunate - and honoured - to take part in this work as a member of the witnessing audience of many "offerings" at Joan's beautiful centre on the side of Bray Head, also as someone who participated in workshops on authentic movement for my own delight and experience, and finally as a writer who gave input into the practice of adding words to movement. (Over the years Joan slowly added objects, sound, music, and words). At the launch, slide images of the performances were projected onto walls and ceiling, while sounds and music reverberated throughout the gallery. There was also an installation of a tree with animal skulls and various objects used in the performances. True to Joan's form, we were not passive observers in attendance. Tiny flashlights were left throughout the room to allow us to peruse the books despite the dim light. Eventually we were drawn into circles around hosts who were dressed in white ponchos, and we were invited to discuss the work and to write comments on the cloth. Finally, after short speeches and long drawn-out applause for Joan - she deserved it! - we were given carrot soup with fresh coriander and cream along with pastries stuffed with goat's cheese and roasted vegetables. This, too, was typical of Joan as delicious food is always served at her offerings. She is goddess, earth mother, artiste, shaman, and Isadora Duncan all wrapped up into one!
Finn is in the kitchen working on her Leaving Cert art project. I just cleared and washed a set of bookshelves and hacked a woodworm-ridden skirting board off the wall. The wall will have to be plastered and painted in a day or two when it dries out. I'm supposed to go to a dinner and dance tonight but, you know, I have a feeling that I am going to keep on pottering through the day. There are all these little jobs I want to have done before the Christmas (there, I've said it) preparations begin. Here's a feather amidst autumn leaves on a woodland path in Dunderry. I'm using the photo for my screen wallpaper at the moment.
Finn and I have been watching a great sitcom on the Internet TV Links about the Muslim community in a small town in the Canadian west. It is indeed called "Little Mosque on the Prairie"! And it is hilarious viewing. I love all the characters, especially the arch-conservative Baber (on the far right beside the gorgeous young imam). He has some of the best lines. When they are arguing over when to start Ramadan, someone mentions how they determine moon rise in Saudi Arabia and Baber says, "the Saudis couldn't find the moon unless it had oil spurting out of it." And while some would say this show goes a long way towards de-demonizing Muslims and introducing them to those who know nothing about them, I've got to tell you Finn and I are watching it because it's really funny and quite endearing.
New routines and order have descended upon the household as I fall into step with Finn's school schedule. She's attending the Insitute for Education in Dublin (posh prep school, her Dad and I are beggared) and she must be at the train station by the crack of dawn. Ho hum. After I drop her off, I do a brisk walk by the sea and sometimes join a gentleman from the Czech Republic for Tai Chi on the lawn before the promenade, as the sun rises over the water. (He's not always there, I don't even know his name, but we bow to each other and off we go.) Then it's back home for breakfast - fruit, toast, boiled egg, coffee - and it's to the computer to start work about 9:30 a.m. Well, that's a new me. Here's a pic of Bray Head from the promenade, a setting used for scenes in The Singing Stone and The Summer King. And I do believe I mention same in The Hunter's Moon.
That's John Quigley whose vision we were following. He's either American or Canadian, judging by his accent. I couldn't find his nationality online. (Anyone know?) A lovely gentle man who somehow managed to get thousands of people to follow his instructions despite the fact he had a quiet voice and a faulty megaphone. The crowd included dogs, babies, children, and people of many nationalities. When we were all lying down, John said "sing something" and somehow everyone began to sing or hum the Irish national anthem in Irish and English. Very moving. My sister Rosemary had just arrived from Toronto the day before and she was there, representing the Irish-Canadian diaspora despite her jet-lag!
Here it is. A work of pure art! The human harp formed on Tara under the guidance of aerial artist and environmentalist visionary, John Quigley. Estimates of how many people showed up vary between 1,500-3,000. Try clicking on the image to make it bigger so you can see the details. There are Celtic designs on the top and the side and there are red jewels along the curve - people in red jackets and sweaters which he organised at the last minute! It was so much fun. We had picnics, hung around the hill for ages, it drizzled, then the sun came out, and Stuart Townsend (photo to follow) and Jonathan Rhys Meyers showed up to add their gorgeous bodies to the count.
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I've written before about the heritage crisis we are suffering here in sell-your-Mother Ireland. The Irish government - including its Green Party partners - is insisting on running a motorway through the sacred valley of Tara. The World Monument Fund has put Tara on its 100 most endangered sites list. On Saturday, September 22, at 3:00 pm, the harpers of Ireland will gather at Dáil Eireann in Dublin to drown out the sound of cars and cash registers with the sound of music. Have a look at their site on myspace: www.myspace.com:80/TaraHarpers. And pass on the word! Shame, shame on the Fianna Fail government and the sell-out Green Party!
Fairly pleased with myself these days as I seem to be managing a decent balance between work and play. This weekend saw the new Harry Potter movie with Tony. (Love driving around in his Merc convertible even though it gives me Bridget Jones hair. Real posh.) Contrary to Finn's opinion - "crap" - I thought the film was brilliant. I loved the way the two different kinds of wizards were shown in swirls of black dust and white dust. Then Sunday, headed up Lugnaquillia, the highest peak in the Wicklow Mountains range, with my hillwalking gang. It is, of course, a major setting in The Light-Bearer's Daughter, so shoot over to my Book Blog for the series of photos taken up there. I do believe I am getting the hang of my digital camera, though truth to tell, I just point and click. I usually can't see a thing in the viewfinder. Here's a fairy tree and a huge puddle of water, more like a small lake, which we passed on our way up.
Here's me walking towards my transformation, new work, and new life. With Kathleen, who is about to direct her first film, I walked for creative inspiration and courage. When it was time to walk for someone else, I walked for protection for Findabhair, my surfer daughter, as she surfs the waves of life. Don't be fooled by the grey colour which is caused by the flash. That path was sparkling red and sparking! But I didn't get a single "kiss" this time, from the embers. 
Yes, we were at it again, up in the Wicklow Mountains. Glen and Sherron facilitated as before. Here's the part where we pour oil over the wood, thinking of all the old stuff we want to burn away. Then the structure is set ablaze as we drum, dance, chant, chat, and think about what we want to "walk toward" as we cross the fire-path. When the structure collapses, Glen rakes the path and tamps it down with a shovel. And when he declares the firewalk open, we go! Here's what I want to learn to play next, after a year devoted to the drum kit. And maybe after the hammered dulcimer, the wired string harp. But this is like Faerie music, isn't it? And her gown too!
It was BRILLIANT! I thought I was going to have a heart attack I was so thrilled. Sherron and I shouted our delight, louder than the kids. Fireworks are so magical - exploding in the sky, embroidering the night with colour and light and noisy beauty. Oh! Working away on The Book of Dreams and up to the chapter where I include a song by the late great Stan Rogers, my favourite Canadian singer and songwriter. His widow kindly allowed me to use the lyrics of Giant (about Fingal) in my book. I heard Stan sing it live in Toronto years ago at the Fiddler's Green folk club on Bloor Street. Knocked my socks off. Alas there is no video of him singing it on Youtube, but here is one of his songs and some great pics of Nova Scotia. I have set quite a few scenes on Cape Breton Island.
Here is the latest national monument about to be destroyed by the M3 Motorway. Lismullen Rath was apparently the burial place of a powerful woman - the High Queen! - though, of course, they are calling her "a wealthy woman." (Patriarchal archaeology cannot conceive of female rulers despite oral and written tradition to the contrary.) The new Minister for the Environment is John Gormley of the Green Party, but alas it seems that, despite their earlier support for Tara, the Green Party is opting out in favour of political expediency. (That was quick, eh? No doubt about it, power corrupts.) But you can help. Go to www.PetitionOnline.com/taram3/ and sign the petition. You needn't live in Ireland to want to protect its heritage!
Here's a weird video my sister Dee sent to me. (Yeah, she's the Deirdre who appears in The Book of Dreams.)The song is great, too. Wonder what country this is? And is it the music that makes her seem strangely sad?
Not long back from London where I had a fabulous visit with dear friend Ger Aron (writer of hit play My Brilliant Divorce, performed by the equally brilliant Dawn French). We went to see Fiddler on the Roof which was utterly fabulous. Tell you all about that in another post, but if you are anywhere near the West End, it is a must-see! Here I am in Regents Park, hand in hand with my new love. But I fear he may have feet of clay...
Went walkabout into the Dreamtime yesterday. Magic. Set off with my trusty sidekick Dave for a solstice ritual being held at Jampa Ling Buddhist Centre in County Cavan. As we passed Tara Hill on our way north, we decided to stop in and give our regards to the High Kings of Ireland. No sooner were we walking the great circuit of the mounds than I heard the sound of a rattle ringing out through the air. "He's doing a shamanic ritual!" I said, though I had no idea to whom I was referring. Off I ran, down the next hill and there, around a fairy tree, was a circle of people; and leading invocations to the Mother Earth and the Sídhe was my own shamanic teacher, Martin Duffy, whom I hadn't seen in years. (You can check out his work on www.shamanismireland.com). We stayed for the fairy blessings and then off we went to Jampa Ling for more magic. "Offering bath-puja" involved prayers in the shrine room with jugs of saffron water, mirrors, peacock feathers, green boughs, and silken scarves of blue and white. Then, in a long line following Des, who was blessing everything with holy water, we paraded out into the grounds, gardens, fields, and forest carrying sacred objects and sticks of incense while ringing bells, clanging cymbals, flashing mirrors, and chanting - om vajra sattva hum. Oh, and Damian was blowing on a huge conch. I swear, we looked and sounded like a fairy cavalcade.
My intrepid fan has remade her trailer for The Summer King. It's even better than the first one. Have a look!
If there's one thing a Sagittarian has to do regularly it's climb a mountain. So here's me on Mullaghcor, yesterday. It was a gorgeous sunny day and a gang of us from the Second Sunday hillwalking group headed out on a Saturday for a change, to accomodate two Swedish lads. There was a picnic as always on the grassy hillside - sandwiches, tea in a thermos, oranges, strawberries, dark chocolate, and crisps. At one point I walked alone (as is my wont) and inhaled the green of pine and blue of sky, to take back with me to infuse my work. There are times when I fall from Grace and into the dark and it is these communings with Nature that re-connect me to the Source and the shining stream of life (Mythopoeic writers use a lot of capitals, don't we? I guess because we like to write about the Big Things. )
The video is utterly naff (check out those shoes) but God I love the song and that guitar. Came out in 1984, I think. I remember arriving in Ireland, lost and lonely, and my cousin Donal playing it for me.
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It's typical of my family that one of my sisters would have a big stone in her back yard which managed to acquire a sword. All of us have always spoken of "Wart" in an intimate manner. One time someone asked if he was a relation or family friend. "Nope. He's King Arthur." I am just back from the sunny west of County Clare where I was celebrating a friend's 50th birthday and the opening of his exhibition. He sold 15 paintings in the first night. Well done, Frank Golden. Then we all retired to Linnane's for a big spread of clams, crabs, mussels, and shrimp along with singing and dancing. The craic was ninety. Next morning was a huge breakfast outdoors in the sunshine (it was lashing on the east coast; God forgive us, we laughed) and a guest hike along the Flaggy Shore. Then another feast in the evening. I will post photographs as soon as I figure out how to get them out of my new camera and onto the computer. Finn is surfing in Sligo, so no help at all.
I am posting the first pics I have taken with my new digital camera. Still figuring out the ins and outs, but I love it! Here is the big house of Owen Doon - with prayer flags flying - which is the heart of the Buddhist Centre of Jampa Ling near Bawnboy in County Cavan. I made a flying visit there recently with friends. On my Book Blog you will find a pic of bluebells in the woods not far from the house. I have some more pics of the walled garden and a stone Buddha and will post them soon. Meanwhile, here's the website of Jampa Ling: www.jampaling.org. People of all spiritual interests and backgrounds are welcome there.
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Here's a poem my friend Dave wrote for Hamish. (It is the role of the poet to say the things we cannot say ourselves, but need and want to say.)
Here's Kath and me with the May bonfire behind us before our fire-walk last night. (See pic on Book Blog.) It was a magical evening. We drummed for ages until the fire collapsed. Glen, our fire-walker man, raked out the embers and tamped them down with a shovel. By then it was night-time. The full moon hung in the sky over the dim fields and the mat of fire glowed like red jewels. A wall of smoke and flame rose on either side. One by one, and then in pairs, we strode across the fiery ground and into our futures.
No, not Marge Piercy. Me. I just cannot get my act together. Toodling and bumbling all the way. Getting things done in minute increments: income tax, grant proposals, housework, finances, humdrum boring stuff. And not a tap of writing. The other day I decided to go AWOL. Stepped right out of my life and into a big fat novel. Didn't do a thing all day but read. Finished at 6:00 a.m. the next morning. This is the book. It is FABULOUS. Marge Piercy is fabulous. Set in a Jewish ghetto in 16th century Prague and a Jewish 'free town' (as opposed to the domed cities run by corporations) in 21st century post-global-warming North America, it presents a sweeping vision of the future along with a love story between a gorgeous cyborg/golem (who considers himself a Jew) and the woman who is helping him to blend into humanity. The only other book I have read of Piercy's is Woman on the Edge of Time, which is terrific also. I love that she can be lefty political and feminist while also telling a terrific story. The book makes you think big thoughts ... and yearn for your very own cyborg. Sigh.
On this gloriously sunny summery day, heading off to a family egg-hunt and lunch. Here are some lovely spring croci sent to me by Gertrude Mueller Nelson, a Jungian Christian wise-woman healer/writer I met at the Mythic Journeys conference last year. Her website is www.gertrudnelson.com.
Fell into chaos the last few weeks and got nothing done (aside from workshops up North, see Book Blog.) Today was far too beautiful a day for working, all summery sunshine. Went into the mountains with my moon women friends and lit a fire and communed with Mother Earth. Magic. Then off to meet another friend at a small castle by the Roundwood Reservoir. Sat in the garden drinking tea. Now must clear my desk. Back to work tomorrow.
History before our eyes. This is the first day of the rest of Northern Ireland's life as a democratic state that truly represents its people. Gerry Adams of Sinn Féin and Ian Paisley of the DUP sat down together today to agree to a devolved government in which both parties (along with the other parties) will participate. Big sigh of relief. Big cheer. Big hmmm. Well, they've set a date. May 8. Only problem is - a lot can happen in Northern Irish politics over the course of a day, never mind 6 weeks. Still, we must be optimistic. The very fact that today happened is a miracle in itself. Neither side can backtrack now without losing face. There is hope for Ulster and the holy land of Ireland.
The destruction of Tara has begun. Phase One of the motorway that will bulldoze through ancient sites and sever the heartland of this sacred landscape is underway. Megalithic chambers have already been destroyed, with state archaeologists assuring us "we have made meticulous records." So that's our heritage, is it? We've got an Interpretative Centre with photographs, who needs the real thing? They paved Paradise, put up a parking lot. This is modern Ireland at its worst: rampaging across the land in the name of progress and money and the speed of motor cars. Go to www.savetara.com. Sign the petition. Donate money. Show up for the vigils. The gombeen government is moving as fast as it can before World Heritage designation can protect more sites. And for godsakes, don't vote for the Fianna Fail or the PDs in the next election. Throw the lot of them out before there is nothing left for the generations to come but a wasteland! For what will it profit us if we gain the world and lose our very soul? (Here's a clearer version of this video.) She is so wyrd and wonderful! I first heard her singing a long winding tale about a monkey and a bear on the car radio. Back home, I ordered her two albums from the local music store and started sending out this video to everyone I know. And guess what. Even as I sent it to a musician friend of mine, he was on his way to my house with her first album, Ys! Magic.
Trying to play catch-up today. Got a review to write, people coming for dinner, the house is a mess, the To Do lists are taking over my desk, and I'm behind in my work on The Book of Dreams thanks to losing my notated copy. Arghhh. Also, when trying to fix a Firefox error on the Book Blog (Spadina Bus video), I wound up losing the entire post. Sigh. Will do it again, later. Meanwhile, here's a pic of the badge being born by a Canadian girls rugby team which toured Ireland last week, from St Mary's High School in Cobourg. They creamed every Irish team they played around the country. I didn't know which side to cheer for. In keeping with the character of each nation, the Irish teams moaned about the Canadians being too rough (to their faces, it must said) while the Canadians apologised for winning. Ha ha.
Just finished my Tibetan homework. Here's some of it. There are 30 letters in the alphabet which are also root syllables with specific sounds and, in some cases, actual words, e.g. the letter-syllable nya means "fish", cha means "tea", and then there is the universal (or almost universal) ma which means "mother". Writing out the beautiful letters on music paper is like a form of meditation. But it also reminds me of painstakingly printing out my very first letters as a child in those big phonetic copybooks with pictures (loved them). I'm probably sticking out my tongue as I do the Tibetan letters. I began to learn this language seven years ago, but then my young teacher went off to India. (See Book Blog about her.) I've now added "Go to Dharamsala to study Tibetan" onto my list of adventures to embark upon when Findabhair no longer needs her mother around all the time. Learning new skills is important. It keeps the neurons firing and the synaptic connections forming. The brain, like the Muse, must be fed!
Headed up to Dundalk on Saturday to attend a reading at Hughes & Hughes (see post on Book Blog). Afterwards we all retired to the big country house where the writer lived. After walks and talks in the walled garden, we stayed till evening and had a candlelight dinner at the long table in the dining room, with a fire burning in the great hearth. Later, we gathered outside under the branching trees, listening to the echo of a nearby river, to watch the lunar eclipse. I stood under frosty stars with a blanket wrapped around me. Everyone ohhh'ed and ahhh'ed as the great shadow of refracted light passed over the moon, slowly but surely turning it a pale fiery orange. We spoke of how our earliest ancestors would have viewed this with terror, for it surely looked as if the moon were dying. Yet their descendants, the megalith builders, would have known what was happening, as they recorded lunar events and built the stone monuments in line with them. Then a star fell out of the sky! And Dave Murphy played his black wood flute. And it was a wondrous thing to be alive.
Omigod, the Irish rugby team just CREAMED the English team 46-13 in one of the most historical and emotive days in Irish sport history and Irish history itself. For the first time ever an English team was allowed into the hallowed grounds of Croke Park, the home of Gaelic football and hurley, and the scene of a civilian massacre by British soldiers in 1920. (The Hogan Stand is named after the hurley captain who died along with 13 spectators.) Some might say the ghosts of the murdered were with the lads today. It was a ROUT. There was a huge issue beforehand about God Save the Queen being sung at the game, but the Irish fans didn't bat an eye and clapped afterwards to show a welcoming spirit. Winners all round, it was a great day to be Irish.
This is a photo of me and the Duchess, my beloved Triumph Herald which shows up in all The Chronicles of Faerie books. Findabhair is asleep in her baby chair inside. We're on the western shore of Inch Island, one of the settings for The Hunter's Moon. At the time, we were living in an alternative community called Meitheal (the Irish word for a communal work party, like a "bee" in Canada. Yeah, I was a hippie, so what.) Ideally, this pic belongs in the Book Blog but I already posted there and this blog was looking abandoned.
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Just back from a weekend of Buddhist teachings with a wonderful Tibetan lama, Panchen Otrul Rinpoche. He lives in a big country house that is also a retreat centre - Jampa Ling - in County Cavan. I've been going to this centre for 17 years now! Here's one of the best things I learned. Usually when I feel really happy, the happiness is tempered with guilt. I can't help thinking, 'how can I be happy when so many others aren't?' Rinpoche says if you are happy then expand that happiness out into the world for the benefit of all sentient beings. (And that, I must say, makes you feel even happier.) While I'm writing this, I am listening to an exquisite CD of Tibetan chants and prayers mingled with Celtic rhythms and a beautiful poem to White Tara in Irish. Is tusa mo mhathair. (You are my mother.) Tara was born of a tear from the eyes of the Buddha of Compassion to answer the suffering in the world. It is, of course, magical that her name is the same as the royal site of Tara, named after an ancient goddess of Ireland, Téa. The sacred songlines of the world interweave to make one true tapestry that underlies all. See: www.jampaling.org and also www.iol.ie/~taeger/panchen/panchen.html.
As I heat up the house on this frosty moonlit night, I want to post a gorgeous frosty photograph sent to me by William Todd Jones, centaur/Merlin-husband featured in some of last year's blogs. An unmentioned new year's resolution of mine is the purchase of two essential items this year:
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