**photos of me at Beltaine and the waterfalls in my backyard in North Carolina.**
The spirits whisper through the veil of snow,
The snow blinds with harsh Cold.
Cold is my heart from lack of Fire
Fire in the head I ask From Amergin,
Amergin that great druid spirit.
Druid Spirit I long for in my deepest soul and
my truest of hearts as I cry.
“a question, oh child of education where do you come from?
to which Nede replied: “not hard to answer”
from a wise man’s heel
from a confluence of wisdoms
from perfection of goodness
from brightness of sunrise
from poetry’s hazels
from splendour’s circuits
from that state where truth’s worth is measured
from that measure where truth is realised
from that reality where lies are vanquished
from where all colours are seen
from where all art is reborn
and you, my elder, where do you come from?
to which Fercheirtne replied: “not hard to answer”
from the width of the pillars of the age
from the fill of the rivers of Leinster
from the length of the hall of the wife of Nechtan
from the reach of the arm of the wife of Nuadu
from the extent of the country of the sun
from the height of the mansions of the moon
from the stretch of a babe’s umbilical cord”
~ from The dialogue of Two Sages
…The first time I heard this retold by the great modern ‘bard’ Robin Williamson I cried. It is the beauty I always try to express. I’m working on reading the entire work ‘The Dialogue of two sages’ right now as part of my Oblaire training. It is a wonderful read but nothing brought such emotion as hearing this wonderful tale as it was meant to be heard, in the bardic traditions of old.
I grew up in a very magical place in the Heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Western North Carolina. I was raised on stories and high tales of old ways at the knee of southern grandparents and at the stage of great spinners of legend at the Storytelling festivals or street faires that dotted the countryside.
My dear Oma (grandmother) taught me how to read and intstilled in me a love of the spoken word in form of play or tale at a very young age. She was always reading to me or asking me to recite a story I read in school.
My Father was an excellent story teller. We would spend hours at the dinner table listening to him tell the same 8 or 10 stories with such vigor and movement that something would always get knocked over. One summer we built a tree deck around a huge oak tree near one of the two creeks that danced through our property and I would ask him countless question about science, nature, the world, people, religion or space and he would always have an answer for me that was well thought out and made sense. He was always eager to teach me and help me learn.
When we were younger my mother’s favorite activity was to take us all ‘waterfall hunting’ ( the county we lived in had over 10,000 waterfalls so this was a great thing to do) . I could see her soul sing, one of the only times I remember her truly being happy. As we wound our way through the mazes of green we would sing silly songs and ballads and take turns telling lines of made up fairy tales.
when we moved from North Carolina the stories stopped, the singing ended. We never went hiking againand didn’t have dinner as a family anymore. Hard times came to us and I don’t think we ever recovered as a family. Ever once in a great while my mother will say ‘ I miss North Carolina’ in a passing way and everyone will not and get quite. Silence will settle and we all seem to pay respects to some dead dream and wander off to another part of the house to forget about what was lost.
Maybe because of the death of beauty, the fire in our eyes, our passion…… that is why I cry. Maybe that is why I pursue this path with such ferocity…
“Your interpretation was correct, but there is no soul in your learning.”