The tribe is now spread across the continents, but they carry within them the wisdom of their ancestors; after all, we are the sum totality of all that has been before us—nothing is lost; forgotten for a time, perhaps, but never lost. Today that fulfilment of the human spirit by means of mythological, magical transformation is applicable wherever these tales are told. They are made appropriate to new locations, singing of a connection that the tribe has with a new land. The cultural expression and influences of the old Celtic peoples can be seen far and wide, from the banks of the sacred river Severn, where the goddess Sabrina whispers her magic to the land, to the tumultuous waters of the rushing, spring-embracing Saco River in Maine. At the banks of these rivers, within sacred groves the world over, one can visualise the priests of today offering their libations and gifts solemnly to the gods of the ancient Celtic world, made relevant to the current age. The gods still breathe; they are alive for as long as we keep them alive.
In my musings and flights of fancy, I often wonder if there was a day when the gods did actually walk the earth. My imagination soars, permitted by the imagery given to us by amazing storytellers to see a time when humans and fey, mortals and gods walked side by side. Mythologies developed from this concept and demonstrate a time and place where we walked shoulder to shoulder with those who exist just beyond the breath, hidden to mortal eyes by the veils of cynicism, disbelief, and apathy. Surviving to this day in the oral narrative tradition of these lands is the belief that the gods and the fey, the fair folk, were shielded from our human eyes by the very fact that we distanced ourselves from the land. A veil was drawn across our cynical eyes, preventing us the sight that inspired our myths, our history of the heart and spirit.
There is no smoke without fire, and the fires that burnt so brightly in these lands so many centuries ago continue to burn. The native mythologies arose out of a need, but unlike the revealed orthodox religions, they did not arise out of a need to understand death and to be assured of the survival of the apparent identity beyond it. They arose to exemplify that life is the current embodiment of mystery—that truth exists in living, not in the fear of dying and the hope that we may survive it. The revealed religions teach a system of continuity, where the immortal human spirit retains its current, ever-changing identity and carries it onto the next world. By retaining this aspect of the identity, the spirit can then be rewarded or punished in a manner that would instill joy or terror. But the form of effective reward or punishment is entirely dependent on the fact that we do retain our apparent identities, without which the reward or punishment would be ineffective. This mythology arose into a structured dogma, one that offers comfort to the faithful and fear to the sinners.
When we examine some of the Celtic myths and poetry, we find within them recurring themes that speak of various states being experienced by the initiate simultaneously. Taliesin himself talks of having been myriad things before attaining his current form: “I have been a multitude of shapes before I assumed this form; I was a drop of rain in the air, I was the brightest of stars…”3
The mysteries within the Celtic mythologies speak of a constant, permanent state of being that preceded this life, is woven into this life, and simply continues on its merry course after this experience comes to its natural end. This life is simply one chapter in the book of the universe. The mysteries of Celtica do not teach an abandonment of living but instead inspire us to a state of lucid living. Within this state of lucidity we become aware of the fine threads that connect us to nature, to an understanding that we are an integral aspect of this world and of the spiritual realms, not something that is separate from it or in some state of perpetual suffering.
The mythologies of the Celtic people continue to inspire and to teach, reaching into the twenty-first century like fingertips of wisdom that rise from the depths of the cauldron. It can be said that a culture does not retain what has no significance to it—if something does not apply, then get rid of it; if something is of no use, then abandon it. The tales and myths of our Celtic ancestors have survived because they are relevant; they are not simply antiquities of language preserved for their beauty and rhythm. They are as relevant today as they were yesterday and a thousand years ago, for they speak to the spirit—they acknowledge that spirit and body are as one, sharing the same space, living in the richness of life, relishing in experience. They are relevant, for they contain truths pertinent to culture; they are comprised of keys, culturally specific keys that demonstrate our ancestors’ understanding of mystery and spirit. It is us, the practitioners of the old ways in the new world, who continue to make these tales significant, relevant, and applicable.
The Landscape of Myth
At this point, a description is in order of the physical locality where our tale is set to provide you with an image of the beauty, ruggedness, and wildness of Cerridwen’s landscape. Technology will enable you to observe the landscape by means of Internet satellite imagery if you so wish, transporting you via cyberspace to images that may be used in your meditations and journey work. To achieve this, simply type the names Bala or Llanuwchllyn into a search engine, and just like magic it will appear before your very eyes.
The location of the tale of Cerridwen and her cauldron is firmly placed in what is now the Snowdonia National Park. In a valley carved from ice a mile high, the melting waters and rain-soaked mountains created a four-mile-long lake. Our early ancestors settled at either end of the lake. Today to the northeast sits the town of Bala, whose name refers to the estuary created by a sacred river dedicated and named after the goddess Ayrwen (Dee). She was a goddess of war and battle, invoked to bestow courage and bravery, victory and triumph. Her waters run into the lake at one end and flow out of the opposite, her qualities and attributions swimming, for a while, with the sacred waters of Cerridwen. At the opposite end of the lake, nestled into the narrowing valley, is the charming village of Llanuwchllyn, meaning “the parish above the lake.” Betwixt and between these two points sprawl the waters of Lake Bala, known locally as Llyn Tegid (the Lake of Tegid).
To stand on the shores of the lake, home of Cerridwen and her family, what strikes one initially is the silence, the stillness—too much of a stillness for it not to have been filled to capacity just a second before one arrived. There is heaviness to the air, not in an oppressive manner but rather reflecting the weight of magic and wisdom that imbues the place. It is a place where dragons sleep, where magic feels imminent; it sings of floods, of witches and goddesses, of prophets and kings. Lake Tegid’s tree-lined shores sing in unison with the magic that rises from the dark depths of the pristine waters. The majestic mountains of the Snowdonia range peer into the mirrorlike surface, casting long reflections of land and sky. Standing on the shores of the lake, one can appreciate why such a myth would have arisen from such an inspiring and naturally beautiful location. Some of the old texts claim that Cerridwen and her family lived on an island in the middle of the lake; today no island is present, perhaps having sunk to the depths in an age-long past. During clement weather the area is stunning, especially when basked in sunshine, allowing one to be immersed in an atmosphere of enchantment and infinite possibilities whilst contemplating the mysteries under the tree- dappled light of our nearest star. The grass is soft and welcoming, tickling bare feet that step in awe at the beauty of the place, each footfall sensing the pulsing stories that radiate from the ground, through trunk and branch, to reach the clouds captured by mountain peaks.
The nose is enticed by the aroma of the abundant herbs and wildflowers that festoon the lakeshore—alchemilla, meadowsweet, coltsfoot, honeysuckle, and bramble, to name but a handful—ample ingredients for the brewing of an Awen-filled potion. Fingers can caress the coolness of water, embrace the moss- and lichen-encrusted trunks and branches of a plethora of tree species. The eyes may gaze at the reflections in the mirrorlike surface of the lake and watch the fish that glide gracefully beneath the water’s surface, creatures that sing
their own song of connection to a place.
But perhaps most remarkable is the fact that this place actually exists—it is not a location from a far-flung fairy tale or a country submerged beneath the waves. It is real and tangible, a place one can visit and be in direct contact with powerful archetypes firmly rooted in tradition and location. It provides a unique opportunity for soul-filled connection. Not only is one able to read and hear these tales, to experience them in that place between the worlds, but the physical body can journey to it. Standing thigh-deep in the sacred waters of Cerridwen provides a tool for connection like no other. To then warm the body by a fire on her shores, lost in the rapture of being in the moment, the mind’s eye can see the simmering cauldron atop its flames, its belly caressed by the heat. Given this opportunity to physically be present, the body and mind are permitted to leap free from the confines of everyday society. We become enraptured by the magic of something so old, so mysterious, that the mind can break free from the density of the cranium and lose itself in the blissfulness of being at one with mystery and the life-changing magic that results from such immersion.
Location is important for rites of pilgrimage, to enhance the meditative tools required for spirit journeys to distant lands, but no physical journey is required or expected to sense, connect, and be inspired by this tale and others like it. For the tale has become more than the totality of its location; it has reached out into the world for centuries past as bards, minstrels, and storytellers took it to distant corners of the land. Eventually the tale would travel even further to each corner of the planet—moving, transforming, inspiring.
Surviving the Ages
Against all the odds, against all enemies, somehow or another, these tales did survive and make it right through to the current century. Several factors ensured their survival, and when evaluated as a whole they present something immensely magical. To understand and appreciate what the tales endured, it is necessary to gain a little background knowledge into the forces that strived to keep them alive. I will briefly touch on three vital aspects that secured the survival of Celtica’s tales, these being:
• the Narrative Spirit
• the bards
• the monasteries
The bards and monasteries represent the human, physical machinery that kept the tales alive. However, the first aspect of survival is fluid—it has no face to speak of, no actual physical presence; it exists in the breath, in the air, in the wind that blows across the mountains. The tales arose from the depths of the human ability to imagine, to see beyond the visible world and into realms of potentiality and magic. The tales, legends, stories, and lore of the Celtic people did not exist in a vacuum; rather, they were and continue to be nurtured and nourished by the community in which they exist and thrive. Without the community to colour the material and perpetuate them, they would simply cease to exist and vanish into obscurity. Thankfully a deep, ancient relationship developed between the spirit behind the tales and the people to whom they were relevant. This is what is known as the Narrative Spirit. It is the living, inspiring, Awen-filled creative force that prevented stagnation and thus perpetuated the tales. It is the magic behind the words that fall from lips and rise from dusty parchment.
Consequently, the Narrative Spirit facilitated the continuation of the tales from the golden age of our Celtic ancestors to the present day. Being a living tradition, it adapted to change with remarkable aplomb; the situations and functions of the tales changed with each passing century, coloured by society at the time, yet the actual fundamental content of them remained more or less unchanged. They retained their magic even when confronted with so much change. Had they existed simply in the literal sense, they would have surely perished; it is the Narrative Spirit flowing through the words of the storyteller, bard, and poet that ensured survival of the tradition. It is this living entity that gives voice to the next category of survival mechanism.
The Bards
Contrary to popular belief, bards are not redundant relics of an ancient past; they continue to perpetuate their craft to this day, having done so from the height of the Celtic golden age. Etymologically, the word bard is of Celtic origin, possibly originating in Gaul, and retains the same sound throughout the six primary Celtic lands. The current Welsh language defines bard (Welsh bardd) as a transmitter of tradition and Awen, an individual trained in the old traditions of storytelling and the dissemination of tribal wisdom. In Wales they were specifically trained in the old tongue and were primarily members of the bardic orders. Their task was to memorise countless tales, prose, poetry, and songs, and to retain this information and knowledge and then transmit it via the narrative tradition to the people. They were simultaneously servants of society, tradition, the gods, and the spirit of culture and heritage. Within the Welsh language another meaning for the word bard is daroganwr, meaning “prophet,” and it is true that much of the old poetry of the Celtic bards contains prophecies, some of which have been realised and others which speak of things yet to come. A bard is not simply a teller of tales; like the many skins and layers of an onion, their role is also multi-layered and steeped in tradition, mystery, and magic.
In the Welsh bardic tradition, the role of the storyteller was given the title of cyfarwydd, a word that further emphasises the mysterious, magical quality of the bardic schools or orders. Literally translated, the term means “the familiar learned one.” However, the University of Wales’s Dictionary of the Welsh Language also stipulates that the cyfarwydd were also skilled in magic.4 Think for a moment about the meaning of the word magic; you will have built assumptions of what it means, how it is understood, how you have used it and worked with it. To many it is the subtle craft of conjuration, spellcasting, ritualised forms of invocation, and the creation of change in accordance to the might of the will. Whatever your interpretation of magic is, there is another older, powerful form of it that exists in the proclamation of the bard. The words the cyfarwydd utter do not exist in a vacuum; they are multi-intentional and arise from an ethereal spiritual connection to a lineage of ancestry. Each generation of cyfarwydd practised, rehearsed, and connected to the magic of the bardic mysteries in a manner applicable to the time. By use of that magic, the bards and the cyfarwydd ensured the survival of the material by use of visionary methods that were and continue to radiate from the cauldron of inspiration. In the bardic sense, there is another form of magic that differs from the conventional, a magic that lies beneath the undeniable power of words and suggests an older, primal origin of magic that connects us to the origin of the spirit and the nature of the universe.
The role of the bard, the cyfarwydd in Wales, was to lead the people and through that leadership to inspire, enabling the audience to see beyond the purely physical, to utilise Awen to give meaning to what was meaningless, to make possible what was impossible. The bards vividly made the unseen worlds visible, sparking the imagination to explore worlds separated from ours by only a gossamer strand of silken thread. They would entertain—bringing about laughter and satire in a world devoid of multimedia technology whilst simultaneously teaching the mysteries and spirit-laden truths that hid within their words to those who had ears to hear. This they achieved by proxy of the connection they had to the source material, a bridge of heritage and tradition reaching back through the mists of time to the great cauldron.
The threads of structure that bridge the present to the past have not changed; they continue to serve the mysteries of the old ways and do so by means of the bards of today. These are our writers, singers, poets, musicians, and artists. The traditions of the British Isles have long been accused of having no continuity—that any form of apostolic succession to the old world of druids and priests has long been severed, but have they? Perhaps it is simply a matter of misdirected perception. However tenuous the links to the past are, they arguably exist and provide a doorway that links us to the wisdom of the bards of old. The chain of continuity may not be as a
pparent as a book or dogma or some other physical means of record or instruction, but the chain exists in the power of words and the ability of those words to move the body and spirit to closer proximity.
Bards bring about life; they cause things to exist that previously were un-manifest. The bards ensured the continuation of the spoken word and the power that inherently lies within it, and the bards of today perpetuate this tradition.
The Rise of the Monasteries
The other vital aspect in the chain of survival was the monastic establishments of medieval Wales. The obvious dichotomy here is the sudden mixture of Pagan material with the new Christian religion, and one could sincerely ask the question of why this material was kept and preserved in monasteries with their more than obvious references to the old religion! We may never get to the bottom of this dilemma, but several theories have been put forth over the years. What is imperative to accept and understand is that whatever animosity existed between the Christian and Pagan traditions, these were somehow reconciled, and the power of the church was utilised to preserve the material at hand, perhaps unwittingly. It has been suggested that some members of the monastic institutions were also secret members of the ancient bardic traditions and were placed in prime positions to document the narrative tradition, knowing that times were changing. The world was evolving in a literal sense, and it was vital that the material of the old bardic schools evolved with it; being a living tradition, it simply adapted by means of its practitioners to fit in with the times.
From the Cauldron Born Page 3