From the Cauldron Born

by Kristoffer Hughes

  Dark caves stand at the junction between land and sea, their deep, gloomy interiors booming with the echo of the tide. Light very rarely enters these domains of the Goddess where her bones are laid bare, sore and tender. Within my own landscape I sense the ford a few fields away from my home—it is road and river, a place of offerings and appeasement, a place traditionally associated with the fair folk of the island. Similarly a great lake swims within a clearing in the forest to the south of my home; it is the lake of fairy, an entryway to the otherworld. The estuary only a hundred yards away, a mysterious boundary between land and sea—it feels dangerous; it challenges anyone who dares venture onto it. These places of liminality evoke a deep darkness wherein swims the memory of all who have ever lived. Akin to the peculiarity of a crossroad or a patch of shoreline at low tide that would otherwise be inundated by the sea, liminality sits at the junction of time and place, a location that is not defined, not clear. There is nothing to conform to here, no set rules or regulations; even the law itself seems to have been suspended at these places or taken to their extreme perimeters of acceptability. Yet these places and times ensnare us in their enchanting quality, they have been vital components of our cultural heritage and expression. They have influenced and inspired our mythologies and traditions; they are a part of us. They allow us the opportunity to step out of ordinariness and leap into the uncharted territory of the spirit; they are both simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar.

  Liminality is a crucial aspect of Pagan practise; it animates our tradition and brings colour to what may otherwise be a struggle to sense the otherworldly quality of this colourful and vibrant tradition.

  Exercise

  How do you experience liminality? What songs of liminality exist in your immediate surroundings? This is an exercise in familiarity, in finding the liminal places that surround you. These may be surprising things, places, and times that you have encountered a thousand times in your life, yet perhaps not afforded them notice.

  Begin with your home; find the liminal places within it. What defines its portals and thresholds? Are you aware of them? Perhaps they are places where you have guardians in position: totem deities pertinent to you, your family and tradition. Explore the liminal thresholds of your home and pay attention to them. In Wales there is a tradition that if the liminal thresholds are dirty, the pwca—notoriously mischievous nature spirits—will run amuck and cause havoc within the home. To prevent this, the doorsteps, window frames, and sills must be cleaned frequently or risk calamity by the hands of the pwca. Consequently, doorsteps are cleansed and the open portals are smudged with sweet-smelling incense rich in pine resin and mugwort, vervain and rowan berry.

  Do you have a garden gate, a wall, a fence or other enclosure? The borders of your home are liminal places—they are the locations where guardians can be placed to protect and defend the home; they are powerful places steeped in mythology and lore. It is commonly believed that negative or destructive influences cannot easily cross a protected liminal threshold, hence the belief that vampires must be invited.

  Spend time at the liminal thresholds of your home during liminal time, at dusk, dawn, midnight, and midday. Sense the subtle energies that reside there. In the nature of Morda, do this blindly—wrap a scarf or blindfold about your eyes and rely on your subtle senses to perceive the energies that abound at the thresholds of your home.

  Extend this practise further afield by visiting the liminal places you can identify in your surrounding neighbourhood or countryside. Bridges and stiles, structures steeped in liminal mythology, seethe with subtle energies of between-ness. Waiting rooms and departure lounges at ports and stations and airports are all liminal places where people await transition. Lakeshores, seashores, towers, and hills—all these places sing the songs of being betwixt and between. Visit them, feel them, and when you next cast your circles, relish in the liminality that you are creating, a place that is between the worlds.

  As an individual or within a group, embark on journeys to explore liminality. Lead a workshop in which all participants lie on their backs in a darkened room with a heavy stone placed upon their bellies. Breathe in to the count of four and out to the count of four. Allow the mind to drift close to the hypnagogic state, to that place of liminality where we are closer to the source of all being. Immersion in this state will bring subtle visions and messages that filter from the abyss of potential to the conscious mind.

  Become aware of the liminal times, states, and places that affect your Paganism and practise and how they enrich your rituals and devotionals. Note them in your journal.

  [contents]

  53. Peniarth MS 111.

  54. NLW 5276D.

  55. Manuscript NLW 13075B.

  Cerridwen

  in search of the witch goddess

  • • •

  When the chairs come to be judged,

  My own will be the best of them.

  These are my songs, and this is my cauldron,

  These are my rules.

  In the court of Don I am a knowledgeable one.

  The Chair of Cerridwen

  Our story brings us to the throne of the witch goddess, the initiatrix, the great devourer of the profane. To explore the meaning and substance of this enigmatic character involves a journey deep into the heart of Celtic magic. When we approach the cauldron, we find ourselves pivoted between it and Awen, and facing us are the deep, wisdom-filled eyes of the witch goddess Cerridwen. She stands as sentinel to the mysteries; she is the initiator, the conjurer of the flowing spirit; knees may bend before her in reverence, yet she is inherently knowledgable of the human condition and its limitations. She is by no means intimidating or frightful, but she takes no prisoners; to approach her is to be challenged.

  By definition of the content of the tale and the teachings that lie within it, one cannot avoid a connection with the witch goddess; a relationship with this component of the mystery is imperative to immersion and transformation. However, it would be foolhardy for the querent to approach her without due study and a spirit that is receptive to her teachings. To approach the witch goddess is to open a doorway into the heart of mystery. Cerridwen bridges the gap between the profane and the sublime; she is the vehicle that transports the querent through the tumultuous maelstrom of the human condition. She opens the heart to deep magic that immerses the querent in the intoxicating elixir that bubbles within the cauldron. She challenges, she provokes, she imbues wisdom and experience—she guides and subsequently devours the profane aspect of the querent prior to engaging her powers as the great mother who births a child of magic.

  Much has been written in relation to the witch goddess Cerridwen, and I am conscious of the risks of falling into patterns of repetition. The following exploration and interpretation will be equally based on an academic dissection of the witch goddess and how she is portrayed in the chronicles of the Celts. The other vehicle of exploration is by means of the subtle, subjective mechanism of the visionary mind, the power of magical connection. One can become befuddled by pure academic exploration, and too much of the subjective would serve to imbalance the material; therefore, both aspects must be combined in a manner which, I hope, is complementary rather than antagonistic. Before I embark on the examination of her name within the ancient language of Wales, I feel it necessary to share my own personal thoughts on Cerridwen’s significance.

  To stand on the shores of her vast lake, surrounded by the Berwyn Mountains, whose feet dip gently into her waters, is to stand in the presence of Cerridwen. In my visionary mind I see her walking towards me across Lake Tegid’s waters; the robes embracing her body seem to be fabricated from the crystal-clear water itself. Her skin is as white as snow, and her dark hair runs in rivulets about her face and shoulders, falling from beneath a crown of sweetest honeysuckle. As she steps from water to land, the greens and browns of the trees and grass reflecting in her fluid robes, she s
miles gracefully. Her eyes are as black and deep as the lake from whence she came. She has no sclera, no whites in her eyes; they are the pools of old magic, of the old ways of these lands. Her eyes are the windows to the soul of the universe.

  Visions of Cerridwen compel one to feel a deep sense of sovereignty; the head bows and the knees bend, only to find that the witch goddess reaches out, indicating that such action is not required nor necessary. She radiates a beauty that words are unable to articulate, and yet within her deep eyes there is a sense of the Dark Goddess. This aspect has been placed upon her in recent decades, as have other titles such as Grain Goddess and Pig Goddess. They are not cast aside or dismissed; instead, they are gathered up in her robes and embraced. She pulses with power—its fronds can be felt by the heart and pull at the senses; her eyes see beyond your physical form and touch the edges of your spirit. It stings as the wonder and energy of the witch goddess combines with one’s own; shivers run, and the goose raises its head in a sea of pimples that tickle the skin. To be in the presence of Cerridwen is to stand in the halls of ancient magic and mystery.

  I recall a time when I was lost in the rapture of Cerridwen, surrounded and in the company of priestesses who have devoted themselves to her. The witch goddess watched on, observing and reveling in the dance of devotion. I stood back, my consciousness half in this world and half in the other, and observed her nature. What was apparent was her totemic aspect, her role as the queen of witches and of Witchcraft. Prior to her ascension as a goddess, a theme that will be explored a little later, she was primarily a witch. She stands as the epitome of the magical crafts, of the wisdom of Witchcraft, spellcasting, conjuration, and sorcery. She sits at the heart of Celtic magic; she is teacher, mentor, and guide; she is the Mother Witch of Britain and of its Witchcraft. To take her hand in learning is to walk through the landscape with the wisdom of ages, to learn what no book can teach. She takes the initiate to the ancient halls of learning and teaches us that we are the sum totality of that font of knowledge and that its wisdom can be accessed if the heart sincerely seeks it. One can become entangled in the belief that Cerridwen’s role is restricted to the process of transformation alone. This is untrue. She has numerous aspects: she is initiator and witch, she transforms but also teaches and serves the Craft of the Wise. She is a valuable asset to any witch or practitioner of the Celtic mysteries.

  When we consider the source material, we find that Cerridwen is not limited to a single tale; she appears in several manuscripts, which affirms and confirms the importance of the witch goddess. Before we embark on examining her significance, though, we must explore the etymology of her name. A warning here: the following material can appear to be somewhat complex (no great surprise, considering it involves one of the most enigmatic figures of the Celtic mysteries); many of the words and constructs may be alien to you, and your tongue may struggle in the attempt at pronunciation. Fear not! I have attempted to provide a comprehensive a guide without being too verbose or overcomplicated. However, it may take a few readings before you are better acquainted with the lyrical dance of the Welsh language. The pronunciation guide in this book will serve to assist your efforts.

  The Black Book of Carmarthen, compiled in its current form during the thirteenth century, records two significant instances of Cerridwen’s name: “Hervit urten autyl kyrridven ogyrven amhad …(according to the sacred ode of Cyrridwen, the Ogyrwen of various seeds …)”56

  The above line is repeated in another poem of the Black Book of Carmarthen, which tells us that she was considered a component of inspiration. In both instances the poem, in full, recounts the importance of poetry and the magic of the bard or minstrel. It speaks of their exalted speech and the nature of poetic harmony. The poets described within the collection seem to take their authority and their inspiration from the witch goddess herself—she appears as a patron to those in possession of the bardic or Prophetic Spirit. However, something unique arose from the single line that appears above, and we first encounter it in the epic collection translated by W. F. Skene and entitled The Four Ancient Books of Wales: the term “Ogyrwen.” This title or name appears in works attributed or concerning the prophet Taliesin. In the Book of Taliesin we are informed that “Ogyrwen” is connected to Cerridwen and her cauldron, and the poem describes oblations and offerings to this mysterious creature. Within the Book of Taliesin we find the following verse:

  Neut amuc yg kadeir o peir Kerritwen; handit ryd vyn tafawt yn adawt gwawt Ogyrwen, Gwawt Ogyrwen uferen rwy digones, arnunt, a llefrith a gwlith a mes.57

  The eminent W. F. Skene translated the above as:

  May my tongue be free in the sanctuary and praise of Gogyrwen; the praise of Gogyrwen is an oblation which may be satisfied by them with milk and dew and acorns.58

  In stark contrast to the above, which contains the term Ogyrwen, he adds the letter G to the name, implying that Ogyrwen is a mutation of Gogyrwen. However, Skene is obviously influenced by the poetic genius of Iolo Morganwg, who coined the term Gogyrwen to mean a creature of elemental or spiritual value or personification.59 When this is considered in relation to the suffix wen commonly found in the majority of Celtic female archetypes, it seems likely that Mr. Skene assumed therefore that “(g)Ogyrwen” was a goddess. Consequently, his translation within The Four Ancient Books of Wales of the Black Book of Carmarthen’s poems informs us that “according to the sacred ode of Cerridwen, the goddess of various seeds.”60

  But, as one can see in the original text, we do not find the Welsh word for goddess—Duwies—instead we have Ogyrven. The Dictionary of the Welsh Language interprets Ogyrven61 as “Awen, inspiration, poetry.” However, Iolo Morganwg defines this entity as something of greater mystery; he defines it as a personification, a being of immense power and inspiration. Ultimately, very little can be deduced in relation to Ogyrwen by academic measures alone, and we must look to the subtle. The groundbreaking scholar D. W. Nash remarked that it is not entirely clear what is meant by the term Ogyrwen, but he notes that many previous academics and linguistics have deduced that it is likely to mean a “spiritual form or a personified idea” in a similar manner to Iolo Morganwg’s interpretation.62 Nash directs the attention to a line in the Book of Taliesin poem “Angar Kyfundawt (The Hostile Confederacy),” which states “Seith ugein Ogyrven yssyd yn Awen (there are seven score Ogyrven in Awen).”63

  We must be subjective here and resort to utilising the subtle senses alone; this may well imply, as Nash suggests, that there may be seven sources for Awen, the knowledge of which has been lost to the mists of time. It could imply that there are seven dutiful deities, archetypes, or goddesses that serve the function of Awen, bringing it from the fluid ethereal realm of Ogyrwen and making it manifest on the earthly plane. Providing the querent with identifiable mechanisms with which to access the mysteries, the adept—in this case, Cerridwen—acts as a guiding hand, the bridge between the conceptual and the incomprehensible. It is possible that the source of Awen is too vast, too big for our puny human minds to digest; the seven- score elements of Ogyrwen may well be the instruments that prevent the total losing of our minds by grounding us in culture, land, and community.

  One can safely assume that the translation by Skene may have played a significant role in the later development of Cerridwen as a goddess, and there may be elements of truth here. By all accounts the poems link the magical power of Cerridwen via her cauldron with Ogyrwen. In my opinion and visions, Ogyrwen is a deity whose legacy has been lost to us, yet clues remain to tantalise and inspire our meditations upon her. She may represent the Mother Goddess of Awen, the one whom Cerridwen receives her abilities from; they certainly share something by proxy of their names, as we have seen in the suffix wen. It is therefore my opinion that Cerridwen is directly connected to this ancient Mother Goddess, who may not have had an earthly component other than her representatives on this plane. I have often imagined that Cerridwen and her initiates are in magical succession to t
his primary Goddess of Awen. The identification of Cerridwen as a goddess in the above translation has led to her subsequent deification and serves to demonstrate the complex and colourful nature of this archetype. However, some scholars of the past were nothing short of insolent when it came to her academic examination. The Celtic scholar Ifor Williams, who wrote extensively about the figures of Celtica, discussed Cerridwen in his work on the tale of Taliesin. In it he takes the form of her name as it appears in the poetry of the Black Book of Carmarthen and denigrates her title to mean “bent, crooked one”and further elaborates in a rather impudent manner that:

  Cerridwen was not the witch’s real name, it is too sweet and loving a name to be put on the likes of her! In the old manuscripts, the Black Book of Carmarthen, she is called Cyrridfen. This consists of “fen” to mean wife and “Cyrrid” is derived from “cwrr,” meaning something crooked. You know what kind of nose a witch has, well I suggest that Cerridwen, with her body all bent and crooked, her hooked nose and twisted hands, were as wrongful as her craft!64

  Mr. Williams certainly did not hold back his prejudices and was keen to brand Cerridwen as a twisted old hag, more typical of a Hollywood production than an initiate of the mysteries. But one must also consider the overtly Presbyterian nature and faith of the majority of Celtic scholars. He was, perhaps, biased, for he simply had no other point of reference that could place Cerridwen in a position of wisdom and knowledge. That, in a similar thread to Elis Gruffudd’s opinion, would be against all faith and piety. I may be a little harsh on old Mr. Williams here, but it is likely that he was influenced by the restraints of the Presbyterian environment of the early twentieth century. He may have found Mr. Skene’s rendition of Cerridwen as a goddess a little difficult to swallow.