by David Yeadon
But all that was only after Ralph’s “wonder years” of wandering from Central and South America and Machu Picchu, Eastern Europe and Russia, to some of the remotest and dangerous regions of Tibet, the Celtic centers of Europe, and the “ancient alchemical world” of Renaissance Bohemia.
In between his journeys, described with great vigor and verve in his still incomplete memoir, Ralph was involved in founding and/or organizing three major catalysts of holistic thought and action, which attracted a vast spectrum of thinkers, practitioners, and participants. Ralph was deeply enmeshed in not only the mundanities and minutiae of creating organizations but also the miracles of megachange and transformation that he sensed emerging from these amazingly energetic and effervescent centers.
But somewhere deep in his own soul and in the mind-boggling mélange of philosophies and “isms” he’d studied, he constantly sensed around him the great archetypal figures of Welsh mythology, Merlin and Taliesin—both beloved shamans with knowledge and understanding of the deepest mysteries of nature. “They were always present,” said Ralph with his soft voice and irrepressible grin, “reminding me—and all of us—of the earth wisdom we need as we so belatedly attempt to restore a sustainable earth.”
“But surely they’re figures of myth—not reality?” I said.
Ralph’s gentle grin became a chesty guffaw. “Well then—they’re in good company with all the mythical Greek gods from whom we draw so much insight and wisdom—and even the Creator Himself/ Herself/Itself and dozens of other legendary figures who function as metaphors for our own growth and enlightenment. The Celts had a natural affinity for altered states of consciousness—an intuitive acceptance of shape-shifters, magicians, and fairies. Merlin and Taliesin were all part of that wonderful tableau. I mean, the Celtic world possesses a panoply of mythical figures, but it also has an intrinsic soul very much linked to reality and the earth itself. I discovered that truth in the 1970s when I spent time on the island of Iona in the Scottish Hebrides, long famed for its sanctity as the birthplace of Celtic Christianity. It was here on this wonderfully wild and windswept place that St. Columba came from Ireland in the late sixth century and carried with him a pure, nature-infused spirituality to the wild Scots and Picts who had remained beyond the control of the Roman Empire, north of Hadrian’s Wall.”
Ralph sat quietly for a while, smiling at his memories. “Iona’s a truly magnificent place—a primeval haven with spirituality permeating the rocks, cliffs, caves, fields, waters…It’s everywhere. Alive and throbbing. I enjoyed some of the most perfect, soul-nourishing experiences of my entire life on this little holy island. I don’t have much interest in organized formal religions, but here I sensed an ancient spirit of true sanctity that felt eternal and essential…I sensed the island offering itself as a sublime location for the deepening of spiritual life. Certainly my spiritual life and, from what I know, the lives of tens of thousands of other seekers.”
Another pause and then: “I mean…the feeling of peace and strength and delight I used to get just standing on top of Dun I, the island’s highest hill. Late summer afternoons on cloudless days gazing west across that turquoise ocean—I can still remember those sensations of utter calm years and years later. And if I ever sense tensions or anxieties, I return to Dun I in my mind and let those beautiful memories restore that sense of inner peace.”
“So the Celtic heritage still has real power even today?” I asked.
“Oh my gosh yes! And not in a theme park nonsense way, and not among esoteric—or more likely fake—crystal channelers and the like. I honestly feel that the Celtic mysteries still possess a power that can rival anything that’s emerged out of Tibet or India or Native America, or anywhere else, for that matter. And—as you know from living on Beara—the west coast of Ireland is a Celtic wonderworld brimming over with gods like the Celtic sun god, Lug, a whole array of Celtic-Christian saints, hermits, poetic bards, storytellers, folk healers, seers, shape-shifters, healing shamans, magicians, heroic kings, wizards, Druids, mighty warriors, banshees, and shee fairies—the Tuatha Dé Danaan—the spirit of Wicca, and neopaganism—all living on the fringes of Tír na nÓg—the ‘Land of Eternal Youth’—that otherworldly paradise. And even during the early centuries of Christianity when hermit-monks lived on those remote western Irish isles like the Skelligs and Caher—Celtic traditions and mythology often linked with Arthurian and Holy Grail legends survived intact.”
A Collage of Celtic-Christian Symbols
“Even today?”
“Yeah, well, it’s like I said—it’s hip to be Celtic today. Look at all the neo-Celtic music—all that Riverdance craze—movies like Braveheart, lots of Celtic-revival bands, new interest in the Celtic languages themselves, and all the great legends and song-poems. Sometimes, though, it can get very distorted. Until the recent peace in Northern Ireland, paramilitary groups on both sides would use the figure of Cuchulain as their own icon, the warrior-hero of that great song-poem The Cattle Raid of Cooley—in their initiation rites. One of the problems is that in their legends the gap between the Celtic bloodthirsty warrior culture and their deep, nature-loving spirituality was very narrow—almost invisible. And yet its essence is very human—recognizable in its strengths and frailties. It’s easy to identify with. I think that’s one of the reasons for the survival of Celtic traditions—that and maybe a deeper attunement to the wisdom and beauty beneath the surface of the Christian tradition. It’s tremendously life enhancing—it binds you very strongly. Whenever I’m in Europe and need stillness and inspiration away from all the crush and stress of cities, I’m off to the Celtic lands and islands. Places of natural silence. Places to rediscover deep and enduring threads of connectivity with all the essential elements of life and living.”
There was silence for quite a while. “Well, I guess that pretty well sums it all up,” I said.
“Yep. I guess it does…for now.”
“So all that’s left is for me to get hip and get Celtic…”
“Right”—Ralph laughed—“and also recognize just how subtle Celtic ideas were about the unity and balance of man and nature. St. Brigid, one of the most revered Celtic deities, is still a symbol for appropriate ways of interacting with the natural world. You could argue she was in contemporary terms a real ‘Greenie’—an avid supporter of conservation, recycling, reduced consumption, and increased sustainability by stopping our mad pursuit of mutual self-destruction.”
“So I guess you could claim that, in the midst of our overwhelming consumer capitalist culture, the Celtic spirit seems to stand for something way beyond obsessive materialism?”
“Absolutely,” said Ralph in a voice that sounded distinctly adamant and absolute. “It evokes a sense of music, soul, and poetry, of ‘the other world’ beyond the mundane chores of existence. I think we yearn for this desperately in the midst of all the money, gadgets, and obsession with work that characterize contemporary America. James Macpherson’s poem Ossian, which evoked the heroic world of the ancient Celtic warriors in the highlands of Scotland, had a huge impact on the emerging Romantic movement at the end of the nineteenth century. As Europe was evolving from the rationality and classicism of the Enlightenment, it was this Celtic world that offered inspiration to figures as diverse as Goethe and Napoleon, both of whom were great admirers of Ossian. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, during the time of the Celtic revival and the work of W. B. Yeats, Irish myths and fairy tales summoned magic into an increasingly commercialized and industrialized world.”
“So today the Celtic archetype returns once again to summon up the deeper mysteries of the Self?”
“Oh yes—to remind us of the need for a society in tune with the natural world, which stands for imagination, intuition, and mystery at a time when our psyches are barraged with an ever greater volume of data, trivia, and noise. As we see so many becoming gormless slaves—slaves of fleeting fads, slaves to the meaningless opinions or judgment of others, even slaves to the searc
h for self-gratification and godless ‘self-fulfillment.’ As our longing for silence and beauty inevitably grows stronger in the face of this relentless stream of shallow stimulii that characterizes the early twenty-first century, the Celtic world reminds us of different and far more enduring values and a different form of consciousness. It certainly seems to me that the lure of those sacred islands, the pull of those holy places, the fascination with an ancient but living culture imbued with soul and spirit—all these will only grow stronger as the human psyche demands a new wholeness with the power to create a far more sustainable and increasingly just world.”
Another long pause.
It seemed all that needed to be said had been said—elegantly and emotionally—by Ralph.
But then I think I surprised my friend: “Okay, I guess I get the last word because I’ve been doing some reading too. So I’ll offer you a blessing based on the wisdom of the Celtic ogham—that ancient alphabet that possessed special spiritual qualities: ‘May the trees of the forest take root in your heart that you may grow in wisdom, joy, and love for all who live in the earth’s embrace.’”
Ralph looked a little surprised. Then he smiled, and then he gave one of his big laughs, which made me realize what a great experience we could have had together if I’d ever managed to lure him down to Beara.
“Maybe next time.” He chuckled.
“Yeah…maybe.”
32
Returning to the Stones
“OH—JUST LOOK AT THAT!” ANNE gasped and pointed ahead to our right. “It’s fantastic…”
And so it was. We were on our way back to our Allihies cottage after a lively evening in Castletownbere, and a full moon was slowly slipping out from behind the distant Caha range, bathing the long swaths of peat moor in a phosphorescent light. I stopped the car and we got out. The air was chill but motionless. The silence was tangible, and we stood without talking, watching the moon ease slowly upward into the sky.
Then Anne pointed again toward the mountains. “What are those over there?”
I stared hard. Slowly an image appeared…large, silhouetted objects rising out of the dark immensity of the land…strange and yet familiar.
“I don’t know…Ah! Wait a minute—it’s Derreenataggart. Of course. The great stone circle. I’d forgotten we were so close…They look so eerie at night.”
Anne nodded. She was not a great lover of eerie things. Especially at night.
“Let’s go visit them again. In the moonlight,” I suggested.
“You sure you want to do that? It’s so late…”
“Aw, c’mon. It won’t take a minute.”
I took her silence for agreement (not at all the way Anne intended it), and then I spotted an odd vehicle over by a cluster of stumpy, wind-cowed trees. It was a bizarre, custom-made contraption. Part school bus, part caravan, part old hot-dog-and-burger wagon, if the faded sign over the side windows was any indication.
“Looks like an overnighter,” I said. “Travelers. It’s one of those Traveler vans.”
“Our modern-day gypsies.”
“Reminders of when we were writing our early travel books!” I said.
“Yes—but that was just the two of us in one tiny camper. Some of these Travelers move about in huge packs. They’re quite a problem over in Engand. I remember they settled in a field one time—just opposite my parents’ home…”
“Well—there’s only one here. So let’s leave them in peace and get to the stones. It’s cold…”
And there they were, a circle of monoliths, sheened by luminescent moonlight and enclosing the great central stone itself. It resembled some mighty leader surrounded by his (or her) loyal acolytes.
Our previous visits here had always seemed a little underwhelming. In the daylight, the stones certainly appeared smaller than we’d expected, although in actual fact, this five-thousand-year-old creation predates the Pyramids of Egypt, and is one of the most impressive circles in the southwest. But on this particular night it felt very different—in more ways than one. First of all, the stones seemed far larger and more dramatic than before. And despite the benign moonlight and the shimmering festoon of stars—almost more stars than space—there was an air of menace about the enclosing circle. Anne, of course, sensed it immediately.
“Will we be long here?” she whispered plaintively.
“We’ve only just got here!”
“I’m not sure I like this place…at least not at night!”
It was then I saw the lights. Faint flickers at first, like fireflies, but as I focused, I realized they were tiny flames. Five of them. In a line.
“What is it?” Ann asked nervously. “What are you looking at?”
“Lights. Candles, I think. Down there—beyond the circle.”
Anne saw them too. “Let’s go now,” she said with a slight tremor in her voice. “It’s really late…”
“No—just give me a minute. I want to see what they are—”
“I’m not coming with you,” she said. But she came anyway, and we walked together slowly and cautiously, not knowing what to expect. And then a voice, soft and definitely feminine, whispered, “Hello.”
“Hi,” I said, nervously looking around for the owner of the voice. And then I spotted her, half hidden by a huge round stone. She was dressed in very dark clothes. If the moon hadn’t been out, she would have been virtually invisible. “I’m sorry—are we disturbing you…?”
“No—please. Join me.”
She seemed very small and waiflike, hardly more than a teenager by the look of her young face bathed in the soft moonlight. She wore a dark cloak, wrapped like a security blanket over her slight shoulders. Five tiny candles in windproof jars were placed in an arc around her.
“Is that your van back there?” I asked, not quite knowing how to address this odd little figure.
“Yeah—a real mess, isn’t it? We’re in the middle of doing it up.”
“We?”
“Bob, my boyfriend—partner—and me. He’s gone off walking over there somewhere…” She pointed vaguely down into the darkness beyond the stone circle.
“And are you…celebrating something? You know, the candles…”
“Right. The winter solstice…the longest night…usually around December twenty-first…it depends on the moon.”
“Well, we won’t disturb you…”
“No, no. Sit down if you want. Not many people come up here at this time.”
Anne seemed hesitant, but we both eased ourselves down on the soft grass anyway.
“So—what happens at the winter solstice then?”
“Ah well—it’s the time of Cailleach—the Winter Spirit. Some call her The Hag. She has different names in different parts of the Celtic world. Last year, we were way up in the north of Scotland. We were lucky, we got the aurora borealis too—you know, the northern lights—but the moon was often too bright. They’re so beautiful—have you seen them?”
“No,” said Anne, finally deciding to join in. “Even though we spent some time on Harris in the Outer Hebrides, we never got the full show.”
Derreenataggart at Night
“Oh, it’s great! It usually starts with a sort of hazy, ghostly rainbow—white—right across the sky, and then things come that look like huge searchlights but softer, misty…and then these sort of colored curtains rise up and dance really slowly—they look like they’re throbbing…very gently…honestly, it’s fabulous! And they’re very important to tribal people—y’know, people living way up north around the Arctic Circle. The Inuit in Canada say they’re lanterns carried by spirits of the dead lighting the way to heaven. The Lapps say they’re gifts from God to relieve the disappearance of the sun in winter. Oh—and Galileo too—he called them ‘the sunrise of the north.’”
“That’s an enticing idea—a northern dawn,” I said.
“It was best on the nights of the dark moon—not like tonight. Although tonight is special too.”
“Is that what the cand
les are for—the Winter Spirit?” asked Anne.
“Yeah. Absolutely. Celebrating Cailleach. Knowing that from now on we’re moving into shorter nights and longer days. Moving through Imbolc—that’s the end of January—a time of one of the celebrations for Brighde—the earth goddess. And then comes the spring equinox in late March when the new light comes…that’s the time of fertility and fresh life…”
“You know, I’ve heard some of these terms,” said Anne. “I just never linked them to exact dates and names. All I remember is the summer solstice—around mid-June…”
“June twenty-first—the longest day.”
“…and all that crazy stuff that goes on in England at Stonehenge and Avebury, and Silsbury and Glastonbury…”
“Yeah, it’s become a bit ridiculous nowadays—pseudo-Druids, New Agers, crystal planters, trance dancing, weird music, and TV cameras galore! It’s all so fake, it’s sickening…”