by Wendy Hawkin | Feb 2, 2017 | journal, mythology
Today, pagans celebrate Imbolc (pronounced EE-molc). It is the first of three spring festivals occurring every six weeks.
Like most pagan holidays, it has been transformed into something else. Groundhog Day. Though, an echo of animals and a promise of spring remains, it is not a celebration; just a pronouncement, and the groundhog, a weather forecaster. Today, where I live the sun shone bright, so the retreating groundhog forecasts six more weeks of winter. This may not be true for you.
But, Imbolc is a Wiccan/Druid celebration of light and fertility. Originating in Celtic Europe, it derives from a pastoral time, when people were connected to the spirit of the land and animals. It is the time when lambs were born and shoots pushed forth from the earth.
Frolicking Sheep at Kilmartin Glen, Scotland
If you live in the northern hemisphere, you will notice that as the year spins, days are growing longer, the sun is shining brighter, and our energy is shifting. We shake off the wools of winter and begin to frolic ourselves.
For a more in depth discussion of Imbolc, visit this impressive UK site:
via Imbolc – The Wheel Of The Year – The White Goddess
by Wendy Hawkin | Jan 27, 2017 | Ireland, mythology, writing and publishing
Another poem from my beloved, Yeats.
In 1897, WB Yeats began his literary liaison with Lady Gregory at Coole Park (south of Galway, in Ireland).
The Ruined Gates of Coole Park (Lady Gregory’s Estate)
I’ve wandered there myself, and hope these words were penned there, near the rushes beside the grassy sea.
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
WB Yeats, 1899
by Wendy Hawkin | Jan 20, 2017 | Book Review, journal, mythology, writing and publishing
Canadian author, Charles de Lint is, perhaps, my favourite urban fantasy writer–at least, he’s the first one that hooked me. And, of all his books, Widdershins is the one I return to time and again. He’s a poet and musician; both talents seep through his work. Interweaving the fantastical world of humans and faeries (both European and Indigenous) with Celtic traditional music, de Lint’s pure voice catches my heart.
Here are three favourite quotes from Widdershins:
Music needs to live and breathe; it’s only pure when it’s performed live with nothing hidden–neither its virtuosity nor the inevitable mistakes that come when you try to push it into some new, as yet unexplored place. It’s improvisational jazz. It’s the jam, the session. The best music is played on street corners and pubs, in kitchens and on porches, in the backrooms of concert halls and in the corner of a field, behind the stage, at a music festival. It’s played for the joy and the sadness and the connection it makes between listeners and players.
The fates of men and fairies weren’t inexorably etched in stone. If there were weavers, making a pattern on their looms of how lives were lived, they could only nudge and hint, not force fate to unfold on some strict schedule. And a seer’s vision saw only probabilities, not truth. The only truth was now. The past was clouded by memory; the future, in the end forever a mystery. Even to a seer.
As I was straightening up, my gaze became level with that of one of the small twig and leaf fairies that were regulars at the mall revels. She was lying on the roof of the car, pixie-featured and grinning, head propped on her elbows, her vine-like hair pulled back into a thick Rasta ponytail. She wasn’t really made of twigs and leaves and vines–or at least I didn’t think so–but her skin was the mottled colour of a forest, all greens and browns. (Hazel)
by Wendy Hawkin | Jan 17, 2017 | journal, mythology
The Theme of Binding
Twice this week, I’ve noticed a similar theme in fantasy stories. It is the theme of binding. Out of fear, a mother binds her daughter. Out of fear, she tells her that what she is experiencing isn’t real. Out of fear, she buries the joy of magic and imagination, and crushes her spirit.
In The Moral Instruments: City of Bones, Cassandra Clare creates a parallel world of demons and Shadowhunters. Clary Frey is a powerful Shadowhunter—Nephilim who were created when angels mated with humans. But, she doesn’t know this until her fifteenth birthday, when she begins drawing symbols, and seeing people mundanes cannot see. To protect her, Clary’s mother bound her as a child. Took her to the warlock, Magnus Bane, to have her memories removed time and time again. There is something sinister lurking in this stunting act of love.
Deborah Harkness explores a similar theme in A Discovery of Witches. Her protagonist, Diana Bishop discovers that as a child, she had incredible powers. She could control the elemental forces of fire, water, and air. She could fly. She could manipulate time. To protect her from herself, her mother, who was also a powerful witch, performs “spellbinding”so Diana is no longer aware of her abilities. Once she forgets her powers, Diana becomes locked inside herself until her mother’s prophecy unravels and the “shadowman” appears.
Charming Prince or Shadowman?
In the archetypes of Faerie, the charming prince must rescue and free the spellbound princess so they can live happily ever after. This happens to both of these young women, who only discover their true nature when they meet their beloved. Clary begins to see the Shadowhunter world when she meets Jace. Though secrets have been kept from Jace as well, he has grown up in this reality. He’s been trained, and understands how to wield his power. He introduces Clary to the world of her birthright, and she discovers her true self.
Diana Bishop is enacting a prophecy when she falls in love with Matthew Clairmont, a fifteen-hundred-year old vampire. Clairmont, her “shadowman” keeps a firm grip on Diana when her powers start seeping through the “spellbinding”. By the end of the book, he’s decided that she needs a mentor to teach her how to use her powers. But there are dangers lurking in this binding and unbinding. Clairmont is controlling and abusive. He is not the charming prince we want for our daughters.
By binding, we send our vulnerable girls into a dangerous world without their inherent power, where they become easy prey for the shadowman.
Why must we continue to bind children? Is this a phenomenon of fear passed down through generations? Is it cultural? For it is not just mothers who bind daughters, but fathers and brothers, and the religious and secular community. And we bind our sons as well.I remember as a child feeling that I could fly. I used to dream of flying…of running along a grassy clifftop, pushing out with my arms, and grasping the air as I lifted off. I loved my flying dreams and I wonder when and how they became suppressed. I also had an “invisible” friend, and so was never alone. I was at home in the forest and believed in faeries and angels. But, somehow in the crack between childhood and puberty, I became bound: disillusioned, restrained, and retrained. Like Clary, I fought against those restraints and searched for Shadowhunters to help me break free. Sometimes, I found the shadowman instead. And therein lies the danger.
Is the fantasy genre so popular with girls because they feel the bite of their bindings?The emptiness of memories removed? Are girls searching for a way out; or perhaps, trying to remember a way back in? In their unbinding, will they be fortunate enough to find a “Jace” or will they become prey for the “shadowman”?
And what would happen if we didn’t bind them at all; if we nurtured and developed their passion, their bliss, and their power?
There is no containment. The knowing never vanishes. That is what the stories tell us. There is only this pushing against the forces that bind us; this overwhelming desire to be free, to be our true selves, to feel our power, and to remember what we knew when we came into this world.
by Wendy Hawkin | Dec 21, 2016 | journal, mythology
Winter is here. We, in the northern hemisphere, feel her enfold us. She is the Ice Queen. Cloaked in black frost, exhaling snowflakes in a great rush of crystal, she ushers us inside and bids us remember who we are. We, humans, are vulnerable to her whims; cannot control her, though, in our technological frenzy we arrogantly believe we can–right up until she pulls the plug.
Today we begin winter here on the Pacific coast. This is the shortest day and the longest night of the year. This morning, the sun did not rise until 8:05 am, and too soon will set at 4:16pm, leaving us with a mere 8 hours and 11 minutes of daylight.
But like the yin and yang, this darkling queen brings more to us than inclement weather. She brings the promise of lighter days. For solstice is a turning point. The climactic dark night ends with the birth of a new dawn, and from this time forward, days grow longer.
Winter Solstice is a Festival of Light, which many of us celebrate by decking our halls with lights and greenery, connecting with our spiritual selves through meditation, or gathering outside at sacred sites.
In the Valley of the Kings at Brú na Bóinne in Ancient Ireland, our Neolithic ancestors also celebrated the new dawn of Winter Solstice.
newgrange.com
Brú na Bóinne translates to something like abode or palace of the river Boyne. It is the mythical home of the god, Dagda, his wife, Boann, and their son Oengus, the love god. They are of the faerie tribes, the Tuatha de Danaan. The stone walls are engraved with symbols we now consider Celtic, though this tomb was built well before the arrival of the Celts to Ireland.
Five thousand years ago, these ancient indigenous tribes built passage tombs from rock. One has been excavated and restored. Built with keen intelligence and divine insight, this stone temple, consists of a roof-box above a portal and leads down a nineteen-metre passageway into a cruciform chamber. It is capped with a corbel roof that seems to defy gravity. As the sun rises on Winter Solstice, its beams enter the roof-box, creep down the passageway, and finally illuminate the chamber.
Her builders were Neolithic farmers who understood the cycle of birth and death. And so, the tomb is much like the womb of the mother earth. For seventeen minutes on Winter Solstice, an elemental union occurs as the beaming light of the sun enters and impregnates the Earth. Gestation follows over the darkling winter months, and if all is well, new life bursts forth again in spring.This is the sacred dance of death and rebirth.
The Boyne Valley really is spectacular. I stood inside the stone chamber, while the guide simulated the experience. It’s one for your bucket list. But, if you can’t travel there, you can still read about Newgrange in detail and tour the tomb via virtual reality via Voices From the Dawn.
standing between the entrance stone and roof box
by Wendy Hawkin | Dec 9, 2016 | journal, mythology, writing and publishing
“Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.” GK Chesterton
