366 Celt: A Year and A Day of Celtic Wisdom and Lore

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THE PATH OF THE BARD

So what could a bard do when an important element of the lore had been lost? In a way, the loss of The Tain is a metaphor for the loss of the entire pre-Christian Celtic tradition. We see how Senchán Torpéist attempted to remedy the problem: first, by gathering what fragments existed and by attempting to reconstruct the story from them, almost as one would try to repair a broken piece of fine crystal by reassembling the various fragments. So the bard’s role as archivist could extend to being a historical detective, looking at all that we do know as a way of trying to close the gap on what we don’t know. After all, to understand who we are today, and to guess where we’re going, it’s fairly important to recognize who we’ve been and where we’re coming from. So by carefully preserving (or investigating) the past, the bard gives us in the present perhaps the most valuable gift possible: self-knowledge.

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THE PATH OF THE BARD

In the end, Senchán Torpéist revived The Tain not by detective work or by educated guesswork—he received supernatural assistance. The spirit of one of the ancient heroes visits him, and sets the record straight. And thus, the seventh-century bard is able to preserve a story that probably dates back some five to six hundred years before his time. So we come to another important characteristic of the bards. Their skills and training extended beyond those of a mere journalist or historian—their poetry was regarded as having a spiritual component, making them not only poets, but prophets as well (prophecy meaning not only the ability to speak of the future, but in its broader sense of the ability to speak any spiritually-sourced truth). In Ireland, the bards were known as the filidh, a word best translated as “seer-poet.” The eloquence of the bard came not only from their own training and natural abilities, but also from their abilities to communicate with the otherworld. As a weaver of words and a preserver of memories, the bard also played a necessary third function: as a spokesperson for Spirit. Indeed, the filidh were regarded as having magical abilities. Which is not too surprising, considering that the order of bards probably originated in the ancient priestly function of the druids.

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THE PATH OF THE BARD

The bard’s magic could be described in a single word: enchantment. Chanting, of course, is related to song, but an enchantment is a song with something extra: an altered state, a doorway to the spiritual realm. Enchantment is what separates garden-variety entertainment from the true bard’s art, where his or her talents are used to bring divine transformation into the world.

Think of Gregorian chant. It’s a style of music that has been used in Christian monasteries for a thousand years, and yet in the late twentieth century several CDs of such unadorned singing were bestsellers, with millions of copies sold to people who had little or no connection with organized religion. Why? Naturally, because the music was enchanting. People described it as soothing, relaxing, peaceful, meditative—all words that speak of a mild altered state of consciousness that the music helped foster. Herein lies another clue to the power of the bards. Much Celtic music, from airs on a harp to lively jigs played on a fiddle, embodies a similar ability to entrance the listener—to snap him or her into a sonically-induced mystical state. In the hands of a true bard, such musical magic is not merely an impressive show, but a ceremonial means of finding inner transformation.

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THE PATH OF THE BARD

The bards of old did not merely sing praises and recite poetry of glorious and mighty deeds. Granted, that may have been their stock in trade when working for a wealthy patron, but legend insists that the bards could curse as well as charm. Indeed, Irish myth clearly describes how a talented bard’s satire could raise blisters on a previously unblemished face—a not inconsiderable feat, with profound implications for a king whose right to rule lay partially in his flawless physique. Indeed, much of the dramatic tension of the earliest cyde of Irish myths comes when the bard Cairbre satirizes the inhospitable Fomorian king Bres, causing boils to erupt on his face and thereby setting into motion the forces which would depose him—and lead to the greatest of legendary battles.

Cursing is not something that we moderns like to think of as a “spiritual” activity. Yet the interesting part of Celtic cultural history is that cursing is found among both the pagans and the Christians of old. Perhaps we don’t like cursing because we secretly wish to believe that the world is a benign place where no hostile forces exist. The ancients certainly knew better, and wanted their spiritual leaders to have a psychic arsenal ready to protect themselves from malevolent energies.

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THE PATH OF THE BARD

One way we can find meaning in the bard’s ability to satirize an unjust or inhospitable king would be to think of the bard’s vocation in terms of helping people to see things from a new angle. Sure, to the extent that the bard praises the worthy king, it’s a straightforward job. But sometimes, it is the job of a poet or a storyteller to make sure we see things from an alternative perspective. In ancient times, this meant presenting the actions of the unjust leader in a humorous or ironic way. Nowadays, we no longer have poet-historians, but we do have storytellers, journalists, essayists, and other contributors to the public debate. For these modern “bards,” it might simply mean refusing to buy in to the “official” way of seeing things. No, what the government says is not the only way the world is. No, what religious leaders, or scientific leaders, or business leaders have to say is not necessarily the ultimate truth. A gifted bard may not speak words of such satirical potency that they cause blisters to burst forth, but he or she may nevertheless invite listeners to consider choices and possibilities that might otherwise go unnoticed and unexamined.

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THE PATH OF THE BARD

Can the ordinary person be a bard? Well, maybe few of us will ever master the intricate knowledge of history and lore that an ancient bard was required to know; after all, the bards of old, like their druidic peers, had to study anywhere from twelve to twenty years before they were considered masters of their craft. In our day, such training does not exist; let alone opportunities for anyone to ply the bard’s trade. Even so, this does not mean that the spirit of the bard is lost. Anyone who tells stories with a dash of magic or mythology is walking in the path of the bards. Anyone who integrates poetry, music, history, and prophecy into their way of seeing the world and sharing it with others is living as an aspiring bard. And anyone who uses their skills as a communicator to invite others to consider alternative ways of seeing the world—especially in regard to those who wield power—is certainly on the bardic path.

So don’t think of the gifts of the bard as unattainable to you today. Maybe the deep secrets of Taliesin (the greatest of Welsh bards) are lost, but there are other, humble ways to do your part to keep the spirit of the bard alive.

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THE PATH OF THE BARD

What would it take to be a bard today? First of all, give up on the idea of calling yourself a bard. For starters, if you haven’t studied for over a decade or mastered at least several hundred mythic poems or tales, you don’t deserve the title. But it’s okay to describe yourself as an aspiring bard. Now, what exactly do you aspire to? Poetry. Music. Song. Story. Alternative ways of seeing the world. Consider how you can integrate these art forms into your spirituality and your daily life. Remember what separates a bard from an entertainer: look at how you can use language and music not merely to show off how clever you are, but to truly bring joy and meaning to the world of spirit, and likewise to help bring the world of spirit to those who hear your artistry. Finally, if you do not wish to explore the path of the bard for yourself, then find ways to cultivate and nurture such skills in others. Listen to their stories, dance to their music, comment on their perspective. Allow the (aspiring) bards in your life to transform you.

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THE PATH OF MYTHOLOGY (#ulink_14a47cd2-95c5-57f0-beb8-754ae2532d13)

Perhaps no single element is more important to the spirit of Celtic wisdom than myth. I don’t mean myth in the sense of “something that people falsely believe to be true” like the many urban legends that circulate around the Internet. No, the streets of America are not filled with kidney thieves, nor did Nostradamus predict the 9/11 disaster. Rather, the myth that is so essential to the Celtic world is the matter of mythology—the stories, legends, poems, ballads, and folklore that speak to a world beyond space and time, where gods and goddesses, heroes and heroines, warriors and bards dwell—and where in their magical and dramatic lives, we can find insight into the mystery and majesty of our own.

Some aspects of Celtic myth and lore are commonplace: just about anyone who’s heard of Ireland has heard of banshees or leprechauns. Most everyone knows that Patrick evicted the snakes from Ireland, and that King Arthur’s knights spent the better part of their careers searching for the Holy Grail. But the layers of myth go far, far deeper. And what is often ignored when mythic stories are told or retold is what they mean—why they’re so important. Of course, sometimes such meaning is best left unsaid, so that each person may discover anew how the myths speak to him or her.

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THE PATH OF MYTHOLOGY

The single best collection of myths in the Celtic world comes from Ireland; the other significant body of myth was preserved in Wales. Both Irish and Welsh myth were committed to written form in the Middle Ages, by Christian scribes, most if not all of whom were monastic. This leads to a number of unanswerable—yet difficult—questions. Are the myths simply the product of imaginative storytellers, or do they hearken back to an ancient, pagan belief system? How many of the myths have been lost? Of the ones that survived the ages, how much pagan lore did the Christian scribes who preserved them censor, consciously or unconsciously? Of course, we’ll never be able to answer these questions definitively, although scholars have made a number of educated guesses. The good news? The written myths do seem to point to an earlier time; some of the stories preserved may have originated as early as the first century CE. The bad news: yes, there’s a lot missing. Yes, there’s no doubt that the Christians tampered with their pagan source material (the damage was worse in Wales than in Ireland). But the extent of this loss is itself shrouded in mystery. All we can do is take what we have, and attempt to understand the grandeur of the Celtic past based on fragmentary evidence. And then keep the myths alive, by telling the stories, and identifying ways to apply this ancient wisdom today.

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THE PATH OF MYTHOLOGY

As the stories, particularly in the Irish tradition, have come down to us, they are organized neither by chronology nor by key characters, but by theme. The myths include battles, invasions, wooings, visions, cattle-raids, adventures, voyages, feasts, deaths, and so forth. Modern storytellers, however, have tended to try to put the tales into some semblance of order, and so have developed a series of cycles that cover the sweep of Irish mythic history, from the first inhabitants of the land up to the semi-legendary tales of early historical kings. As might be expected, the myths begin with the exploits of gods and godlike beings; eventually such supernatural figures are reduced to fairies. But even the mortal heroes have a larger-than-life quality about them, a theme that plays out in several tales that involve time-travel: someone from the mythic era, upon encountering mortals from a later age, always finds them as small and weak compared to the robust heroes of old.

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THE PATH OF MYTHOLOGY

We have no Celtic creation myth. That may be because the Christians who preserved the myths felt it improper to recount a story that contradicted the book of Genesis. But it may also say something about the Celtic understanding of the universe—not as a stage that at some original moment was fashioned ex nihilo, but as an endlessly woven knot or spiral of existence, without beginning, without end. Irish myth begins with a series of “invasions”—stories about the first inhabitants of Ireland, who came in wave after mythic wave of settlers, invaders and conquerors. The drama mounts with each new tribe or family, culminating in three climactic battles, in which gods, heroes, demons, and finally, mortals, fight for sovereignty and ascendancy. The last of these battles sets the stage for the ongoing relationship between mortals and spirits—we humans live above the surface, while the gods/fairies/ancestors dwell in the underworld.

That first sequence of stories is called the Mythological Cycle. Next comes the Ulster Cycle, so called because most of the action takes place in Ireland’s northern province. The Ulster Cycle tells the story of Cúchulainn, the greatest of Celtic warriors, and his mighty exploits, particularly during the cattle raid of Cooley when Queen Meadbh attempts to steal a great brown bull—and Cúchulainn single-handedly opposes her.

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THE PATH OF MYTHOLOGY

In the Heroic Cycle of Irish myth we meet Fionn mac Cumhaill, who is not a god, or the son of one, but rather an ordinary boy who gains his supernatural skills by eating a magical fish. Fionn becomes the leader of a legendary band of hunter-warriors called the Fenians, whose job it is to serve as guardians of the land. Such guardianship could have spiritual as well as military implications—indeed, Fionn proves himself to the high king by successfully defeating a fairy monster that had taken to burning the great hall at Tara to the ground every year at Samhain. The tales of Fionn and the members of his war band, however, have as much to do with their own interpersonal dynamics as with enemies they must vanquish.

Then comes the Historic Cycle, fourth and final of the Irish mythic cycles. These tales are the least otherworldly of the myths, although enough interaction between the human and fairy realms takes place in these adventures to make them worthy of the best storyteller. Actual historical figures begin to show up, although often with mythic elements interwoven into their stories—like George Washington throwing the coin across the river, these tales represent the rubbing places where myth and history meet. A favorite theme in the Historic Cycle involves human encounters with otherworld beings—setting the stage, naturally enough, for the rich legacy to follow in the centuries-old fairy tradition of the common Celtic people.

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THE PATH OF MYTHOLOGY

Welsh mythology, unfortunately, is neither as comprehensive nor as coherent as its Irish counterpart. Although the oldest manuscripts are about the same age as those preserved in Ireland, the stories they contain seem either younger, or more thoroughly tampered with. Post-Celtic religious and social ideas permeate the Welsh tradition, making these tales an interesting bridge between the more purely pagan myths of Ireland, and the high chivalry of the Arthurian legends—which grew out of Welsh myth but found their fullest expression in the courts of medieval France.

The key story cycle in the Welsh tradition is the Four Branches of the Mabinogi, often misspelled as Mabinogion, thanks to an error on the part of one of the first translators to render these tales into modern English. In this collection of myths we meet goddesses like Rhiannon, gods like Bran, heroes like Pwyll, and druids like Gwydion. The tales of the Mabinogi repeatedly explore mother—son relationships, leading many to feel that it represents an initiation into a cult of the mother goddess and her beloved son—god. Often included in modern translations of the Mabinogi are several other stories and romances, including one of the earliest tales of the Holy Grail, several heroic quests, and the moving, shamanistic tale of the birth of the great bard Taliesin.

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THE PATH OF MYTHOLOGY

It’s great fun to explore history with an eye to discovering the fate of the “real” Arthur. Probably a tribal chieftain in the chaos of Britain after fifth-century Roman troops suddenly withdrew, he may have been a leader in fighting against the encroaching Saxon presence on the island. Our knowledge of the historical figure—assuming he ever existed—can only be speculative, but the development of the mythic King Arthur is far easier to trace. He began as a shadowy figure in Welsh poetry and Romance, only to become something of a literary sensation after being exported to Brittany and France. The marriage of Celtic myth and medieval courtly literature proved powerful enough to still arouse our hearts and imaginations a thousand years later. The Arthurian cycle grew in the telling, combining shadowy figures like Merlin and Morgan LeFay, whose origins clearly lie in Celtic myth, with more purely literary creations like Lancelot. Ironically, the tales of King Arthur have long eclipsed all other forms of Celtic mythology as the image of Celtic romance that most people would first think of—ironic because the Arthurian saga is the least authentically Celtic of any myths associated with this heritage.

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