A trip to Midleton was planned for the day;  Himself needed to collect some files and I, dear readers, was in need of a treat.  I try to hold out for Saturday when we shop at the Midleton Farmers Market.  There, I queue up with everyone else in town and wait my turn for a mocha from O’ Conaill’s Chocolates.  But it’s been cloudy, rainy, and I’ve had a three day bout of S.A.D. so I tagged along for the trek to Midleton and a visit to Farmgate, for my treat!

You can grab a Mocha for take-away for only one euro fifty! Seriously!! And they are DE-licious!

And of course, while you’re waiting for the other half to finish business, it is necessary to check-out any sales.  Wouldn’t you know it?  O’dwyer Shoes has a 50% off sale!! The absolutely cutest pair of Portuguese boots were calling to me!  I think they would make a super birthday or early valentine gift.  ::hint, hint::

A delightful Wednesday was had by all…. I got my treat (He got one, too) and I found something for Him to spend his money on! 

Also today was my Imbolc milk bath. I had a lovely flower petal and milk Bath Bomb ready for the occasion. The candles lit, the Bulmers cold, the water hot and as long as I wanted to soak in peace and tranquility.

Ah….. I’m now officially ready for spring!

hearth and home

Sadly, it’s not time yet.  At least I don’t think it is.  Gardening here is still very far out of my experience or knowledge.  If I had the money I would take some course or workshop.  Maybe there is a group I could join to talk about these topics.

Anyway…. my gloves are calling to me and my fingers long to wriggle in the soil.

I feel the approach of Imbolc, and with it, the beginnings of spring!

(for the nerds in the house)
The etymology of Imbolc has fairly conclusively been tied to the word for milk (Hamp,106). The etymology in Sanas Cormaic (ca. 900) made this out to be oímelc, “sheep’s milk”, butEric Hamp has argued – successfully I think – that the (complicated) etymology should be *uts-molgo- < *ommolg so that oimelc is a misunderstood spelling for *ommolg. *Molgo- in turn likely comes from the Proto-Indo-European root *Hmelǵ- which meant “to cleanse”, and which is very close to *melg-the root for “milk.” Ultimately, Hamp derives Imbolc from a root meaning both “milk” and “purification” (111). Hamp mentions instances in Irish literature where milk is a cure for poison darts(2) ,where it is poured into the battlefield furrows of Eremon(3), and the odd detail from the story of Suibhne, where he drinks milk from a hole made in manure—the original implication being that milk would purify even dung!

I am definitely feeling the season of purification and renewal approach.  In fact, during the winter I’ve been incubating beautiful ideas and dreams…. about my relationship, my life, my academic and professional goals, and my family.  Last year I felt adrift.  I had forgotten myself, or at least was incredibly unsure of who my Self was here in Ireland.  That’s getting better, and you know why?  Because I remember that I have to just be mySelf.

It sounds so simple, and silly even.  How could I, someone who has dedicated so many years to self-discovery and exploration, forget such an elemental concept?  That there is no Self like mySelf, and that my only task and highest aim is to fully be that unique, quirky, silly, strange Self.  It’s easy.  Any type of change can knock us off course and upset our balance.  The important thing isn’t to be perfect but to keep going.  To be gentle with ourselves when we fall and offer ourselves the gift of grace.  At least….that’s what I’m doing.

So, a milk bath may be in my near future.  I need to purify this holy vessel.  I *am* the Beloved, and this year is gonna ROCK!

(2)
And many early Irish magical charms use butter as a curative agent; cf. Carney, “A Collection of Irish Charms”.
(3)
Eremon is the mythical first Milesian—i.e. human—king of Ireland; his name is thought to derive from the sameorigin as Aryaman/Airyaman, the Indo-Iranian embodiment of “Aryan-ness”, i.e. nobility and the ruling class.

*Hamp, Eric. “Imbolc, Óimelc”. Studia Celtica. 14/15 (1979-80), 106-113

If you are Irish, have been around the Irish, or visited Ireland over Christmas then that one word says it all. If you haven’t had the pleasure of an Irish culture education, forced or otherwise, then let me explain.

St. Stephen’s Day is the day after Christmas. At one time it was also known as Wren Day. This older name, and the associated customs, are of particular interest to me because of my love of myth and folklore.

In Ireland, St. Stephen’s Day is the day for “Hunting the Wren” or “Going on the Wren.” Originally, groups of boys would hunt for a wren; chasing the poor bird until they either caught it or it died from exhaustion. The dead bird was then tied to the top of a pole or holly bush, which was decorated with ribbons or colored paper.

Early in the morning of St. Stephen’s Day, the wren was carried from house to house by the boys, who wore straw masks, straw suits, or blackened their faces with burnt cork, and were dressed in old clothes. At each house, the boys sang, danced, and asked for money or a treat in exchange for a wren’s feather (for luck). In some locals the wrenboys were proper mummers, with skits and costumes. A party was thrown later in the evening with the money collected on their travels.

There are several explanations as to why the wren, of all birds, was used in this ritual. One story has the little bird (or a flock of them) alerting Cromwell (or the vikings) of an impending Irish attack by alighting on a drum (or shields) and fluttering its wings. Another story says the wren betrayed St. Stephen (the first Christian martyr) by flapping its wings to attract his pursuers. Yet another story associates the wren with ancient Druidic ritual and augury, citing a derivative name: dreoilín (Irish word for wren) and draoi ean (Irish, meaning druid bird).

The most intriguing story, however, involves Clíona, a woman of the Otherworld. It is said she would entice young men to follow her to the ocean where they drowned. A charm was eventually found to protect against her wiles, but she could escape by turning into a wren. As a punishment she was forced to take the shape of a wren on every succeeding Christmas day and doomed to die at the hands of men. (Wrenboys in Ireland)
(Wrens Day)

In modern Ireland very few places still practice the ancient custom of hunting the wren in order to “collect a few bob” and throw a little party, though a village near us still sees children running door to door with their little cans to collect money and candy. In these days the sight most often seen on Stephen’s is hordes of adults drunken and disorderly in public!

You see the pubs are closed ALL DAY on Christmas, and close early on Christmas Eve! The population, parched and in fear the pubs will never open their doors again, impatiently await Stephen’s, when the beer and whiskey will freely flow!

Actually, the general party atmosphere is probably the carry-over from the ancient practice of holding a dance with the money raised by the Wrenboys. Still…it’s an experience and if you are looking for a “Party” you should come to Ireland for Stephen’s!

This Stephen’s day I began the trek from Cork to Donegal, with a stop-over for the nights festivities in Monaghan. Himself has a childhood friend who lives there with his wife and children and we spent the evening in their cozy kitchen, drinking way too much, talking and laughing at their kids antics. While nobody knocked at the door to sing or dance, and we didn’t come away with a wren’s feather, I think the luck of the day was to be found in good friends who gathered in joy and mirth.

Oh…and in typical Irish fashion, the phrase of the day after, as my head pound and my stomach churned, “Never …. again! Never again!”

Visiting neighbors and friends. It is a big thing. I’ve seen it happen at Himself’s family home. Neighbors, extended family, and friends popping in before the day (Christmas day itself) to wish everyone cheer and bring a little something; whether wine, food, flowers, etc. They don’t stay long, maybe an hour, and use the time to catch-up with the gossip.

Today I was invited to my neighbors’ for a Christmas Eve gathering. I admit, I did wrestle with whether I should go. I mean, Himself isn’t here and I’m not with him because some worrying events popped up back home yesterday morning and I just wasn’t in good form. It seemed awkward somehow to show up without him. Thankfully the Powers decided for me. Literally. The power went out, and where would you rather be? A lonely old house by yourself or huddled around candles with others who are laughing and making merry?

I’m glad I went. Almost everyone on our lane was there! And what’s more, they all received, read, and remembered the cards I dropped in mail slots the other day announcing my massage practice. Everyone was so nice. The atmosphere warm and comforting. I was invited by two of my neighbors for Christmas dinner tomorrow, in the event I don’t make it up to Donegal. I also found out where regular set dancing happens! I’ve been wanting to learn for ages now.

ASIDE:…. there was mulled wine tonight, which appears to make me less snarky than nogged eggs

Christmas in Ireland is a huge family event. People all over the country make the long trek home. (Blahahahahahaha) I tried to say that with a straight face. I really did. The loooong journey. I’ve heard it mentioned numerous times on the radio. I just can’t take it seriously! Driving 4 hours, or gasp! 6 hours in this country apparently requires survival provisions and extra blankets in the car in case of blizzard. Ok, maybe it’s not that extreme but a 4-6 hour car ride is talked up like a massive undertaking.

This is child’s play when you come from a State where 24 hours later you are lucky if you are exiting the borders and heading into neighboring territory!

But, as with everything in Life, it’s all relative.

Seriously though, if you didn’t purchase your brussel sprouts today I’m afraid they are all gone. Ditto with the booze. The Hordes have cleaned them out already. Best hunker down and pray Stephen’s Day arrives early!

(WARNING: …I’m Home Alone…so these little Christmas missives may be posted under the influence of heavily nogged eggs)

If I know anything about the Irish, you can be sure there was one hum-dinger of a wake held at this circle in Ages Past!

See you in the Returning Light.

My Grandfather silently encourages, “remember the stock you come from. Barry and Sawyer.”

Bone and Blood from other Land ground and spilled with Texas. She embraced them. Kissed their tears and tore at their hearts.

Texas, My Texas
all hail the mighty State!