The second he put his thumb in his mouth, he knew it. The instant he put his thumb, burnt from the salmon of wisdom, in his mouth, he was in trouble. It wasn’t so much that Finnegas would be angry. Finnegas was too wise to be angry. No, Fionn was in trouble because Fionn was now Fionn. Fionn was now Fionn with all the wisdom of the world, with all the wisdom of Fionn. Nothing would be the same ever again. He could not stay at the river with Finnegas any longer. He could not stay with Fionn any longer. He knew too much. He was in too much trouble.

Cormac mac Airt was in trouble.

The moment Cormac mac Airt saw that mysterious youth on the green, was the precise moment when Cormac mac Airt was in trouble. The glittering branch could have been named “Troubles Herald”. Ahh, the sweet red of trouble in those the nine apples. Cormac was in trouble. He was prepared to pay any price for that trouble, the price of trouble.

Fionn was in trouble. Cormac was in trouble.

Bran was in trouble.

Bran was really in trouble when he found himself entranced by the singing of the silver branch.

They all were raided.

Raided by something larger then them. Something not of this world had raided them and taken away their safety. Within the merest of seconds the silver branch and the salmon of wisdom and the red apples caused them to call into question everything they thought they knew. No, they erased everything they thought they knew, made it a mere smudge of grey compared to what they knew after the raid.
Fionn, Cormac, and Bran were all in trouble.

And what of Gwion?

Across the sea, Gwion was in serious trouble – trouble he desperately did not want. Caridwen breathing down your neck is more trouble than anyone would want. He took flight and changed himself into many things to avoid the trouble that was Caridwen. The trouble of Caridwen was nothing however. As a hen, she caught him and ate him, a mere grain. That trouble was over. The real trouble began nine months later.

Taliesin was in trouble.

The trouble of the burden of truth surrounded by lies. That is a sore trouble to bear.

And what of Chu Chullain, and Myrddin, Maíle Dúin, and Maeve, and more besides? What of Orpheus raided by Apollo? And Odin? Raided at the well of wisdom, sacrificing an eye, hanging nine days and nine nights, pierced. Raided. And of the Christ? Raided. Buddha? Raided. They were all in trouble. They were all raided, and there was nothing they could do.

And what of us?

We think we can avoid the raid. We think we can build walls of distractions and addictions to muffle the song of the silver branch, to keep the green within, safe from the youth and the glittering branch, to cook the salmon for someone else without burning our thumb. We build walls to keep Caridwen out. We become the young prince Kamar al-Zaman, kept from our sacred marriage, locked away behind our walls.

And we are Siddhartha. We are kept from the truth of the world through these walls. But just as Siddhartha, the walls of our luxurious castles will not keep us from being raided. We will grow tired of the worldly things that have distracted us, we will grow tired of our addictions, and we will call to our charioteer to take us away. There in the chariot, we will be raided. Age, disease and death will raid us. The charioteer will raid us. We will retire from the world of our luxurious prisons.

There is nothing else we can do. The trouble is not to be avoided. The faster we run away, the bigger the trouble grows. Our hearths are gone, our security is gone. Our self is gone, and we are in trouble. Dead. Dead. We will be raided and when we are truly raided, there is nothing we can do.

Realizing we have been raided is the first step. Realizing there is nothing we can do. Desperately try to hold onto that where we feel safe. Searching for our hearth, thrashing and destroying to find our hearth, we will not find our hearth. Gwion could not find enough shapes to avoid Caridwen. We can not run fast enough to catch the horse, she is always just out of our reach. And yet, again and again, day after day, we give chase.

But there, in the moment we realize there is nothing we can do, the chase is no longer a chase. It is there in that moment, that our serious trouble begins, for we know that there is nothing. Nothing.

Caridwen ate Gwion and then came nine months of darkness, of nothing, and then, in the throes of birth, Taliesin knew he was in trouble. Thrashing about in our confusion at being raided, our paradox of being death and birth in the very same instant, we know we are in trouble. When we relinquish the chase we know we are doomed, when we accept the raid, when we know there is nothing we can do, we are doomed.

We tremble in the nothingness. We tremble in the unknowing. We tremble in the doom.

The doom in the trouble of death and birth.

Why relinquish the chase? Fight death to the death. Go try.

We certainly will try. We build the walls higher. But there is nothing we can do. We will be raided. We will hear the silver branch. We want to taste the red apples of trouble. The higher we build the walls, the bigger the trouble grows. It is only through trouble that we find peace. It is only through being raided that there is nothing we can do.

Let the raiding begin.

And see what comes of trouble. What comes of our self dying. What is birthed into our self upon its death? At that very moment, we are birth and death with no separation. What will come?

Though not as expected, Fionn got what he was searching for. Cormac didn’t know he was searching for anything until he saw that glittering branch. Bran didn’t know he was searching for anything until he heard the silver branch. Upon seeing it, Cormac wanted the glittering branch. Upon hearing it, Bran most certainly did not want it, did not want to hear the silver branch. Gwion didn’t want it. Taliesin may or may not have wanted it, but he sure made the best of it when he had it; to the dismay of those unlucky and unrhyming bards. Whether we are searching or not, whether or not we want it, when we are raided, we are endowed. A gift, a certain this or that, is now in our laps. What to do? What to do? Run back to the safety of our hearths? Gone. What to do?

Nothing.

The gifts of the raid are not of this world. Let the silver branch be the silver branch. And it will be the best silver branch that ever was a silver branch. What comes of trouble? The silver branch becomes the silver branch. Gwion becomes Taliesin. Jesus becomes the Christ. Guatama Sakyamuni, Siddartha, becomes the Buddha. Odin becomes the all wise. He gave his people the runes. Gwion became Taliesin and gave people the truth. Orpheus gave medicine, writing, astrology, magic, music. Fionn gave us the greatest band of men. Guided by the gifts of the raid from a place not of this world, they gave great things. That is what comes of trouble of which we speak.

What will the birth pains of our trouble bring?

No one, not even us, knows what we will give, not until it is given, and usually not even then. The mystery of the silver branch, of us being ourselves is beyond description. We know the music only when we hear it. What comes of trouble? The sweetest music of the world – the music of our self.

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