Renowned for his wisdom, Solomon had spent half his life pursuing wealth, and another large chunk pursuing wisdom, and when asked which was better, he replied:

“The fear of God.”

I think Solomon might have had it wrong.

Bold words I know, but when you think about it, he could have at least articulated himself a bit better.

I think he got it wrong.

Neither wealth, nor wisdom, nor fear of God is better.

Prosperity is.

The only trouble with prosperity is that we need a new definition of prosperity. A new way of being prosperous.

Not the prosperity that implies no pangs of hunger. Not the prosperity that implies no coldness. Not the prosperity with promises of riches and luxury. Not the prosperity so often talked about in politics. Not the prosperity that screams more more more.

Not a way of being prosperous that depends on exploitation.

A way of being prosperous that depends on reciprocity.

This redefinition should have been started a long time ago. It might have started when Ceridwen, dumbfounded, found herself utterly unable to kill the baby once known as Gwion, now known as Taliesin. It might have started, but it didn’t, did it?

A new definition of prosperity could have been formed when Taliesin, emerging from the womb of the sea, grew to full height and wandered away reciting the poetry that would bring the truth, unwelcome as it may have been, to Britain. That might have brought a new way of being prosperous to the world, but it didn’t, did it?

As so often is the case, it all starts with a moment of divine discontent.

For Bran, it started upon hearing odd music. Odd and wonderful music coming from a silver branch. That was the beginning of his undoing. In a moment, the music of the silver branch took away all of his safety, it enticed him into thinking, for the first time in his life, that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to life. Something more than hunting and merrymaking. An inkling, no a shout, that there was something beyond the veil of daily consciousness, another dimension to being human, that despite all of his achievements, he had not reached and knew nothing about.

We too can hear the music of the silver branch. It is the sound of the wave approaching that will eventually knock our door down. The wave singing the song of the silver branch.

No, we cannot run, we are mesmerized and entranced at the idea of being fully human. Even though it is far out of our reach, for now, we dream and we ponder what life would be, for us and for everyone, if we could not only hear the silver branch, but raise our own voices and be the silver branch. A vision of a possible world seeps into our consciousness, and our normal, everyday lives will never be the same again.

The idea of being fully human is an ambiguous one, but one that has driven our species through the millennium. It has driven us in two directions, both away from the song, and toward the song.

Gwion fleeing Cerridwen, eventually being devoured and birthed into a new way of being.

Fionn on his childhood quest, sitting quietly by the river with FInegas, searching poetry and wisdom.

The disenchanted kings of Ireland seeking Fintan out so that he may remind them of the proper order of things.

Driven.

The human race is driven by the desire to be fully human. Driven and desperately afraid of it all at the same time.

Sometimes I am certain that this divine discontent is a necessary and integral part of vision. Why would the kings of Ireland, dismayed at the aspect of having forgotten the proper order of things, send for Fintan if they were not dismayed? If they were not discontent?

What would it be like if, Instead of escaping and denying this discontent, and padding our fears with material possessions and false and less than authentic relationships, we were to embrace and acknowledge this discontent, and in its place call into being a vision of what an authentic relationship could be? Of course, if Medb had done this, we would have been shorted the epic tale of the Tain.

Medb, the queen of addictions, embraced her envy and jealousy and started a chain of events that would bring grief and suffering, but also one of the greatest heroes of Irish mythology. Would Chuculain have been such a great hero without Medb? Does the hound of Chulainn, as a shaman, show us how we could embrace our discontent and instead of feeding our envy and fear with it, how we could fuel our building of a vision of what things could be, of a different way of being?

The division of Ireland, as told in The Settling of the Manor of Tara, tells us that vision is in the west, so in experiencing our divine discontent, we are in the west, we are in the setting of the sun. For a moment, I am left wondering what the envy and fear of Medb could possibly have to do with a vision, at least the kind of vision I want… one of hope and of being fully human.

Most of the things I think I know are only echoes of questions I once had, and questions rarely come only once, and in this case it is no different.

I am reminded of a discussion I had once with a good friend, and so the answer is really quite simple. In the east is prosperity, which is not the prosperity that we think of today when we think of the economy , but the prosperity that comes when we think of others. A prosperity that is somewhat of a selfish generosity.

The envy and fear that Medb felt is the poison to this prosperity. The antithesis of prosperity, of selfish generosity, is in the west, alongside vision. (This being the case, I am tempted to consider the poison that sits alongside prosperity in the east, the true antithesis to vision. But I will return to that later.)

For now, I want to know how something that can be beneficial to us can also be harmful to us. Is envy and fear also a part of the divine discontent? I tend to believe this to be true. Envy and fear are uncomfortable feelings that make us want to be away. Does this tell us to acknowledge and embrace these things just as we do the more vague and general feeling of discontent? Absolutely.

The matter of what to do with these feelings is the matter that matters. The trick part of the question though is that we can not consciously choose what to do with them. At least not until we recognize them for what they are, until we recognize us for who we are.

Dare we?

Dare we approach the silver antlered stag?
From across the Plain of Delights, the silver antlered stag has come ashore.
Dare we approach him?
Dare we put off the heavy shoes of cosmology from our feet?
Dare we approach him?

Dare we listen to the music of the Silver Branch? Dare we go through the nine waves to come ashore, just as the silver antlered stag has done? Just as Amhairghin attempted?
If we do, we will never again feel the safety of our hearths, of the structures we have built.

If we do, our safety will be gone. Only “behind all depths and heights” will we find security. We will never again see our hearths. Our hearing makes us deaf. Our sight blinds us.

We hear the crow demanding: “you must be religious but in being religious you must have no recourse to religion.”

And the texture of our lover’s cheek is changing, becoming smoother.  Shapelier.

Being human is the most perilous of adventures.

Dare we?

Dare we listen to the silver branch being the silver branch? It will raid us, just as it raided Bran. No spear or sword shall save us. It will raid us. Dare we listen? Dare we go to the silver antlered stag?

Dare we bother to be ourselves?

Fully?

Dare we?