"Come to the edge", he said.
They said, "We are afraid".
"Come to the edge", he said.
They came.
He pushed them ...
and they flew.
-Guilluame Apollinaire
"Who we are from conception to death isn't the whole story, our life in the universe isn't the whole story, and the universe itself isn't the whole story...and a day will come when we all of us will have stars at elbow and foot."
-John Moriarty, in an interview with RTE
Archive for the ‘Uisneach and Tara’ Category
Within the Mound of Hostages
It was a grey and windy day, and only the first memory is a memory.
The sound of layers of jackets smacking in the wind, the moisture of wind-torn eyes on my cheek – or was it sideways rain? No, the sideways rain was with the Cailleach. She and the red haired kid in shorts looking sideways at the fekkin toorists were a day still far away, yet to come.
Another time, maybe. Here it was only me and the wind. And the tears that were not tears.
A grey and windy day, and I’d already waited five minutes.
Will this be the last time for me at the Hill of Tara? The last time I will stand upon the Mound of Hostages?
Only the first memory is a memory, all subsequent memories are memories of the memory, and now I am not standing upon the mound, I am cowering within it.
Cowering within it, with only the shaft of the sunrise once a year to tease me with thoughts of freedom and of me.
Posted in Uisneach and Tara | 
Tags: becoming, birth, depths, doorways, mound of hostages, tara | 
2 Comments »
the sound of sacred places (what art is silence II)
But imagine if Amhairgin had gone through the nine waves instead of over them. Even more, imagine this:
Fintan, in the shape of Amhairgin, coming ashore through the nine waves.
What would that homecoming be like? Amhairgin coming ashore, reciting his “I am’s”, and meaning it?
Even more, imagine this:
Fintan, coming through the nine waves, coming ashore through each of us as we recite our “I am’s,” as we recite our “we are’s.”
What would that homecoming be like?
what art is silence (or the whispering feather of a wing)
Somewhere along the line, somewhere between the advent of agriculture, or by the latest, the Council of Nicaea… somewhere between there and Francis Bacon we lost the plot. Completely and totally lost the plot and got caught up in what might be termed the age of comfort, or the age of industry to produce comfort at the expense of anything.
Lost the plot of our place in nature. Lost the plot of our soul. Lost the plot of species, individual and collective. Lost the plot of cyclical time. Lost the plot of tribe or clan or family. Lost the plot of the wisdom of our race. Lost the plot of our place in the universe.
Lost the plot.
We have been quite good at losing the plot, but then again, we have also had a lot of help from what I am very tempted to call false prophets. Not being a judge however, I will refrain from actually saying it, yet I am very tempted. Make no mistake, the help we received was likely more often than not good intentioned.
Posted in Uisneach and Tara |
Tags: amhairgin, ancestors, christianity, ego, human, luther, oak of two blossoms, religion, song, soul, time, universe |
1 Comment »