Guinevere the Druid Goddess: St. Patrick's Day ... the Shee ... and "Kiss Me, I'm Druid!!!"

Guinevere the Druid Goddess and Lucan, facing side of mural by Yahn Smith ... or as he calls it "Bowling with the Tuatha De Danaan"

Back at last after my extended sojourn in Asia ... Chinese New Year ... met such an intriguing man ... "head" (literally) Lion Dancer in the Hong Kong New Year parade ... what musculature ... what moves!!! A bit much rice wine, too much dim sum ... bloat ... rescued (as is frequently the case) by my mystical companions the Eagles, who interrupted their own journey on the Long Road Out of Eden (subsequent to Hell Freez[ing] Over ... grin) ... extended recovery involving much hair of diverse dog, hot stone massage, hot masseurs.... Shee-sh!

"Fairy path" on the way to Torc Waterfall, County Killarney, Ireland
Photo by Yahn Smith 2003

Nevertheless, here I am, fit as an Irish fiddle and ready to play!!! I have pulled myself together (or am as pulled together as I ever get) in honor of the upcoming festivities for all Irish/Druids (or just wannabees), to be held March 17 on the perversely named St. Patrick's Day ... although the likelihood is slim to none that an old stick like St. Patrick would have approved, much less enjoyed, the modern celebrations held in his name.

I knew Paddy well, and I'm here to tell you that he could be ... and was ... just a tad pedantic ... not to say blue-nosed ... borrrrring ... about such things. His idea of a good time was driving non-existent snakes out of Ireland (and one must wonder what he was drinking or otherwise ingesting that led him to hallucinate snakes, of all things). Not to mention all that nattering about the spiritual aspects of those common, pedestrian shamrocks (three-leafed, rather than four, as some are misinformed). However, we may all be grateful that Paddy ... with his phallophobic visions and his ardor for the putative symbolism of trefoils (three-leafed plants) ... was lucid enough to pick the shamrock rather than poison ivy in attempting to explain the concept of the Trinity to the Irish.... Small mercies.... But I digress....

Paddy was born on an imprecise date in the latter half of the 4th Century, C.E. (Common Era, a/k/a A.D.) in either Scotland or Roman England. His birth name was Maewyn Succat, although he later took the Roman name Patricius, ultimately changed to Patrick. Paddy was kidnapped as a young boy in Wales by coastal raiders and sold into slavery in Ireland, where he languished in captivity for about six years before effecting his escape. It is said that while in bondage, Paddy underwent a religious experience, and upon attaining his freedom undertook study and training to equip himself for what he believed was his "calling" to convert the heathen Irish. (Snort, fume, grinding of teeth....) He was wildly successful in bringing Catholicism to Eire during the 20 years of his ministry, shuffling off that particular mortal coil on March 17, 461 C.E. By the end of the 7th Century, he had become legendary, and is generally considered the "Patron Saint" of Ireland.

However, despite all of Paddy's preaching and proselytizing, and to his eternal chagrin, he was unable to completely eradicate the Celtic affinity for things Druid and magical. The Irish have always retained (as if they could forget!) their ancient folkloric beliefs, which they can recite (in the finest traditions of the shanachie, or story-teller), pretty much at the drop of a shillelagh and a drap or two of fine Irish poteen ... effective in communing with the other illicit spirits who inhabit the stunningly green isle.

It has always seemed to me that the proper celebration for those of Irish/Druid descent would not be a drunken homage to the ascetic, upright and up-tight Paddy, but rather a celebration of the Tuatha de Danaan (literally, the people of the goddess Danu, the Celtic mother goddess ... and Tuatha De for short), also known as the aos sidhe (pronounced "ess shee" ... "Shee" for short, and collectively in all their diversity for our purposes here) ... powerful supernatural beings ... including but not limited to fairies, leprechauns and puca (a/k/a pooka, immortalized in the play and movie Harvey with the marvelous actor James Stewart ... and as with Shee, the singular is the plural). The Shee were the true gods and goddesses of Irish lore and legend. (Your applause at my entrance is gracefully and humbly acknowledged.) Although Shee are distinct and separate from human beings, they have always had extensive contacts and interaction with mortals.

Despite the fact that the fun-loving and aesthetically inclined Shee were driven underground or into the shadows by the conquering Gaels long before Paddy's coming, and Paddy himself did his best to stifle their spirits (grin), they have never lost their grip on the Irish imagination or their place in Irish folklore. The Shee always knew (and know) how to have a good time ... so long as they receive appropriate offerings for their amusement and nurture, and no mortal is foolhardy enough to provoke them. Believe me ... you want nothing to do with an angry Shee, although there are more running about than you might imagine.

Shee generally have a human appearance, but possess preternatural powers which may be used for good or evil ... or frequently, just mischief. Most mortals in these times visualize fairies as being diminutive female beings (think Tinker Bell); however, the Shee, including fairies in general, were originally if somewhat contradictorily described as being "tall, radiant, angelic beings ... or short, wizened trolls." (Which reminds me ... haven't heard from Blog since his comment to my "Festivals ... Fire ... and Bear Fat ..." post of January 22, 2008. Hope he hasn't changed bridges without a "Forward" again....)

The male Shee Aengus (who tended to roam), a member in good standing of the Tuatha De, is considered a god of love, youth and poetic inspiration. (It is said that Aengus always had four birds circling 'round his head, symbolizing kisses, and this may have been the inspiration for the "xxxx"s sometimes appended to letters exchanged by lovers.) The bean sidhe (a female fairy ... and a bit unstable, in truth), a/k/a banshee, is known for portending death and doom through her screeching, high pitched, hysterical wails. Leprechauns are generally old, ill-tempered, downright cranky, wealthy and cunning. (Somehow, these examples remind me of the upcoming U.S. presidential elections.... But I digress....)

The Shee lived openly above-ground for eons, frolicking and ruling the Emerald Isle back in those ancient days of Irish mist and fog and sacrificial forests, as my dear and very close friend William Butler Yeats, the great Irish poet, wrote, "... where time is drowned in odour-laden winds and Druid moons." Yeats also spoke of ... "a Druid dream at the end of days when the stars are to wane and the world is to be done." (Though the words were certainly crafted by Yeats, just how do you think he came to know about Druid moons and Druid dreams? Puh-leeze! Credit where credit is due....)

Yeats (affectionately known to me as Will-B) recorded for posterity the tale of the wanderings of the warrior/poet Oisin and the beautiful Niamh of the Golden Hair, who dwelt together blissfully in Tír na nÓg, the Land of Eternal Youth, for more than a century. Of course everything was just peachy until Oisin just had to leave Tír na nÓg to go out with the guys one more time and stepped back into the quotidian world ... where a hundred years of previously unfelt and unaccrued age suddenly and tragically caught up with him. You just can't tell 'em.... (Side Note: Oisin was the son of the legendary leader of the Fianna, Fionn mac Cumhail ... pronounced and later Anglicized as "Finn McCool" ... a truly cooool name, IMHO).

Portrait of William Butler Yeats, ca. 1900, by John Butler Yeats

Ah, my dear, beloved Will-B (as I called Yeats in that incarnation ... we have much unfinished business in future lives).... Adored the man.... His intense, absolutely killer Celtic eyes .... what gifts, what talent, developed and honed over many lifetimes, despite a few setbacks here and there to relearn ... or learn new ... life lessons. Among other eclectic interests in Theosophy (literally, "god wisdom"), Buddhism, Hinduism and Kabbalah, Will-B was absolutely fascinated with Irish lore, and with the Irish legend of Cuchulain, the offspring of both a supernatural and a human being, from whence he may have inferred the ultimate joining of the mortal with the metaphysical worlds. He intimated as much in many of his poems after he had a "fairy stroke" (fell passionately in love) with a stunning Shee posing as the Irish Nationalist spitfire Maud Gonne ... a leanan (defined as a sweetheart, concubine or favorite) sídhe ... sometimes described as a beautiful muse, who offers inspiration to an artist or writer. (And don't listen to any of that nasty gossip bruited about by numerous envious she-Shee about the leanan sidhe ... balderdash, I tell you. Shee-sh!)

Will-B carried a total torch for Maud for decades, and often wrote of her in his poems. He ended He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven with these expressive, wistful lines;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.


Dear Will-B also wrote in When You Are Old:

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crown of stars.

The poet described Maud as a "supernatural being ... belonging to poetry" (modesty restrains me from going further). Unfortunately, his love for her remained unrequited in that particular earthly existence ... since Maud also had some of her own karmic quirks to work out ... but that's another story.... However, I cannot leave the subject without showing you two pictures ... which some of you may find verrrrry interesting ... not to say "spooky" or "uncanny" ... at least to those of mortal mindset.

Maud Gonne, ca. 1900 and a "familiar" face, ca. 1973

Will-B wrote further of his love in The Song of Wandering Aengus:
...

It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.


Crank up some good old country music (actually "old country" music from Celtic lands was the genesis of the popular Nashville variety) and you can cry in your beer for hours.... But again I digress....

Despite my indignation at the slighting of the Shee in favor of Paddy, I have always believed in adapting to the customs of my (current) land of residence, and have with goddess-like fervor and abandon embraced your St. Patrick's Day forays into a place called Shamrock in the numinous land of Texas, where I think I had a really good time ... what I remember of it.... (Fortunately, Jennifer has her "infernal" memory, which I draw upon frequently.) Through the mists of time, I see interesting footgear and faces under strange wide-brimmed hats ... Paula, Linda Kay, JoAnn, Raenell, Lynn, ... perhaps even Joe Don, Harold, dear Jack Petty, "Teedle" and others ... Jim, was that you there??? I have also gamely consumed copious quantities of that odious green-dyed beer in scattered locales, as well a bit of Guinness here and there, along with good old Jameson's Irish Whiskey (which my good friend Willie Nelson ... not to be confused with my beloved Will-B ... tends to use for purposes of "drowning"). Let's see now ... whiskey on beer ... beer on whisky ... something rhyming....

The Torc Waterfall, County Killarney, Ireland
Photo by Yahn Smith 2003

Not to be a spoilsport .. but only in the interest of accuracy ... I do feel it is incumbent upon me to disabuse you of one myth ... namely, the idea that corned beef and cabbage (CB&C), a staple of your "Irish" celebrations here, is a commonplace, traditional dish back on the old sod. Just try to get it in your average pub in Ireland, as Lynn, Yahn and Jennifer found out in 2003; it's not on menus (except in really touristy places that cater to the Irish diaspora seeking familial roots). Good Irish pub keepers generally have no idea what you are talking about when you ask for it, since the "tradition" of CB&C was begun and is descended only from Irish immigrants to America ... specifically, New York ... who, in the late 1800s, were unable to find (and unable to afford, if they had found) Irish bacon to eat with their cabbage. They learned about the less-expensive corned beef from their Jewish neighbors ... and so a blended, if misunderstood, tradition was born.

As ever, and always, I have personally chosen the fun-loving Shee, rather than stuffy old Paddy, as my role models as I celebrate the day of the Irish/Druids ... in Paris ... Shee Paree (grin ... and groan) ... where at least the French have the good sense to refrain from dyeing the Seine a noxious shade of green.... I will be (Will-B!) counting on Raenell and JoAnn to do their best to keep Jennifer and Linda Kay and my own happy self from wandering into the river after a carafe or two (or three) of vin ordinaire. Of course, we will all be a'wearin' the green and snogging (that's kissing, lest you jump to any untoward conclusions) any handsome, remotely Celtic-looking guy with killer eyes who'll stand still long enough.... Sister Brigid has sent her regrets, and will no doubt be barricaded at home, trying to keep Bres from busting loose and carousing with the milkmaids, which he is wont to do at the drop of a bonnet....

Gotta dash ... sparks flyin' from my fingertips ... echoed voices in the night ... dancin' shadows, firelight ... sometimes it's hard to be a restless spirit on an endless flight ... but let's see how high I can fly.... Poof!

)O(