Month: July 2016

I drove most of that afternoon, the long way around the Beara, and on purpose, just so I could catch glimpses of the Wild Atlantic from the mountainous cliffsides, white waves crashing on the rocks as a storm began to build. It’s a dramatically beautiful drive, with good reason.

The Beara is one of four windswept peninsulas jutting out of southern Ireland: Sheepshead, Beara, Iveragh, and Dingle, in order from the east to west. When one looks at these peninsulas today it is almost unbelievable to think that 300-400 million years ago this region was arid, hot and low lying alluvial plane. But it’s true. You can see this in the reddish and purplish Sandstone which makes up these mountains, somewhat unique to this part of Ireland.

A huge mountain building geological event took place around 300 million years ago resulting in tectonic forces compressing and thrusting up layers of rock in east-west folds. The mountain peaks of the peninsulas were born at this time. They were originally of Alpine proportion. In fact, many geologists say that they were birthed taller than the Himalayas, which are much younger by almost half.

However, time took its course, with erosion and hard weathering gnawing away on the mountains for eons until, in many places, only the sandstone rock ridges, slabs and ribs survive. With the advent of a glacial episode around 2 million years ago, the area was sculpted into what we see today: deep, steep sided and lake filled corries, hanging valleys, large boulders scattered hither and yon,
and sediments deposited during the retreat of the ice, creating the scattered, and sometimes mystifyingly located, lush valleys which people farm.

Having experienced the views of the Sheepshead, with my overnight at the memorable pony trekking farm, I was excited about my pilgrimage stopover on the Beara. I had booked several nights in a bothy, or small rustic cabin, in the woods at the foot of the Caha Mountains and my intention was to head out into the back roads to experience this land up close.

My physical disability now makes it impossible for me to trek as I once did, so the inviting and amazing Beara Way Trail through these remote mountains and valleys was out of reach. However, with the aid of an excellent surveyor’s map, I knew that I could get to multiple trailheads and wilderness areas rich in archaeological significance.

The Beara is dotted all over with stone circles, ring forts, Neolithic burials, standing stones, Ogham stones, cillins, and the ruins of both castles and primitive stone cabins. This is my idea of a dream environment. ☺ With the help of the collapsible walking sticks I had brought from home, I would amble as far as I could, resting when necessary, and see what I could see. wild Irish heather

Beara, by the way, is named, not for the bears which once roamed up in the higher elevations but for a Spanish princess, Beara. She was married to Mug Nuadat, the 1st King of Munster and he brought her back to his country as a bit of a prize.

From Beara and Mug are descended the great Gaelic family one reads about in the Annals of Ireland, the Eo’ganacht. The O’Sullivans, the O’Donoghues, and, most importantly to me, the McCarthy’s, are the names spun off from the Eo’ganacht as the generations passed and the great Gaelic family divided. Every village on this peninsula is filled with members of these three clans.

So, of course I stopped in Castletownberre
for a half pint of Guinness at the world famous McCarthy’s Bar. Famous because Pete McCarthy had lucked into a wild night there a decade or so ago as a crowd of nine women rallied together to celebrate Adrienne McCarthy’s birthday. He, being the only man in the pub at that time, and an affable one at that, was invited to join them. So he did.

Pete was on some kind of quest to reconcile the half of him that was English with the half of him that was Irish. He made a plan of it to travel around the world, visiting every town, every pub, every river, every Thing he would find that shared his name. He then wrote about the experiences. Which included that night’s birthday party featuring the McCarthy woman and her best friends.

He was a pretty good writer, Pete was. He was a better storyteller and an even better marketing guru. He also happened to have a shrewd publisher, which can make the world of difference when you’re writing, trying to make a living from it.

His book made the friendly little pub in Castletownberre famous

and it made Pete wealthy. Which, sadly, didn’t help him much when he died prematurely from cancer a few years ago. Rest in peace, Pete McCarthy.

Now, I happen to share that same surname, McCarthy. I wanted to tip a pint in Pete’s honor, while connecting on some kind of ethereal level with all of the McCarthy’s I happen to be related to out here in the West of Ireland, whom I have never met and probably never will.

So I chose the long way around the Beara Peninsula to my Bothy in the woods outside of Lauragh so I could have that Guinness. I’m not really that much of a beer drinker, but a McCarthy has to do what a McCarthy has to do.

I was served by Adrienne herself, the very woman.
When she asked me, as they always do, where I was from and why I was out here in the wild west, I gave an abbreviated version: the death of my mother last year from pancreatic cancer, followed by my own frightening brush with a rare disease, St. Anthony’s Fire, which made me think I might be dying too, concluding with the fact of my 61st birthday Pilgrimage to re-discover myself and heal.

She stood me the pint when she heard my name was Nyla McCarthy and said, “Family may be family. What do we know?” Another example of that famous hospitality the Irish are known the world over for.

Adrienne is comfortable in her skin; a good hostess who enjoys her curiously earned fame and a hardworking publican, at that. She appreciates how fast her pub fills up every day during high season with folks who have read the book, sitting side by side with locals, having a drink (or a few) in the most traditional pub in town,

I drank my drink, catching the end of the first ever wheelchair tennis singles being played at Wimbledon on the pub’s television (some kind of sports is always on in these pubs; today it was tennis) and watched the winner receive the cup. He then took his ceremonial drink as tradition dictates

history, in the making, while I sipped a Guinness at McCarthy’s Bar.

I left a generous tip on the table for Adrienne. After all, when someone stands you a drink you are meant to pick up the next round. I was only having the one but she had been kind to me.

I next stopped at the market to pick up vegetables and a few other staples for my four days in the cabin, relishing the idea of cooking, and eating, healthy food again. I probably bought more than I will be able to finish but it was that kind of a shop.

Afterwards, I climbed back into my little silver Nissan, which I have christened Eocha.
Loosely translated as “trustworthy horse”, my mechanical steed is serving me very well as I put her daily up steep hills and over rough lanes while I get off the busy tourist track to instead see back road Ireland.

With my detailed surveyor’s map always on the seat beside me, I headed off onto the “Ring of Beara” in search of my bothy.
Not to be confused with the overly exposed and congested Ring of Kerry,

this route is one harrowing cliff hugging lane after the other much of the time.

Whenever I came upon another car, which wasn’t very often, one or the other of us would have to back up until we found a few more feet’s clearance, allowing the other one of us to pass. Since I was going uphill, it was usually the other car’s job to back up. Believe me when I say that for that, I am grateful.

The storm continued building as I kept meandering through villages such as the very pretty Eyeries

or the countryside, where old stone walls still exist to separate field from field.
It took uncommon strength and energy to clear those fields of rock, making them the fertile grazing lands they seem to be now. Those fences are a source of great pride to the people.

The sheep were a curiosity for me. I could see, waaaay up in the rocks, spots of bright pink and orange, occasionally blue. Or even green. Finally, I stopped to study those spots and realized that they were sheep. The farmers mark them so that, a) they can tell whose sheep is whose when they are free ranging like that, and, b) to better see where those sheep are when they wander hither and yon. I choose to believe they are marked with non-toxic dyes.

I found a hand painted sign directing to an Ogham stone, which I hunted for in the downpour but just couldn’t find. The wind was blowing off the Atlantic pretty fiercely by this time. Each time I got out of Eocha to take a picture, I feared the door would be blown off. It was that strong.

In fact, I was knocked unsteady at one point when I was trying to capture a closer look at those floats all across the bay.
This is mussel farming at a very large scale. Each of those floats has a rope attached to it, which is dropped into the water. The mussels attach themselves, grow a bit, and are hauled in to be sold for good price at market.

At last I came to Lauragh, the village closest to the Caha Mountains and the woods where I was headed. I annoyed a local by pulling into what turned out to be a driveway to read my map (those narrow lanes!), it being the driveway he was pulling into. He smiled, politely, after he’d touched his horn not quite as politely.

As I was heading into Healy Pass the rain began to let up just a little. I could tell it was only a short break because I’d seen the front out to see and it was coming ashore soon. So I began to try to outrun the front, which feels a bit scary in a darkening landscape of stone and trees growing close right up and over the lane.

I found the turning. Another handwritten sign, but more importantly, the blue gate after the bridge, across from the church, just outside of the village, only a mile or so down the road. “You can’t miss it.” Fortunately, I didn’t.

When I stepped out of my car, it was into a quiet and stillness that I had dreamed of.
The Bothy

John led me inside, explained how things worked, then built a fire for me so that I wouldn’t be cold as the storm and the night settled in.

Siobhann left a prize winning loaf of soda bread baked just hours before, it was that pretty.
Fruit in a bowl, eggs from their own hens, potatoes from their garden and jams made with last season’s fruit. Everything organically made by this couple, originally from Donegal, now committed to living a sustainable and respectful life in their magical farm in the mountains of the Beara.

After we’d carried in my suitcase and my own box of veggies and fruit, the storm hit. Thunder across the way, powerful winds across the land, and driving rain. John gave me two sets of candles to get through the night. I’d already known I would be off grid for the duration so I settled down and made myself a tasty vegetable stew on the woodstove burner. my stew, bubbling away

I sit here now, in the fading light, the fire keeping me cozy as I write these words. I listen to the wind as it gentles down.
I study the Victorian stained glass above my bed, rescued from a London dumpster and repaired by John’s brother, as the evening light shines through

Occasionally a sheep bleats or a cow lows somewhere down in the valley. I am at peace. I have arrived.

If you know the culture, you will understand that in this case, the traveller is not me, but my hostess, who declined to have her picture taken, “due to security reasons”. She told me it was okay to take these images, however. 

Originally from the Isle of Wight, K moved to the Sheepshead Peninsula about five years ago to escape an abusive husband. 

She grew up in a circus family, which is where her love for horses began. 

This is her herd. Several were free rescues from the meat market and she now teaches classes and leads rides across the hills when the weather permits. It had poured all day so in this case, the weather did not. 

In K’s herd there is a Connemara pony and a Gypsy Vanner, plus a trotter. She loves her horses, which is a good thing, because she lives alone way out along the Atlantic Way with only her horses and two dogs for company. 

She doesn’t get many guests. I was her first air bnb tenant in over a year. Gortnakilly is not on the tourist trail. 

This is Gortnakilly Pier. K told me that it was used as a base for smuggling drugs for quite some time but “ya can’t git a 30 foot boat in there so, no more”.

K doesn’t have a car. Instead, she rides her horse or takes a modest little horse trap she owns up and over the 13 steep and windy kilometers into the village once a week, where she sells creams and potions, plus soap, which she makes in her kitchen using locally sourced plants she gathers.  

She and I took a walk in the rain and I helped her with the gathering. 

This is the view we were blessed with when the rain let up for an hour or so. 

Back in her cottage, K cooked us a simple supper of mashed potatoes with mustard and garlic. I helped oil some of her bridle leathers in return, and we talked. 

She told me that her grandfather had sexually abused both her and her daughter, who is now in an institution, having attempted to starve herself to death. K hates her grandfather and her mother, who she feels “gave us up like some kind of fucking offering because she stopped sleeping with the bastard herself while we were stayin with them.”

She believes her nearest neighbor over the road spies on her with his camera and the police arrived one night to sack her home, looking for the drugs it had been reported she was selling. So maybe they do. 

“Wankers!  How fucking stupid do they think I am? I want my daughter back so I don’t truck with that  shite no more”.

She does, however, hitchhike off to festivals to join her fellow Travellers, where she dances and serves as a psychic. “I love my people. They accept everyone exactly as they are. No judgements.”  

At this, she smiled broadly, showing several missing teeth in a face that was once beautiful in a traditional way and is now beautiful through strength of character and endurance. 

The wind came up and it was a howler of a night. K can’t afford oil for her furnace so we huddled under blankets until an early bedtime.  

I let myself out quietly this morning so as not to wake her. The woman is a hardworking and weary soul. She deserves her rest. 

This is Timothy Casey.

Timothy is a dairy farmer. He is a very gentle soul and he is also very funny.

Timothy loves his cattle.

He referred to these five as “my bebbies” and said that they are not quite three months old. Notice where they are laying.

Timothy inherited some land. The same land he’d helped his father farm, and his father before him had helped his father, and on back so it goes. It’s beautiful countryside way out back in Limerick County, perfect for those well cared for calves and the mothers that were grazing, waiting to be milked, across the road.

On one part of Timothy Casey’s land there is something very important. Something which has been there since before 2000 B.C. And that something is the largest sun circle, more commonly known as a stone circle, in all of Ireland.

Grange Sun Circle (in Irish, Lios na Grainsi. Stone of the Sun) is 46 (138 feet) meters in internal diameter. The bank is over 9 meters (27 feet) wide and is raised up about a meter and a half.

Lios na Grainsi is designed so that the entrance gate lines up perfectly with the rising sun during both the summer and winter solstices. You can see the “gate” in the photo above off to the right.

At 5:00 ish on those days the sun pours its light directly through the gate into the center of the circle. Timothy showed me a photo he had taken of it doing just that. It was amazing.

He also told me that last year the sun made an appearance both for the summer and winter solstices but that this year it was overcast, so the fifty or so people who gathered to experience it did not. “Still, they do their dancin’ and singin’and what not and nobody leaves unhappy.
These are some of the happy people from last year.

Timothy Casey is a good steward of his land. After all, it is located along Lough Gur, the oldest continually inhabited area in Ireland. There are hundreds of ring forts, stone circles, ruins of castles, and paleolithic as well as neolithic grave sites all around the Lough. I visited many of them (and will share photos on a future posting) but this sun circle is the main reason I went off to visit that area.

Timothy recognizes the importance of his inheritance and is committed to keeping it undeveloped for the benefit of the people to come. Out of his own pocket, which is not deep (I saw the condition of his old stone barns), he built a fence around the entire Circle to keep his big cows from grazing it down. He also put in a grab bar so that people like me could hold on as they make their way down the steep and slippery slope into the main field leading to the circle.

I thanked Timothy for sharing his land and his stories, then made my way into the circle.

First, I walked counter clockwise as one should do when entering a holy stone ring circle.
Walking the perimeter before entering

I then encountered this interesting symbol carved into a tree trunk at the entrance to the stone gate. I have no idea what it means and if any of you do, please let me know.

I passed down and through the stone gate and into the circle

where I began to look at it from inside, which is where the center of power lies.

Moving in for a close up of the Cleft

This stone is known as Rannach Cruim Duibh.

The name, translated, tells us that this circle was associated with the festival of Lughnasa, one of the four great Celtic feasts, traditionally celebrated on August 1, as an honoring of the harvest.

Crom Dubh means “Dark Bent One”. He is a Pagan deity credited with bringing the first sheaf of corn to Ireland. This named stone, set within this particular Sun Circle, tells us that I was standing within a very important Pagan ritual site, honoring the sun.

Take a very close look at this photograph. I stopped immediately upon passing because I felt something unusual. Then I realized what it was. Do you see it?
The roots of an ancient oak, since felled, embracing and engulfing one of the ring stones. A marriage of powerful elements.

And this section of the circle made me laugh out loud. for obvious reasons. Cocky thing.

Finally, I made my ablutions, spoke my intention, and gave my thanks. I laid a Euro on the offering stone, now hosting donations for Timothy, who is growing older and finding it a challenge to keep up with his farm.

His own children have gone away and he recently had to give away half his herd, which caused him much grief. As I mentioned, he is a gentle soul. I am glad someone started this practice. He said it wasn’t him and I believe him.

After I laid my coin on the offering stones, this tree, which towers over them, reached a branch down and caressed my head.
Oh, you can say it was just the wind, but this is Ireland and I was inside the Grange Sun Circle at Lough Gur.

That tree gave me a blessing. I received it with thanks.

“The Rock of Cashel” does not refer to that cluster of buildings constructed on top of the rock: St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the Round Tower (one of the finest in Ireland), the Vicar’s Choral or the beautiful Bishop-King Cormac McCarthy’s Chapel.

No, the Rock of Cashel refers directly to the gigantic lump of limestone which rises out of the lush plains of Tipperary (the Vale) and upon which all of the ancient buildings have been sited.

early unknown artist’s rendering

I captured this image on the way up the hill toward the complex early in the morning before the gates were opened.

I wanted to get there before the tour buses arrived, and as a result of my fortitude, I had nearly 45 minutes completely alone up there, on top of that wind swept Rock, strolling the perimeter and absorbing the energies of my ancestors who had lived, ruled, and been buried there.

Cattle grazing below the rock just to the Northwest

Hore Abbey
founded by Cistercian monks in 1272 is off to the Southwest, just below the Rock

As we look east across the face of the Rock

we come to understand that the land in this heart of Munster is rich, filled with limestone and other minerals.

It is almost possible to understand why the High King of the O’Brien clan donated it to the Catholic Church. He hoped to put an end to its function as a fortification and through his gifting, curry favor enough to win the right to keep it as part of his holdings, as “manager” for the Church. The O’Brien’s, by the way, had come into possession of the Rock after Carthage (MacCarthy), King of all the Eoghanacht and ruler of Cashel in 1045, was treacherously burned alive in his bed.

The O’Briens expected the Bishops to prevent the MacCarthy’s, then the most powerful (and historians say, most benevolent; for example, they did not exact tribute) of the clans in Munster, from going to war with them and winning it back.

Their plan, however, had an ironic twist to it when Cormac McCarthy, who was both a Bishop and a King was appointed to the Cathedral. He rose swiftly to power in the early 1100’s, building his magnificent chapel during his reign.
Cormac’s Chapel

The Rock had been the seat of the High Kings of Munster for centuries. Brian Boru was crowned here in 977 and there is archaeological evidence that the Rock was used as a center for High Chieftains of Ireland as far back as the 4th century.

This is significant because of the buildings we see there now, the Round Tower is the oldest and it was not constructed until around 1100 A.D.

The Round Tower, at 28 meters high, is also the tallest building on the Rock. St. Patrick’s Cathedral, standing right next to it was not begun until 1235, 135 years later.

The South facing entrance to St. Patrick’s Cathedral

Next, we see the Cathedral’s castle style fortification, which was not added until the 14th century.

Notice how close the buildings are to one another? Literally inches away. This is because of the limited space on top of that rock–the stonemasons had to be skillful.

Inside the Cathedral, looking up

Also inside, looking up. And out!

It’s interesting to know that this Cathedral was laid out in an aisle-less cruciform, which is quite unusual.

On one wall we find the man the Cathedral was built to honor

accompanied by a couple of Bishops doing their thing.

This 16th century nave and stonework comes just around the time the Rock is attacked (1647)by English Parliamentarian troops under Murrough O’Brien, 1st Earl of Inchiquin. The English troops destroyed the structures and stole everything of value, including priceless antiquities, in their greed.

I love these carvings, with their proud animal motifs, which somehow managed to survive

As I move forward on my Pilgrimage, it seems important to visit places where the McCarthy’s lived and loved.

I began with this Rock. It is a way of getting in touch with my mother’s side of my soul.

And what a wonder Cormac MacCarthy created to feed all of our souls.

His chapel is a unique example of Romanesque architecture due to it’s twin towers on either side with their strong Germanic influence, interior and exterior arcading, barrel-vaulted roof, carved tympanum over both doorways, magnificent North doorway and chancel arch, and now, those recently discovered colorful frescos hidden for centuries(!) after having been painted over by Protestant religious reform leaders who decided they were too exuberant, and therefore sinful.

Here it is

The Chancel Arch

close up of the fresco work look closely, you can see a face in the middle
grotesques

and look at these arches. wow!

Here’s some of those carved tympanum to marvel over

and look up there!
closer….

And then we come upon the resting place of the King, the Bishop, the MacCarthy himself. Except that he’s no longer there. The tomb has been opened and his bones and ashes….No idea.

Bishop King Cormac McCarthy

“I am an offspring of the dead… My ancestors are the illustrious multitudes of the defunct, grand and innumerable. My lineage is longer than time.”
― Thomas Ligotti

And that’s one of the things you come to understand on Pilgrimage.

Blessed Be

This is Brigid, one of the earliest known images of her that I could find

Brigid is actually a very important triple Goddess, representing maiden, woman and crone.

She is the most important Goddess in ancient Irish religion and there are many stories about her and her role.

Unknown artist

stained glass by Mary Leen

We celebrate Brigid’s feast day, Imbolc, on February 1st. It is one of the four major Gaelic seasonal festivals—along with Beltane, Lughnasadh and Samhain. Imbolic is critical because it marks the welcoming of Spring.

We find Imbolc mentioned in some of the earliest surviving Irish literature and there is evidence that it has been an important festival since Paleolithic times. In fact, the inner chamber of the Mound of the Hostages on the Hill of Tara, the spiritual heart of Ireland, is aligned with the rising sun on the dates of Imbolc and Samhain.

However, the patriarchy within the Catholic Church, fearing the fertility aspect of the rituals, as well as its empowerment of women, conscripted the festival day (as with so many ancient worship days), turning it into the festival of Saint Brigid, a Christianization of the goddess. And here she is:
The Christianized Goddess,
Saint Brigid. Lovely girl.

At Imbolc, Brigid’s crosses were woven from straw and a doll-like figure of Brigid, called a Brídeóg, would be paraded from house-to-house. Brigid was said to visit one’s home at Imbolc and thus, fires were kept burning all night to light the path.

To receive her blessings, people would make a bed for Brigid and leave her food and drink, while items of clothing would be left outside for her to bless. Brigid would then be invoked to protect homes and livestock. Special feasts were had by families and entire communities, holy wells were visited due to her extraordinary healing powers and the night time was a time for practice divination.

The Mother Goddess, in her exalted state

This is all prelude to the fact that I began my pilgrimage today.

I began it with a clear intention: to visit and honor the Goddess, dip my hands into her sacred waters and then bathe my head, anointing myself.

A kind of baptism at 61, my 7 year, in the waters found eternally bubbling up from the Goddess Brigid’s well in County Kildare.

The rain ceased just before I took this photo, leaving the air smelling unimaginably sweet, fragrant with fresh flowers.

All around me was lush greenery fed by clean, pure oxygen, nourished though total silence except for the sound of birds singing and water gently bubbling. It was peaceful and powerful. I felt myself going deep within the presence of the Divine.

And then, unbidden, a gift.

As I stood up from my ablutions within the well, a feather floated down and landed beside me.
The appearance of that feather brought tears to my eyes. I felt oddly humbled, then, deeply grateful.

It is now in my hire car, where it will travel with me across Ireland throughout this pilgrimage of healing and re-finding myself.

As is the tradition, I tied my clootie, a red silk cord in this case, onto a branch and made my invocation.

A clootie is usually a piece of cloth, dipped into the waters of the well, then tied while saying a prayer of intention, onto the branches of the Whitethorn or Ash tree which is always found growing beside a healing well. However, a clootie can also be an offering of anything one feels moved to give.

I was struck by this woman’s poem.

As I moved away from the well and began my walk out of this ancient, holy space, I stopped to take this picture of the statue of beautiful Brigid, built thoughtfully over the stream which bubbles out of the ground several yards away, rather than over, or too close to, the ancient well.

It was time to leave. Yet it was so peaceful, so sweetly fragrant, that I would have like to have stayed all day. However, please remember, the rain which had so kindly stopped was making its move to return.

So I drove into Kildare village to visit the Sheela na Gig hidden underneath the tomb of Bishop Wellesley in Saint Brigid’s Cathedral.
photo taken from a small lane behind the building and outside of the walls

This is a very unusual Catholic institution. It is said to have been erected in 523 A.D., shortly after Saint Brigid’s death. According to the Church’s version, Brigid was an Abbess who lived with a small group of nuns, practicing healing arts, in a simple wooden compound.

In her honor, they constructed this massive stone Cathedral to replace the former, simpler dwelling. For many centuries after its construction, Kildare maintained a unique Irish experiment; the Abbess ruled over a double community of women and men, and the Bishop was subordinate in jurisdiction to the Abbess. This is just not the way it is usually done.

However, what is really interesting is that in Pagan times, the enclosure which the church is now situated within was known as Brigid’s Fire Temple. The walls were at that time made of Hawthorne hedges, not stone. And yes, there were fires: fires kept lit by a small group of virgins. Not Christian nuns but Priestesses dedicated to the Goddess Brigid.

Men were not allowed within the walls of that hedge enclosure ever. It was women’s Sacred Space, pure and consecrated to the Goddess. The people respected it as such. Sadly, I am not surprised that the Church tore down the hedges and put up a stone wall, then constructed a monument to the patriarchy.

The fire pit has been restored and sits next to a round tower, the second highest one in Ireland, which was ordered by the Bishop to be built there.

This creates an interesting yin/yang or yoni/lingam type of relationship and perhaps that is what was intended. We know that the early Pagan Christian brothers in Ireland were attempting to do honor to the old ways before Rome ran amuck and began ruling with its unloving reach.

It’s worth noting that there is a very phallic neolithic round tower on the Hill of Tara itself.

In any case, it is a strange juxtaposition within the Cathedral walls, this balanced male and female energy in what was once sacred female space. I am just thankful they didn’t obliterate the sacred feminine entirely.

Moving inside the church, I had to crawl down the wall onto the cold tile floor and then lay down in order to capture this image of the Sheela na Gig hidden underneath the corner of the Bishop of Wellesley’s tomb.

Many thanks, by the way, to the kind local fellow who helped the unknown eccentric white haired woman, with her physical challenges, to get back up off the ground.

Curiously, Wellesley did not have this Sheela destroyed.
This was a rather bold move by a man of the Church because the associations with Sheela na Gig’s are very much about strong female power. They are, after all, pagan carvings of Goddess mothers spreading their vulva wide apart. Here is a better preserved one in which the details are clearer.
Perhaps the Bishop understood that through paying homage to the ancient beliefs of the local people, he might increase his Church’s membership.

I then noticed that every window in the church had a Brigid’s Cross.

And one other curious thing: this carving of a skull and crossbones.
This is exceedingly rare to find inside a cathedral.

It was added, according to the little handwritten sign on the wall, “in 1708 to demonstrate that even in the midst of life we are also in death and no matter what we do….we will be held accountable.” An odd way to reference heaven and hell, I thought.

And then I sat in a pew and immersed myself for awhile in the beautiful interior of Saint Brigid’s Cathedral…

…gave my thanks and quietly left.

Pilgrimage begun. Blessed Be.

Below is very well researched and written link to more information on the Goddess and her traditions than I have been able to provide you. Happy reading.

http://www.druidry.org/library/gods-goddesses/brigid-survival-goddess

Someone you enjoy hanging out with.

I enjoyed a spirited discussion about one of the courses we’d shared together with this animated, smiling and thoughtful man who was genuinely interested in the union of advocacy and theatre I’ve been doing for so many year.

He asked me questions which weren’t just perfunctory, “what do you do” words, but wanted to know about the challenges I might have run into along the way. And he had an ease about him in the midst of some slightly more tightly wound people that drew me to him.

His wife was just as friendly, just as curious, just as easy to talk to and the three of us found ourselves gravitating toward each other during breaks for the entirety of a day, sharing opinions, insights, and many jokes.

they bring the same energy to their “formal” presentations

The next day, after reading the bios of some more of my fellows, it dawned on me who his wife was: Amal Allana, one of the keynote speakers, and a very important figure in theater in India.

When I met them over breakfast the next day, I said to Amal,
“I feel so stupid. I didn’t realize who you are.”

“Oh, I am somebody?”, she laughed.

“What I mean is, that you are giving today’s keynote. If I hadn’t read your bio last night I wouldn’t have realized that you would be speaking.”

Nissar interjected.
“But you don’t know who I am?” He had a twinkle in his eye (and in truth, I still didn’t know the extent of it).

“Why, you’re her husband.” I teased him back.

“Oh, now you have hurt my feelings. I feel very sad. I am just a husband?”

He sounded a bit more serious and I wasn’t sure if we were all teasing one another anymore. I said, with no joke in my voice,

“I’m sorry but I haven’t read your bio yet. I know from our conversations so far that you must have something to do with lighting and set design and of course, theatre. And I imagine you are very good at it because the things you have shared with me have been very thoughtful. I’m sorry if I don’t know who you are. I’m a stupid American who lives a sheltered life.”

“Nyla,” he said, “I am only teasing you. I am glad you don’t know who I am anymore than I know who you are. This means we have met, the three of us, as real people. Just ourselves. We are equals and we are friends.” He touched me reassuringly and Alana laughed.

“Oh, I like this”, she tittered, looking at her husband. “Nyla,” she continued, “you are a good person. You have an interesting mind. We will talk more later. But sadly, I now must go prepare for my talk.”

“I want to hear more about your film project, the Choices one.” Nissar said as they turned away.

And then they walked off, arm in arm, affectionate spouses who are also clearly equal partners.

I decided to put an end to my ignorance. I googled Nissar. This is what came up:

http://www.tta.co.in

The man designed and decorated set for Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi.

and this:
http://www.mumbaitheatreguide.com/dramas/interviews/21-nissar-allana-interview.asp#

and together, these two warm, pretentious free people, bring this:
http://www.thehindu.com/thehindu/mp/2005/07/21/stories/2005072101000100.htm

I will cover Amal’s talk in a future posting because it was powerful and very important.

This entry is for Nissar, who was not speaking at Oxford this time.

“So Nyla,” he said, sometime later that evening, “have you figured out what I do yet?” He laughed good naturally.

“Oh, something or other to do with theatre which has made you famous it seems.” I smiled at him. “Unless that is a different Nissar.”

He liked that and said, “Maybe it is, maybe it is.”

Amal turned to him and said, “Oh, I sometimes think it is a very different Nissar” and then she smiled impishly at me.

A “famous man” with a “famous wife” who is comfortable with himself and completely unimpressed by the trivial externals. A man who is nice.

Days and many conversations later, when he asked if he and Amal could come visit me in Oregon next year when they come to America, of course I said yes.

We had become friends, just us, as real people.