“The Christian Celts, for the greater part of two millennia, were neither puritanical nor dualistic. They were close to the Earth’s cycles of fertility. They saw the Earth as good, sexuality as good, life as good–all being generous blessings.

The Celts have always been ‘night people’ as well–the night being a holy time for storytellers, song, and mirth. Celtic poets went into the holy dark to seek its blessings and hone their craft.”

-William John Fitzgerald-

This is all probably why I’m theologically non-dualistic and love stories. This is my heritage.

The ancient Celts called the first full moon of January the “Wolf Moon.” It was traditional to give a good howl at it, thanking it for its beauty as it kept the night watch.

We may or may not have done that tonight…

The Celtic calendar was built on a wheel, an ancient wisdom of spirals and turning on which they trusted all life to be built upon. It was a dance that humanity participated in along with everything else cosmic to microscopic.

There were two halves, the “Sam” (summer) and the “Gam” (winter), and those were divided again with Samhain in October (the start of winter) and Beltaine in May (the start of summer), and further divided by Imbolc in February and Lughnasadh in August. In between all of those were the celestial markers of equinoxes and solstices, further providing some guidance as to what rhythm the Celts would be adopting at a particular time of year.

This is the eightfold pattern of their year, spinning round and round.

And each day itself was said to mirror this pattern with dusk (wintering) and dawn (summering) and noon and midnight. In other words: each day held a year.

A similar wisdom is seen in the ancient creation stories (Genesis follows this pattern), and also the eschatalogical understanding that each day holds the liturgical year (waiting, celebration, mourning, growing, etc.).

All of this is ancient, cycling wisdom at play, if we’re willing to pay attention.

In a modern Celtic understanding, January affords us the opportunity to focus in on thresholds (liminal spaces from the Latin “limen” which literally means “threshold”). Though it was not the ancient New Year for the Celts (which was probably Samhain), the mentality of the people was one of adaptation and so we find it has shifted to enfold the Gregorian calendar into its thoughtful rhythm.

January is our modern threshold month. It is the doorway, the threshold, to a new year. For the ancient Celts thresholds were holy places in the home, the barrier between the world and the family, a portal through which humans, as well, as other spirits traversed. It was neither here nor there. The dirt of thresholds was seen as holy ground, good for repairing relationships and cleansing the soul (haven’t you ever said, “it is good to be home!”?).

When entering an ancient Celtic home you’d say a quick blessing just inside the doorway called “The Welcome of the Door.” This is mirrored in many religions, but specifically for Western Christians we see this practice adopted on January 6th as doorways are blessed in honor of the Epiphany and the Magi crossing the threshold of the home of Mary and Joseph to see the Christ child.

January, as our modern threshold, provides us a similar opportunity for blessing and newness, is what I’m saying. The wheel is spinning, but there are important markers throughout, and now we are at the threshold of 2023 and a “Welcome of the Door” is in order.

What will be the blessing you say here?

Sometimes Writing

“Sometimes writing sits in you
like a wild animal. Maybe
you see its eyes.
Maybe you don’t see it at all,
but the hair on the back of your neck
knows it is there
where the deepest shadows lie.
Often the shadows lie
about what’s hiding in them.

The panther that has stalked you
since you were a child
is old now. No longer wild,
and tired of guarding the treasure
you yourself left behind–
blind and deaf, she will give it all to you
if you just let her go.

But how are you to know
whether the fox on the hill
in the cemetery carries your mother’s name
or is the same fox you saw
crossing your back yard in the snow

unless you put your pen to paper
and use it to release the animal
that hides in the shadow of your hand.”

-Pat Schneider-

Christ climbed down
From his bare tree
This year
And ran away to where
There were no rootless Christmas trees
Hung with candycanes and breakable stars

Christ climbed down
From his bare tree
This year
And ran away to where
There were no gilded Christmas trees
And no tinsel Christmas trees
And no tinfoil Christmas trees
And no pink plastic Christmas trees
And no gold Christmas trees
And no black Christmas trees
And no powderblue Christmas trees
Hung with electric candles
And encircled by tin electric trains
And clever cornball relatives

Christ climbed down
From his bare tree
This year
And ran away to where
No intrepid Bible salesmen
Covered the territory
In two-toned Cadillacs
And where no Sears Roebuck creches
Complete with plastic babe in manger
Arrived by parcel post
The babe by special delivery
And where no televisioned Wise Men
Praised the Lord Calvert Whiskey

Christ climbed down
From his bare tree
This year
And ran away to where
No fat handshaking stranger
In a red flannel suit
And a fake white beard
Went around passing himself off
as some sort of North Pole saint
crossing the desert to Bethlehem
Pennsylvania
In a Volkswagen sled
Drawn by rollicking Adirondack reindeer
With German names
And bearing sacks of Humble Gifts
From Saks Fifth Avenue
For everybody’s imagined Christ child

Christ climbed down
From his bare tree
This year
And ran away to where
No Bing Crosby carolers
Groaned of a tight Christmas
And where no Radio City angels
Iceskated wingless
Thru a winter wonderland
Into a jinglebell heaven
Daily at 8:30
With Midnight Mass matinees

Christ climbed down
From his bare tree
This year
And softly stole away into
Some anonymous soul
He waits again
An unimaginable
And impossibly
Immaculate Reconception
The very craziest
Of Second Comings

-Lawrence Ferlinghetti-

Christ climbed down
From his bare tree
This year
And ran away to where
There were no rootless Christmas trees
Hung with candycanes and breakable stars

Christ climbed down
From his bare tree
This year
And ran away to where
There were no gilded Christmas trees
And no tinsel Christmas trees
And no tinfoil Christmas trees
And no pink plastic Christmas trees
And no gold Christmas trees
And no black Christmas trees
And no powderblue Christmas trees
Hung with electric candles
And encircled by tin electric trains
And clever cornball relatives

Christ climbed down
From his bare tree
This year
And ran away to where
No intrepid Bible salesmen
Covered the territory
In two-toned Cadillacs
And where no Sears Roebuck creches
Complete with plastic babe in manger
Arrived by parcel post
The babe by special delivery
And where no televisioned Wise Men
Praised the Lord Calvert Whiskey

Christ climbed down
From his bare tree
This year
And ran away to where
No fat handshaking stranger
In a red flannel suit
And a fake white beard
Went around passing himself off
as some sort of North Pole saint
crossing the desert to Bethlehem
Pennsylvania
In a Volkswagen sled
Drawn by rollicking Adirondack reindeer
With German names
And bearing sacks of Humble Gifts
From Saks Fifth Avenue
For everybody’s imagined Christ child

Christ climbed down
From his bare tree
This year
And ran away to where
No Bing Crosby carolers
Groaned of a tight Christmas
And where no Radio City angels
Iceskated wingless
Thru a winter wonderland
Into a jinglebell heaven
Daily at 8:30
With Midnight Mass matinees

Christ climbed down
From his bare tree
This year
And softly stole away into
Some anonymous soul
He waits again
An unimaginable
And impossibly
Immaculate Reconception
The very craziest
Of Second Comings

-Lawrence Ferlinghetti-

As the sun turns in early this Solstice, I’m keeping vigil with my ancestors and am anxious to spy that Christmas star!

On this night they’d haul in a huge tree; often the whole town was needed to carry it with children riding on top like a sled. They’d cut it, or grab two if needed, and take to either the village gathering place, or split between homes as was necessary.

The ancient Yule Log would mimic the “unconquered sun” in the heart of the home. Winter was seen as a hulking cold beast who swallowed the fire of light, and the only way to overcome that belly was through stoking the fire more mightily.

In later years the log would be large enough to burn through Christmas Day and beyond, a melding of pre and post-Christian practices.

After the log had burned, the ashes were mixed with seed corn, thought to bring luck and good harvest. In most cases a very small portion of the log was kept and safely stored for the following Winter Solstice, a reminder that the sun could always be counted on to return and that the unbroken cycle of light and warmth was promised.

In learning about my Celtic heritage, I stumbled upon a fun tradition of something called “The Yule Lads,” 13 trolls that come from December 12-24 to play pranks. Especially popular in Icelandic lore, these trolls are fun tricksters who, when little children leave their shoes on the window sill, leave candies for good children and rotten potatoes for naughty kids.

December 12th: Sheep Cote Clod visits to harass sheep (but his peg leg prevents him from catching many, and he mostly makes noise).

December 13th: Gully Gawk comes from the mountains to hide in gullies, sneaking into barns to steal milk.

December 14th: Stubby comes to scrape out all the food left in your pans.

December 15th: Spoon Licker licks your spoons.

December 16th: Pot-Scraper scrapes out your pots.

December 17th: Bowl-Licker licks out your dirty bowls.

December 18th: Door Slammer comes late at night to slam your doors while you’re sleeping.

December 19th: Skyr Gobbler arrives. Skyr is a special kind of Icelandic yogurt, but he’ll eat any yogurt…he’s not picky.

December 20th: Sausage Snatcher comes to, well, self-explanatory.

December 21st: Window Peeper comes. A terrible name, this is the kindest of the trolls who is just looking for little snacks to steal by peering through your windows.

December 22nd: Doorway Sniffer comes. He has a strange name, but he’s just sniffing out your cakes and muffins to eat with his strong nose.

December 23rd: Meat Hook comes to eat the Christmas roasts you’re prepping for your holiday feast!

December 24th: Candle Stealer. This harkens back to a day when candles were made from fat and were edible. He waits to take children’s candles to eat!

Fun stuff.

Rotten potatoes for all!