For Spring, some Celtic wisdom on stewardship from a medieval Irish tale:
“A very old man went out one day on the land beside his house, and began planting fruit trees.
A young man walked by. “What are you doing?” the young man asked.
“Planting fruit trees,” the old man replied.
“But you will not see fruit in your lifetime,” the youth said.
“The fruit that I have enjoyed in my lifetime,” the old man answered, “has been from trees that people before me have planted. So to express my gratitude of them, I am planting trees to give fruit to those who come after me.”
For the ancient Celts, April was the month of new life long before the Christians invaded their lands. They saw the blossoming of the ground and understood deep in their bones that resurrection was not only possible, but probable in this life (and others).
One of the things they took the time to do in these days was connect with trees. They imagined that the trees had their own kingdom, and their own way of communicating (which they do…Google the latest science on the matter!). Tolkien understood this, which is why the Ents played a lovely part in his fantasy world.
Here is the suggestion for deepening your relationship with trees (honestly, they would do this):
-Wander through different groves. Quiet your mind. Touch the trunk of a tree or two and pay attention to it.
-Take a leaf from a tree and rub it between your fingers.
-Sit against a trunk and imagine in gratitude that it gives you shade and fruit (whatever kind it gives) and life.
-Fall into a state of peace and just be with it for a while.
As trees awaken in these April days, the Celts believed humanity, the ground, and the animals would follow that energy and awaken, too.
As March breathes those final breaths, I’m recalling how this month was the one where the Celts would go in search of “sweet water,” those springs that have sloughed off their mostly frozen nature and gush forth with intensity.
They knew that the end of March meant leaning more into life than into stasis, and they would bodily take the pilgrimage to different waters around their land to pull from the pools. Wisdom was in the water, or so they thought. Life was in the water.
When a babe was born in the Scottish isles, or even in the Highlands on the mainland, a midwife would take a bit of this water gathered from various sources (or, sometimes, from the main local source that fed the village) and would say this nine-fold blessing over the child, dotting the head of the infant with a drop of the water with each line:
A small wave for thy form, A small wave for thy voice, A small wave for thy sweet speech;
A small wave for thy luck, A small wave for thy good, A small wave for thy health;
A small wave for thy throat, A small wave for thy pluck, A small wave for thy graciousness; Nine waves for thy graciousness.
As we begin to open our windows to greet the coming April, I’m thinking that we’re leaning into life, too.
In Celtic tradition, the month of March is associated with the great ash tree. The ash tree is one of three trees that the pre-Christian Celts held sacred (ash, oak, and thorn), and according to tradition, Yggdrasil, the “world tree” was an ash tree from which all life was birthed.
Because ash trees are so tall, they were seen as the connection between the heavens and the earth, and therefore were understood to be powerful symbols of good in the world. In fact, it was rumored in ancient times that snakes were so afraid of the ash tree that they wouldn’t even slither over its shadow.
Snakes are an interesting evil symbol, too, until you remember that in the ancient world the snake was very scary: quiet and often venomous. It would attack you in your sleep, often looking for warmth in the bed of a person. Or it might strike you in the field, shaded by the grass.
Our modern zoological minds may wonder at this ancient symbol of evil, but our pre-modern ancestors just knew “stay away!” This, and its unusual form, is why it’s often a representation of evil in the ancient world. After all, snakes are not bad creatures, just misunderstood by humans who think they have to understand everything.
Celts would often carry ash leaves in their pockets to ward off evil, and would sometimes put ash leaves in their shoes to help with foot problems.
Beyond the magical and practical, though, the metaphorical can speak to our lives today. The ash tree can be a reminder for all of us to tap into our strengths in this month of March, trying to balance our lives a bit, bridging the heavens (ideals) and the earth (reality) of our being.
Today is the Vernal Equinox, and we find nature yelling “balance!” as March oscillates between warm and cool, trying to decide how it will birth April.
Today the sun and the moon will show the weather by example how to find equilibrium.
On the Equinox my Celtic Christian ancestors would bless the brief balance seen in the sky. Even the ancients knew that balance is rare in life.
So here’s a blessing for balance by Celtic poet John O’Donohue:
For Equilibrium
Like the joy of the sea coming home to shore, May the relief of laughter rinse through your soul.
As the wind loves to call things to dance, May your gravity be lightened by grace.
Like the dignity of moonlight restoring the earth, May your thoughts incline with reverence and respect.
As water takes whatever shape it is in, So free may you be about who you become.
As silence smiles on the other side of what’s said, May your sense of irony bring perspective.
As time remains free of all that it frames, May your mind stay clear of all it names.
May your prayer of listening deepen enough To hear in the depths the laughter of God.
(from To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings)
Maybe our insides are like the wilderness: a secluded wood, dense and mysterious and full of shy, wonderful creatures that we can only see when we dare to venture deep.
Perhaps this is why we often claim to find ourselves again when in the woods.
March is often a wet and blustery month. In primary school we learned that March comes, “In like a lion, and out like a lamb.”
Though that school was a very strict kind of Christianity, the deep truth that teacher (much beloved by me still) remains: March to the ancient Celts was known as a temperamental month. In fact, those born in March were known to be ones of swings in mood (and their mirror companions born in October are the same).
But with all the drenching wetness of March came a realization that all bodies of water, no matter how big or small, are of a sacred nature.
Water is life, Beloved. The ancient Celts knew this, and often named their waters after the godesses and gods they found gave life. There are still tons of rivers on those ancient islands named after Brigid (the feminine yang to Patrick’s yin) and others.
The amniotic fluid of birth, the well of life, the river of eternal life in scriptures: water was known by those ancestors, and still known today, as the thing that sustains.
Water is life.
Water is a right. For everyone on the planet.
We all have a right to clean water.
It’s why we don’t baptize in whiskey or Coke.
The ancients knew this, and March is the season to embrace the truth.
The world needs to catch up to the ancient wisdom.
March is, for the ancient Celts, the second month of Spring.
It may be odd to see it as that, especially as so much of the Northern Hemisphere continues to be frozen, and much of it under snow. But the ancient Celts understood that growth happens even if you can’t see it, and that March would be the “break-through” month for much of creation.
It would literally break through the ground in bits and pieces.
I remember one March in Toledo, Ohio, listening to the radio as the snow fell on a Sunday night. Those wonderful words I had longed to hear finally came out of the announcer’s mouth, “No School for Trinity Lutheran Church and School,” and my brother’s and I cheered from our beds that we’d have a snow day that next day.
And as I lay in that bed and looked out the window, I saw the large tree next to my window, snow-covered, with small buds hanging off the branches.
It was ready to bloom, even as a blanket of ice and snow covered it.
And I remember feeling both glad for no school, but also quite sad for that tree that was ready for a break-through, and I resolved at that moment not to wish or pray for anymore snow that March, even if it meant no more snow days, so that tree could have a chance.
A quaint little story, for sure. But impactful for me. I had both extreme naivete (as if my prayers had caused or hastened snow), and some profundity, feeling connected with nature and a responsibility to allow it to do its thing.
March is the break-through month. The vernal equinox will balance life for a bit. The Earth will feel more and more alive with each day.
March is associated with the ash tree. In Nordic mythology Yggdrasil, the world tree, was an ash tree. It represented for the Celts the connection between the heavens and the earth, and in the month where the light and shadows balance for a moment, it makes sense they’d choose this tree.
We can meld our intentions with that of creation and allow each and the other to “do its thing.”
Plant the seeds you’re waiting to sow.
Stick daffodils behind your ear (a common practice for the ancient Celts to honor the Spring).
Embrace a new idea, aligning your inner life with the outer burgeoning life around you.
For the ancient Celts, March was the second month of Spring on the wheel of the year. For them the seasons blossomed like a flower, slowly coming into their own, with that middle month in the triad being the hinge point.
March was the season where the candles were no longer needed at night, and so they’d ceremoniously put them away as a family. Some would even replace the wax candle on the family table with a wooden candle, a reminder for them that they need not strain their eyes at night anymore and were welcome to re-adopt the rhythm of the sun and the moon as their clock.
In mid-March, near the Vernal Equinox, each family would gather in their field, and sometimes whole clans would gather in a shared plot, and facing the sun they’d drop the first seeds in the ground to start the harvest, beginning with grains and root vegetables. Then they’d grab some soil, mix it with some ash from their home hearths, and paint the backs of their beast with the dirt invoking Divine blessing on their work. It was a blessing of both gratitude for the gift of the animal, and a pleading prayer for a prosperous harvest.
March is still a time of preparation for humans. The snow is melting in many places, though we know that there will probably still be snows to come. Ground is being broken, though we know we can’t go into full-planting mode yet. Windows can stay open for brief periods of the day, though a full-on breeze would still be too chilly for many.
But things are changing, Beloved. The Celts understood how to lean into and embrace the change. They welcomed the natural changes of life.
In Celtic spirituality, February is associated with the rowan tree. Its red berries were thought to guard against all sorts of bad things.
They’d put rowan branches on their cattle sheds and dairy barns to keep the meat and milk fresh and free of disease, and across Celtic lands crosses of rowan twigs were tied with red thread and carried in pockets or sewn into the linings of coats for traveling mercies.
Since the saint of the month, Saint Brigid, was associated with flame and fire, the blazing red berries were thought to be little glimpses of her favor.
I found a modern Celtic prayer to say under the Rowan Moon (February’s moon). And since it’s the almost the last day one can say it, I thought I’d throw it out there.
What I love about this prayer is that, while images of Christ/love and the sun are really common, we don’t get many images of Christ/love being seen in the moon. But in the month where the moon still outshines the sun, it makes sense to have a prayer that highlights this truth, right?
Bright glory, bright moon, the moon that shines on Brigid, lamp of the poor, love, light, illumined by God. Bright moon of glory, teach me good purpose toward all creation. Bright moon of grace, teach me good prayer in accord with Christ’s heart.
Fiery moon of great light, be in my heart be in my deeds be in my wishes. Teach me your grace. Bright moon over Brigid, your light my hope, your light on my purpose here, in accord with God’s satisfaction.
Bright fire, bright moon, point my heart to God’s repose. Point me to my rest, with the Son of Tranquility.
Reluctant Xtian 