The Christian Celts (and the pre-Christians Celts, even, celebrating the newly thawed ground and the emergence of Spring) would celebrate Easter week with signs of new life and abundance.
Children would go about looking for nests in trees and underbrush, collecting any eggs they could find. They’d hide them in cubbies in their rooms, or under their houses, and on Easter they’d haul their findings out into the woods and have a pre-dawn breakfast of roasted eggs with the other children of the town.
On Easter Sunday the town would come together, having reserved some of those eggs for cake baking, and they’d present a village cake called a “prioncam cake,” which loosely means “capering cake” or “dancing cake.” It was decorated with woodland animals and a garland of wildflowers.
They’d put the cake in the middle of the gathering, and around it they’d dance and prance to fiddle and pipe. The best dance won the prize, the cake, hence that old saying, “That takes the cake!”
Now, on this week after Holy Week, there may still be some eggs, some treasures still hidden to surprise you…
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)
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.
This is why the atrocities in Jackson, Mississippi, and still in Flint, Michigan (and yes, Engineers, I realize you say their water meets standards, but the hell they had to go through to get there is still HELL…and it’s not yet all cleaned up), and Palestine, Ohio is just terrible.
Water is life.
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.
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.
In America this may be Groundhog’s Day, but in Celtic spirituality these days are known as Imbolc, or “in the belly,” because you’re at the halfway point between the equinox and the solstice, and you’re emerging into spring.
Christians celebrate Candlemas today, where new candles are blessed, as the ones lit at the Solstice are now spent. And in services many will hear about the Presentation of Christ, where the ancient prophets Simeon and Anna lift him up and bless him as the light of the world.
The symmetry is stunning and intentional.
These hinge days between seasons are worth paying attention to, as our mothers and fathers did.
So bless your new candles, because you’ve spent the old ones in these winter days, and start opening the shades.
It’s time to wake from our hibernation, blink, and live again.
In January the ancient Celts (and us modern Celts, too) find themselves under the Birch Moon.
When a forested area burns, the birch is the first tree to be reborn in the ashes, and so this is the tree that hovers over the first month of a new year.
In January the Celts felt that it was important, particularly in the early part of the month, to resolve all arguments that lingered from the previous year, and forgive or pay or negotiate all debts still loitering in the ledgers of the hearts and notebooks of neighbors and kin.
January was to be welcomed without any old ties to the past. Like the birch tree, January would be a season of new growth out of the old ashes of yesteryear.
As January comes to a close, Beloved, what things in your heart need forgiving? What debts need settling?
The other night I was preparing our week’s menu, and thought outloud, “Is the Solstice on the 21st or 22nd this year?”
It’s the 21st, it turns out, which changed the menu because instead of eating in the kitchen, we’d be eating out at the fire on the new Yule log.
The Yule log is the ancient tradition of hauling a huge log, usually oak (though birch was thought to bring insight and wisdom), into the hearth on Christmas Eve. Sometimes the log was so large (it had to last through the whole twelve days!) that children would sit astride it as it was carried from the forest through town, cheering the whole way. Into this log would be carved prayers, symbols, and depictions of “Mother Winter,” bringing peace and good fortune for the next year. They’d light this fire as a way to embolden the fire in the sky, the sun, and remind themselves that night does not last forever.
A lesson we’d do well to remember in this time of year when seasonal affective disorder is so prevalent.
Another similar tradition which you know of, but may not know why it happens, is the lighting of a Christmas candle in these days. This candle stands in place of the yule log…kind of a mini yule.
Our ancestors (as late as the 1940’s for those of us with Celtic blood) would have a special Christmas candle, usually red (to symbolize the ancient idiom “the red blood reigns in the winter’s cold”), and light on Christmas Eve. It was usually placed in a hollowed out turnip, a shallow wooden bowl, or in later years a very select and decorated fancy holder, and would find a place on the front room window sill.
They’d place this candle in the window to do a few things.
First, it would remind them that there were those in the world without a supper or bed, and that they were to provide that for them. The candle would show a weary traveler where to find rest.
It was also lit to show Mary, Joseph, and the Christ child that a home could be found in their inn of a home. The wandering Holy Family still wanders today, wondering where to lodge.
Finally, especially in the countryside where it was difficult to spy a dwelling in the shadows of the night, these Christmas candles in the windows would show you where your neighbors were…and remind you that you’re not alone, by God. Help is just a flicker away should you need it. A true Christmas miracle-made-real.
So these Christmas lights adorning all the suburban homes in these days, and those stately Colonial-style homes with their window candles aren’t just to be pretty and compete with the neighbors for accolades. If we remember history, these decorations bring more than “oohs” and “aaahs.”
They’re meant to bring hope, be a reminder to care for the “least of these,” and offer a welcome hand to the neighbor.
If you’re so inclined, put a new log in that hearth or fire-pit this year, and maybe write a prayer or two on it for the upcoming season of life.
And maybe stick a candle in that front window with intention this year, reminding everyone (including yourself!) that you’re called to help others in these wintery days.
Reluctant Xtian 