Brigida
Daughter of Maeve, Part One
Dust flies up from the dirt floor of the old barn as my foot traces a large circle underneath the hanging place, where my mother’s body swung. Her death was a long time ago, three hundred years or more. I haven’t counted lately, nor do I care to. My focus is on my current task.
Dusk is turning to dark, signaling the end of the Imbolc observance, and it’s my last chance to invoke the goddess Brigid until the equinox in spring. I want it to work this time.
With this wish and intention in my heart, I place the tinder in the center of the ring and light my match. The smell of sulfur catches my nose, sharp and acrid, making me sneeze. My cold fingers have trouble holding the thin stick. The match, still lit, drops into the center of the small pyre and ignites the fire.
With reverence, I start my chant, “Brigid, I light this fire and gift my life to you. Please purify the will of my life force.”
From the pocket of my coat, I pull a small cloth bag of salt to represent the earth and sprinkle it onto the skin of my hand.
“Brigid, I ask that you cleanse my body.”
From the same pocket, I pull out small cones of lavender incense to represent the air and throw them onto the fire.
“Brigid, I ask that you cleanse my mind.”
Reaching for my small metal dish I hurry outside to gather some snow, and quickly place it next to the fire to melt, then sprinkle its drops onto and around my body.
“Brigid, please cleanse and purify my emotions.”
Finally, with the ritual complete I invoke Brigid herself.
“Brigid, daughter of Dagda, goddess of the Tuatha De Danann hear my plea. I call upon you to right the wrongs of the past. To save the one awakened, your daughter of light.”
Waiting for a sign, I take three cleansing breaths.
“Brigid,” I call again. “Daughter of Dagda, goddess of the Tuatha De Danann hear my plea. I call upon you to right the wrongs of the past. To save the one awakened, your daughter of light.”
Again, I wait and take three cleansing breaths.
As I sit calm and patient an unexpected rage wells within me, crashing upon me with waves of disappointing memories. I think of all the failed years I’ve spent trying to get her attention. To get her to hear me. To notice me. Sixty years, at least. Anger so intense burns within me that I feel a searing heat explode from my core as if something is breaking free or breaking apart.
With all the frustration and force of my wounded spirit, I shout into the fire, “Damn you, Brigid! You planted the seeds and let us grow only to abandon us to the reapers of light. I’m done with you! I’m done trying to plead with you! Take back this youth you’ve given me, I don’t need it. I’ll happily turn to ash and stop my pain. Or, if you won’t, I’ll pray to a different god. Balor perhaps. I’m sure he’ll appreciate a new acolyte!”
Breathless from my yelling, I stomp out the fire with fury and rage I haven’t felt in at least ninety years. Like a large toddler in full tantrum, I pound my feet into the ashes long after the fire has gone out.
Spent and heartbroken, I spread the ashes making sure no embers remain, and head back to my truck parked just outside the big crisscrossed barn doors.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, I grab the keys from the ashtray and try to punch the key into the ignition. Stabbing in the dark, I hit the guide close to the hole forcing the keys to fold and drop to the floorboard.
Deflated, demoralized, and questioning my life’s purpose, I start crying. I cry a messy ugly cry that only a woman can know, a deep sorrow for things not acknowledged and not heard.
“Why do you cry like that,” a small voice peeped out. “Why do you cry like you’re lost?”
“I am lost,” I say, forgetting that I’m alone. “I’m abandoned.”
“You’re not abandoned, silly. I’m here. I’ve always been here.”
A small hand touches my shoulder and I look over at what should be the empty seat. There sitting next to me is a young girl with fire-red hair falling loose about her shoulders. She’s wearing a cloak of white glowing light clasped at one shoulder by a gold penannular brooch. The cloak hangs on one side, revealing a black tunic, a red triangular knot design woven into it, and black pants underneath. Her face is soft and round, kissed with the freckles expected on a redhead. Cobalt blue eyes stare into mine with intensity and curiosity. She looks childlike but feels ancient.
Too astounded to speak, I stare dumbly at her for a moment taking in all of her wonder.
“Cat got your tongue?” she says, a giggle escaping as she talks. “You had plenty to say to me a few moments ago.” Her rich Irish accent surges through her words making her voice sound musical.
“You’ve come,“ I say in a whisper, still in awe at her presence. “I didn’t think that you would. I’d given up hope.”
“I know!” she says emphatically, pulling her hand away from my shoulder. I watch fascinated as her form begins to morph and change. Her body grows and becomes older until sitting next to me is a twenty-something woman with a swollen pregnant belly. “I felt your despair along with the fire of your anger,” she continues. Her voice now softer and deeper is filled with caring. “The energy of your rage transported me here. It takes that kind of energy to call me. Now that I’m here, what can I do for you Brigida my namesake, daughter of Maeve.”
She takes my hands in hers and holds them softly, patiently waiting for my response. I’m surprised by the warmth and softness of her skin. She feels human, but clearly, she isn’t. The contact jars me out of my stupor and back to my purpose.
“I want to go back. I want to save my mother.”
“Why?” she asks. Her form begins to morph again. She changes from a young pregnant mother to an old woman. Her hair is white now and her face is lined and shallow. Her hands still holding mine are gnarled and boney, but remain soft and warm.
“It was unjust what happened and I want to stop it. I want her to live. I want to know her. I want to right the wrong.” All of my desires tumble from my mouth as my voice climbs to a fervent pitch.
“I understand,” she says, in a crackling voice. “You do know that if she lives things will be different. The pain and the hardships shape us and make us strive for more, for better. If your life’s a happy one, you’ll never have the need to develop your powers in the same way, your youth will pass with normal speed putting an end to the eternal youth you have now. All that you have worked so hard for these last few hundred years will go away. Is that what you want?”
Soft silent tears born of honesty and vulnerability slowly fall. “I’m all alone, Brigid. I’m eternally alone. I have long outlived my family and my friends. I’ve never known my mother. What good is this eternal life if I have no one to share it with, what good is my magic if I have no one to use it for?”
“Ah, I see now. You’re lonely and feel disconnected from your roots,” her head nodding with her words. “I understand.”
Releasing my hands from hers, she takes hold of my shoulders. Her body shifts again, changing back into the young girl I first met. It suddenly strikes me as odd, looking at her small round face, to have this conversation in this way with this young girl, even though I know she’s not young at all. She is primeval, one of the originals of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
Birthed in Ireland during the same age that the Titans of Greece came into being, given the name Breo-saighead meaning fiery arrow, she is the embodiment of punishment and divine justice. She personifies many other things, like healing, poetry, and smithcraft — the deeper reasons that I worship this creative being. But today I want her divine justice.
Staring at me with renewed concentration, she smiles and starts to chant in her small child voice. The rhythm and tone of her utterances sound old and guttural, incongruent with her youthful mouth.
“What are you doing?” I ask as she continues to chant, her smile broadening with my question. Inside myself, I hear her thoughts speak to me, independent from her chanting that continues to grow louder in my ears. I’m sending you back like you want.
Now! But I’m not ready, I think back to her.
Now granddaughter.
Her chanting turns to a ringing in my ears. A wave of nausea and heat envelop me, as the world spins into a kaleidoscope of color. Reaching out to steady myself I grab hold of something unexpectedly wooden. As if it’s anchoring me in place, the world slows around me and my surroundings become clear.
I’m standing at the kitchen table holding onto the back of the chair in our old house from three hundred years ago. To my left, a little girl wearing a simple cotton shift sits on a blanket on the floor in front of the lit hearth playing with wooden toys, seemingly unaware of my presence. I know she is me.
Look out for part 2, coming soon!
