''The wisdom of ancient Irish Pagan sites!''

The many hues of Brigid

From the bowels of mother earth, the Goddess Brigid, is restless as a ship at sea. Her birthplace at Faughart, Co Louth, where her well is believed to be, and her last place of abode, Cill Dara, are like lost children in a land cut from its roots. Brigid the great initiator of the re-birth and awakening of nature, the great shepherdess reaping the seeds of fruitfulness, of bounty, of bliss, of maternity, of fertility, of harvest time, the foundress of the fountain of everlasting life, when Spring rises up from the caverns of winter, is bewailing the sad plight of Eireann's heritage and its vernal, vibrant, verdant swathes, all abused by man's brutal, ruthless avarice; stamped and trod upon by the tyrannical ploughshare of modern man's heretical ways. Her face is now lined and cracked, weary from lamentation - a silhouette of the earth's stricken sphere being eaten up by the licentious Leviathan. Brigid the great patron of the Arts, whose great foundry could smelt the driest and weakest iron into action; into a charger of creativity, of miraclulous wonders, of prodigious plenty; whose forge was the source, the provenance of all that was good, beneficient in its loving kindness, the positive protectress, the benevolent particle of truth, is waiting patiently in the shadows, in the underbrush, in the chasms of the underworld for our call, our deepest supplication for her to light our way again; to ignite the fires of wisdom, enlightenment, clarity, and clasp us in her loving embrace. Brigid the silversmith in the effulgent freshness of sweet creation, her anvil - the anvil of infinite creativity, a spark for the beauteous saga of Gaelic Ireland, a time when Eireann was in its prime; the halcyon horizon was in her smile - her vivacious being. The sweet silversmith of holiness; her mind cleaving to the highest murmurings of life, creation and mystery - her great and auspicious time - is nearing and fast approaching! Will we welcome the great Brigid again and bow to her chaste and noble sublimity, like honourable knights of old; hear her lament in the wilds of Connemara, in the winds of Antrim's Glens, in the shrill bellowings of the great Atlantic Ocean and the Irish Sea like Manannan of old, demanding that we respect the mother, the great nurturer and stop her wanton violation now? Time is of the essence; if we don't heed her lament now, dear mother earth and the once, pristine kaleidoscope of Eireann's green baize, will be interminably damaged and Brigid will become dumb and mute in the crazed cacophony of modern man.. Footnote: not only does Brigid have associations with Faughart - as the previous blog - but Kildare and Kildare town, in particular as well!