Finding Light in Dark

I've been listening to Welcome Brigid by Katy Taylor. A collection of songs and prayers about Brigid and Mary.  It has helped me find a calm point during a chaotic time. 

As I write this today, it is Imbolc, the holiday that celebrates the goddess Brigid.  In ancient times, Brigid was important for she represented the return of the sun and warmth to the land.  Sheep begin lambing at this time and people attributed it to Brigit. 

Today, our lifestyles are less dependent on the timing of such things.  With the changing of the climate we are going through, it seems that the traditional time of celebrating Imbolc may need to change.  However, the spirit of the Brigid still has relevance in our modern lives.  We still have a need to honor wisdom, perfection, intelligence, creativity, poetic eloquence, healing, mystical knowledge and many of the other qualities the Brigid embodies.  Taking a moment this time a year to reflect on these qualities is one of the best ways to invite them into our lives.

Here is a poem by Lady Gregory, which was made into a song by Katy Taylor:

Poem to Brigit

It is what Brigit had a mind for
Lasting goodness that was not hidden
It is what Brigit had a mind for

Tending sheep and rising early
Hospitality toward good men
It is she keeps everyone
Who is in straits and in dangers

It is she puts down sicknesses
It is she quiets the voice of the waves
And the anger of the great sea

She is the queen of the south
She is the mother of the flocks
She is the Mary of the Gael

Happy Imbolc to everyone.  I wish that wisdom, healing and creativity finds a way through the dark to light your soul.

DoAn

Poem text: Lady Gregory from A Book of Saints and Wonders, c. 1972, Colin Smythe Ltd, UK—Irish stories, orig. pub. in 1906


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Walking the Spiral: Boann

Back in 2006 I began a series of paintings inspired by Irish mythology.  I intended the paintings to explore the ancient Celtic gods and goddesses through a more modern and personal eye.  What I didn't realize was that this series would set me on a personal, spiritual journey that has forever changed my relationship to painting.   Over the next four blog posts I will share my journey, as it has unfolded so far, in relation to the painting of the first four pieces of the series.

Boann: Transformation

Boann: Transformation of a Goddess

The first painting in the series depicts the transformation of the goddess Boann into the river Boyne, after she had unwittingly released the waters from a sacred well. The creation of this painting came out of a difficult time for me emotionally.  I didn't realize at the time that my relationship to my art was taking a more spiritual path. Like Boann as she was torn limb from limb by the raging waters she released from a sacred well, I felt parts of my inner self being stripped away.  Intense feelings of sadness then rage surged through me.  Many times these emotions had no context. I couldn't make sense of what they stemmed from.  I did, however, have a sense that these emotions were connected to the collective unconscious.  There was no particular reason I came to this understanding, it was something I just knew.

In the painting Boann looks out from the canvas to the viewer, her gaze squinted.  She is looking at the physical world and the spirit world at the same time.  As she loses her body, she begins to merge with the spirit.  I also began to understand that spirit was influencing my painting process.  Once I let go, realizing that nothing was going to hold back the waves of emotion crashing upon me, I found rays of light, like those that streak down upon the Salmon of Knowledge.  Here, the Salmon holds a hazel nut from one of the sacred trees that grew around the well.  Boann's curiosity not only freed the waters of the well, but the five Salmon of knowledge which is obtained by the senses.  The Salmon, having fed on the magical nuts of the hazel trees, possessed the wisdom of the world and inadvertently brought this wisdom to mankind.

I gained a kind of wisdom as a result of this painting. I had a deeper understanding of who I was, what I needed and a clearer sense of purpose.  This kind of wisdom often can only be gained by a severe and painful stripping away of one's ego.  Boann, who had gazed into the well out of rebellion for having been barred from it, paid the ultimate price, but also evolved into something greater.  Sometimes, sacrifice is necessary for growth.  This painting taught me that great sacrifices were ahead, but they would lead me toward a deeper knowledge of myself and the path I was embarking on.

Once I completed this painting, I felt scoured clean. I was raw and open, but it was necessary in order to approach the next painting, which was leading me down into a kind of darkness I had never encountered before.

Next, The Morrigan.

DoAn
Help in the creation of art, please consider donating! Just click on the link below:
 
DoAn Art is a sponsored project of Fractured Atlas, a non-profit arts service organization. Contributions for the purposes of  DoAn Art must be made payable to Fractured Atlas and are tax-deductible to the extent permitted by law.  
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All artwork, photos and text © Copyright 2005-2011 DoAn Art (Antony Galbraith) unless indicated otherwise. All Rights Reserved. Any downloading, copying or use of images on this website is strictly prohibited without express written consent by Antony Galbraith.

Great widsom in cold skin

Today I saw a turtle crossing the road that runs in front of the studio building. I was concerned that it might get run over, so I rushed out to rescue it. As soon as I approached the turtle it closed up tight, so I knew then it was a box turtle (later research revealed it was a three-toed box turtle). I picked it up and decided to bring in the studio for a little visit.

Normally in a situation like this I will take lots of pictures of the subject and then do some quick supportive sketches. Since my camera was not working and I have not gotten a new one yet, I could only sketch the turtle. I would have liked to have photo references, as the colors and markings on the turtle were quite beautiful.

The turtle did not stay closed up for very long at all. In fact, it was a total ham! It would pose, turn its head, hold for a time, then give me another angle to work from. All the while, it looked at me with such focus, I definitely felt an intelligence there. It never once attempted to bite and it remained quite calm and comfortable as I held it and examined it from every angle. It was even unphased by Lian (the painting Chihuahua) worrying about with rapt curiousity! I have posted a selection of sketches that I made of the turtle's visit above, pieced together from my sketchbook using a scanner.

After about an hour, the turtle seemed to have quite enough and began to head toward the door. I thanked it profusely and obligingly carried out into the woods behind the studio. I set it down and after a few minutes, it turned around and came walking right back to me. I explained that the studio time was over and that it was time to go back to searching for food and heading deeper in the woods, lest one of the dogs (other than Lian) in the area found it. I turned it around and off it went into the sun dappled woods. Watching it go, I couldn't help but feel I had been in contact with a very ancient and wise creature. Its skin may have been cool to the touch, but it had a very warm spirit. What a special creature! I feel blessed by the time we shared.

DoAn

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DoAn Art is a sponsored project of Fractured Atlas, a non-profit arts service organization. Contributions in behalf of DoAn Art may be made payable to Fractured Atlas and are tax-deductible to the extent permitted by law.

All artwork and text © Copyright 2005-2009 DoAn Art (Antony Galbraith) unless indicated otherwise. All Rights Reserved. Any downloading, copying or use of images on this website is strictly prohibited without express written consent by Antony Galbraith.

Wisdom from Our Elders

I think one of the most important things we have lost in modern society is our relationship to the elders in society. So much of modern culture is concerned with avoiding aging and fear of death. As a result, we shun the elders, hide them away in retirement communities, and spend far too much of our time shaping our bodies to avoid any evidence of aging.

What have we lost as a result of this? Aside from losing a lot of time and money in a futile battle, we have lost a lot wisdom. I wonder if the financial situation that the world is in would have happened if we had our elders warning us of our behaviors. At least, perhaps we would have better skills in getting ourselves out of the situation if we had our elders by our sides exposing us to their prior experience and knowledge. Would we better understand the cycles of life and respect that each age has its merits and gifts. Perhaps aging gracefully and with respect for all the lines and aches would be something to strive for and be proud of.

Recently I came across a famous speech by Chief Seattle (Seathl), a Susquamish chief who lived on the islands of the Puget Sound, and who the city of Seattle was named after. As a young warrior, Chief Seattle was known for his courage, daring and leadership. He gained control of six of the local tribes and continued the friendly relations with the local non-natives that had been established by his father. The speech was believed to have been given in December, 1854.

I found this speech to be relevant to our current situation. It is a speech that we have needed to be hearing more regularly, and if we had more respect for our elders, perhaps we would have heeded his warning. It is a long read, but highly recommended, if not mandatory!

Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never change. Whatever Seattle says, the great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can upon the return of the sun or the seasons. The white chief says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him for we know he has little need of our friendship in return. His people are many. They are like the grass that covers vast prairies. My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain. The great, and I presume -- good, White Chief sends us word that he wishes to buy our land but is willing to allow us enough to live comfortably. This indeed appears just, even generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also, as we are no longer in need of an extensive country.

There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory. I will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been somewhat to blame.

Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, it denotes that their hearts are black, and that they are often cruel and relentless, and our old men and old women are unable to restrain them. Thus it has ever been. Thus it was when the white man began to push our forefathers ever westward. But let us hope that the hostilities between us may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Revenge by young men is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.

Our good father in Washington--for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since King George has moved his boundaries further north--our great and good father, I say, sends us word that if we do as he desires he will protect us. His brave warriors will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his wonderful ships of war will fill our harbors, so that our ancient enemies far to the northward -- the Haidas and Tsimshians -- will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men. Then in reality he will be our father and we his children. But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates mine! He folds his strong protecting arms lovingly about the paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant son. But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they really are His. Our God, the Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken us. Your God makes your people wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the land. Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never return. The white man's God cannot love our people or He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help. How then can we be brothers? How can your God become our God and renew our prosperity and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness? If we have a common Heavenly Father He must be partial, for He came to His paleface children. We never saw Him. He gave you laws but had no word for His red children whose teeming multitudes once filled this vast continent as stars fill the firmament. No; we are two distinct races with separate origins and separate destinies. There is little in common between us.

To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors -- the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of the night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.

Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely hearted living, and often return from the happy hunting ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort them.

Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun. However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them. Then we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the words of nature speaking to my people out of dense darkness.

It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.

A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves of a people once more powerful and hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant, but it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see.

We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children. Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.

Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds.

DoAn
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DoAn Art is a sponsored project of Fractured Atlas, a non-profit arts service organization. Contributions for the purposes of DoAn Art must be made payable to Fractured Atlas and are tax-deductible to the extent permitted by law. 

All artwork and text © Copyright 2005-2009 DoAn Art (Antony Galbraith) unless indicated otherwise. All Rights Reserved. Any downloading, copying or use of images on this website is strictly prohibited without express written consent by Antony Galbraith.