in search of the witch goddess
• • •
When the chairs come to be judged,
My own will be the best of them.
These are my songs, and this is my cauldron,
These are my rules.
In the court of Don I am a knowledgeable one.
The Chair of Cerridwen
Our story brings us to the throne of the witch goddess, the initiatrix, the great devourer of the profane. To explore the meaning and substance of this enigmatic character involves a journey deep into the heart of Celtic magic. When we approach the cauldron, we find ourselves pivoted between it and Awen, and facing us are the deep, wisdom-filled eyes of the witch goddess Cerridwen. She stands as sentinel to the mysteries; she is the initiator, the conjurer of the flowing spirit; knees may bend before her in reverence, yet she is inherently knowledgable of the human condition and its limitations. She is by no means intimidating or frightful, but she takes no prisoners; to approach her is to be challenged.
By definition of the content of the tale and the teachings that lie within it, one cannot avoid a connection with the witch goddess; a relationship with this component of the mystery is imperative to immersion and transformation. However, it would be foolhardy for the querent to approach her without due study and a spirit that is receptive to her teachings. To approach the witch goddess is to open a doorway into the heart of mystery. Cerridwen bridges the gap between the profane and the sublime; she is the vehicle that transports the querent through the tumultuous maelstrom of the human condition. She opens the heart to deep magic that immerses the querent in the intoxicating elixir that bubbles within the cauldron. She challenges, she provokes, she imbues wisdom and experience—she guides and subsequently devours the profane aspect of the querent prior to engaging her powers as the great mother who births a child of magic.
Much has been written in relation to the witch goddess Cerridwen, and I am conscious of the risks of falling into patterns of repetition. The following exploration and interpretation will be equally based on an academic dissection of the witch goddess and how she is portrayed in the chronicles of the Celts. The other vehicle of exploration is by means of the subtle, subjective mechanism of the visionary mind, the power of magical connection. One can become befuddled by pure academic exploration, and too much of the subjective would serve to imbalance the material; therefore, both aspects must be combined in a manner which, I hope, is complementary rather than antagonistic. Before I embark on the examination of her name within the ancient language of Wales, I feel it necessary to share my own personal thoughts on Cerridwen’s significance.
To stand on the shores of her vast lake, surrounded by the Berwyn Mountains, whose feet dip gently into her waters, is to stand in the presence of Cerridwen. In my visionary mind I see her walking towards me across Lake Tegid’s waters; the robes embracing her body seem to be fabricated from the crystal-clear water itself. Her skin is as white as snow, and her dark hair runs in rivulets about her face and shoulders, falling from beneath a crown of sweetest honeysuckle. As she steps from water to land, the greens and browns of the trees and grass reflecting in her fluid robes, she smiles gracefully. Her eyes are as black and deep as the lake from whence she came. She has no sclera, no whites in her eyes; they are the pools of old magic, of the old ways of these lands. Her eyes are the windows to the soul of the universe.
Visions of Cerridwen compel one to feel a deep sense of sovereignty; the head bows and the knees bend, only to find that the witch goddess reaches out, indicating that such action is not required nor necessary. She radiates a beauty that words are unable to articulate, and yet within her deep eyes there is a sense of the Dark Goddess. This aspect has been placed upon her in recent decades, as have other titles such as Grain Goddess and Pig Goddess. They are not cast aside or dismissed; instead, they are gathered up in her robes and embraced. She pulses with power—its fronds can be felt by the heart and pull at the senses; her eyes see beyond your physical form and touch the edges of your spirit. It stings as the wonder and energy of the witch goddess combines with one’s own; shivers run, and the goose raises its head in a sea of pimples that tickle the skin. To be in the presence of Cerridwen is to stand in the halls of ancient magic and mystery.
I recall a time when I was lost in the rapture of Cerridwen, surrounded and in the company of priestesses who have devoted themselves to her. The witch goddess watched on, observing and reveling in the dance of devotion. I stood back, my consciousness half in this world and half in the other, and observed her nature. What was apparent was her totemic aspect, her role as the queen of witches and of Witchcraft. Prior to her ascension as a goddess, a theme that will be explored a little later, she was primarily a witch. She stands as the epitome of the magical crafts, of the wisdom of Witchcraft, spellcasting, conjuration, and sorcery. She sits at the heart of Celtic magic; she is teacher, mentor, and guide; she is the Mother Witch of Britain and of its Witchcraft. To take her hand in learning is to walk through the landscape with the wisdom of ages, to learn what no book can teach. She takes the initiate to the ancient halls of learning and teaches us that we are the sum totality of that font of knowledge and that its wisdom can be accessed if the heart sincerely seeks it. One can become entangled in the belief that Cerridwen’s role is restricted to the process of transformation alone. This is untrue. She has numerous aspects: she is initiator and witch, she transforms but also teaches and serves the Craft of the Wise. She is a valuable asset to any witch or practitioner of the Celtic mysteries.
When we consider the source material, we find that Cerridwen is not limited to a single tale; she appears in several manuscripts, which affirms and confirms the importance of the witch goddess. Before we embark on examining her significance, though, we must explore the etymology of her name. A warning here: the following material can appear to be somewhat complex (no great surprise, considering it involves one of the most enigmatic figures of the Celtic mysteries); many of the words and constructs may be alien to you, and your tongue may struggle in the attempt at pronunciation. Fear not! I have attempted to provide a comprehensive a guide without being too verbose or overcomplicated. However, it may take a few readings before you are better acquainted with the lyrical dance of the Welsh language. The pronunciation guide in this book will serve to assist your efforts.
The Black Book of Carmarthen, compiled in its current form during the thirteenth century, records two significant instances of Cerridwen’s name: “Hervit urten autyl kyrridven ogyrven amhad …(according to the sacred ode of Cyrridwen, the Ogyrwen of various seeds …)”56
The above line is repeated in another poem of the Black Book of Carmarthen, which tells us that she was considered a component of inspiration. In both instances the poem, in full, recounts the importance of poetry and the magic of the bard or minstrel. It speaks of their exalted speech and the nature of poetic harmony. The poets described within the collection seem to take their authority and their inspiration from the witch goddess herself—she appears as a patron to those in possession of the bardic or Prophetic Spirit. However, something unique arose from the single line that appears above, and we first encounter it in the epic collection translated by W. F. Skene and entitled The Four Ancient Books of Wales: the term “Ogyrwen.” This title or name appears in works attributed or concerning the prophet Taliesin. In the Book of Taliesin we are informed that “Ogyrwen” is connected to Cerridwen and her cauldron, and the poem describes oblations and offerings to this mysterious creature. Within the Book of Taliesin we find the following verse:
Neut amuc yg kadeir o peir Kerritwen; handit ryd vyn tafawt yn adawt gwawt Ogyrwen, Gwawt Ogyrwen uferen rwy digones, arnunt, a llefrith a gwlith a mes.57
The eminent W. F. Skene translated the above as:
May my tongue be free in the sanctuary and praise of Gogyrwen; the praise of Gogyrwen is an oblation which may be satisfied by them with milk and dew and acorns.58
In stark contrast to the above, which contains the term Ogyrwen, he adds the letter G to the name, implying that Ogyrwen is a mutation of Gogyrwen. However, Skene is obviously influenced by the poetic genius of Iolo Morganwg, who coined the term Gogyrwen to mean a creature of elemental or spiritual value or personification.59 When this is considered in relation to the suffix wen commonly found in the majority of Celtic female archetypes, it seems likely that Mr. Skene assumed therefore that “(g)Ogyrwen” was a goddess. Consequently, his translation within The Four Ancient Books of Wales of the Black Book of Carmarthen’s poems informs us that “according to the sacred ode of Cerridwen, the goddess of various seeds.”60
But, as one can see in the original text, we do not find the Welsh word for goddess—Duwies—instead we have Ogyrven. The Dictionary of the Welsh Language interprets Ogyrven61 as “Awen, inspiration, poetry.” However, Iolo Morganwg defines this entity as something of greater mystery; he defines it as a personification, a being of immense power and inspiration. Ultimately, very little can be deduced in relation to Ogyrwen by academic measures alone, and we must look to the subtle. The groundbreaking scholar D. W. Nash remarked that it is not entirely clear what is meant by the term Ogyrwen, but he notes that many previous academics and linguistics have deduced that it is likely to mean a “spiritual form or a personified idea” in a similar manner to Iolo Morganwg’s interpretation.62 Nash directs the attention to a line in the Book of Taliesin poem “Angar Kyfundawt (The Hostile Confederacy),” which states “Seith ugein Ogyrven yssyd yn Awen (there are seven score Ogyrven in Awen).”63
We must be subjective here and resort to utilising the subtle senses alone; this may well imply, as Nash suggests, that there may be seven sources for Awen, the knowledge of which has been lost to the mists of time. It could imply that there are seven dutiful deities, archetypes, or goddesses that serve the function of Awen, bringing it from the fluid ethereal realm of Ogyrwen and making it manifest on the earthly plane. Providing the querent with identifiable mechanisms with which to access the mysteries, the adept—in this case, Cerridwen—acts as a guiding hand, the bridge between the conceptual and the incomprehensible. It is possible that the source of Awen is too vast, too big for our puny human minds to digest; the seven- score elements of Ogyrwen may well be the instruments that prevent the total losing of our minds by grounding us in culture, land, and community.
One can safely assume that the translation by Skene may have played a significant role in the later development of Cerridwen as a goddess, and there may be elements of truth here. By all accounts the poems link the magical power of Cerridwen via her cauldron with Ogyrwen. In my opinion and visions, Ogyrwen is a deity whose legacy has been lost to us, yet clues remain to tantalise and inspire our meditations upon her. She may represent the Mother Goddess of Awen, the one whom Cerridwen receives her abilities from; they certainly share something by proxy of their names, as we have seen in the suffix wen. It is therefore my opinion that Cerridwen is directly connected to this ancient Mother Goddess, who may not have had an earthly component other than her representatives on this plane. I have often imagined that Cerridwen and her initiates are in magical succession to this primary Goddess of Awen. The identification of Cerridwen as a goddess in the above translation has led to her subsequent deification and serves to demonstrate the complex and colourful nature of this archetype. However, some scholars of the past were nothing short of insolent when it came to her academic examination. The Celtic scholar Ifor Williams, who wrote extensively about the figures of Celtica, discussed Cerridwen in his work on the tale of Taliesin. In it he takes the form of her name as it appears in the poetry of the Black Book of Carmarthen and denigrates her title to mean “bent, crooked one”and further elaborates in a rather impudent manner that:
Cerridwen was not the witch’s real name, it is too sweet and loving a name to be put on the likes of her! In the old manuscripts, the Black Book of Carmarthen, she is called Cyrridfen. This consists of “fen” to mean wife and “Cyrrid” is derived from “cwrr,” meaning something crooked. You know what kind of nose a witch has, well I suggest that Cerridwen, with her body all bent and crooked, her hooked nose and twisted hands, were as wrongful as her craft!64
Mr. Williams certainly did not hold back his prejudices and was keen to brand Cerridwen as a twisted old hag, more typical of a Hollywood production than an initiate of the mysteries. But one must also consider the overtly Presbyterian nature and faith of the majority of Celtic scholars. He was, perhaps, biased, for he simply had no other point of reference that could place Cerridwen in a position of wisdom and knowledge. That, in a similar thread to Elis Gruffudd’s opinion, would be against all faith and piety. I may be a little harsh on old Mr. Williams here, but it is likely that he was influenced by the restraints of the Presbyterian environment of the early twentieth century. He may have found Mr. Skene’s rendition of Cerridwen as a goddess a little difficult to swallow.
Thankfully, this explanation for the meaning of Cerridwen’s name has been rejected by modern Celtic scholars, who are generally sympathetic to the Pagan nature and pre-Christian themes hidden within the material. However, prejudices are still voiced concerning the mysteries of Cerridwen, particularly in relation to her standing as a goddess. It seems that the only evidence put forward by academia to discredit her rank as a deity is the fact that there exists no proof of a previous cult of Cerridwen. Prejudices run deep and arise from various agendas. One of these fountains of doubt was the attitude of the mostly male poets of the Middle Ages. They were seemingly reluctant to accept that the source of Awen was ancestrally denoted as arising from Cerridwen’s cauldron. With the church strengthening its hold on society and suppressing native material, the bards moved away from the magical connotations and the female-driven source of Awen, preferring (or, rather, conforming) the font of Awen as the Christian God. Satirical poetry that denigrated the old ways as consorting with the devil and the old witches who lived in the good old days of Cerridwen arose to further belittle the mysteries. The Welsh themselves (my own family included) turned their backs on the old ways, and the likes of Cerridwen and her mysteries went deeper underground.
• • •
If we take the various forms of her name, they can be listed thusly:
The manner by which her name is spelt has been changing for centuries, dependant on the narrative or preceding manuscript the current scribe used as source material. This must be seen in perspective, and one must bear in mind that the majority of scribes were not overly familiar with the native tongue and dialects, allowing greater room for error. Yet it can be surmised that the majority of variations are slight and that her name remains similar in sound and meaning. Eventually her name was modernised in the eighteenth century to the consistent form we know today as Cerridwen.65 According to the Celtic scholar Rachel Bromwich, her name consists of two syllables, the prefix cerid, taken to mean “love” or “loved,” and the suffix wen, meaning “fair” or “pure.” In combination, she translates the witch goddess’s name as “fair and loved,” in stark contrast to the ghastly translation by Ifor Williams.66
As we have seen, Cerridwen’s name is as multifaceted as she, and this gives further depth to the witch goddess. But what of that title “witch goddess”—surely she must be one or the other? Can one be a witch and a goddess simultaneously? You will have noted that I use the term witch goddess throughout this book, and it is here that I present to you my justification for doing so.
Cerridwen as Witch
It is important to stress that within every manuscript—with the exception of the Ystoria or Hanes Taliesin scripts, which form the heart of this study—Cerridwen is not described as a witch or a magician. Within the books of poetry she is presented as the owner of the cauldron of Awen and that all poetic and prophetic abilities and powers emanate from this vessel. She is presented as its guardian; it is only in the later tale that she is directly associated as the creator of the brew that imbues the knowing of Awen into the querent. But, as we have previously seen, the themes exhibited within the tale of the prophet and the witch are remarkably older than the surviving manuscripts; therefore lines become blurry and the edges of knowing frayed. It is at this junction that Awen must be utilised. Within the early poetry attributed to Taliesin, we are provided with tantalising snippets of information that belie Cerridwen’s position as a sacred archetype. She is often described as a component of Awen, in succession or as an aspect of Ogyrwen. She demonstrates that she is in possession of supernatural abilities, and yet her tale portrays her as a mortal woman.
The element that makes her human—and, indeed, identifiable—is the fact that she is flawed; she got it wrong. The brew was never intended for Morfran Afagddu, but in Cerridwen’s mind it was meant for him. When the situation takes a surprising turn, we are subjected to her rage and retribution. The very presence of these traits informs us that she is as flawed as we are; she may be in possession of subtle powers, but she is still human, not an ethereal force that is beyond our reach. The original transmitters of the mysteries had obviously noted that in order for a human being to transform, one must have something tangible and recognisable that the mind can adhere to. With that, the children of the gods were born, together with individuals adept in the magical arts, to guide mortal hands into the dappled groves of mystery with a simple message: “You can; we will help you.”
The old manuscripts refer to Cerridwen and inspiration, to the cauldron and Awen; they are forever forged in unity. Yet when we investigate the scripts that contain the tale of Cerridwen and the birth of Taliesin, we are given a greater insight into her nature. In the manuscript recorded by Elis Gruffudd we are provided the following wonderful description of her abilities: “a oedd geluydd a dysgedic ynn y tair Kyluyddyd, yr hrain yssyd y’w henwi: hud, witshkrafft, a sossri (and she was learned in the three arts of magic, witchcraft, and sorcery).”67
Here we have a direct reference to her standing as a learned magician. Cerridwen is not presented as an amateur; she is an adept of the subtle arts, which the text specifies as magic, Witchcraft, and sorcery. She is identified here as a practitioner of the Craft; she is a witch. She is the totemic witch queen of Celtic/British Witchcraft, the mother of every witch and druid who lives and practises the arts of Celtic magic. A remarkable legacy that current practitioners possess and are able to tap into is this vast cauldron of ancestral knowledge, and at its head is a Witch of profound wisdom. All current practitioners of Witchcraft throughout the Western world can trace their Craft back to the islands of Britain and claim Cerridwen as their patron. The same can be said for all modern-day students and initiates of Druidry, for she is the mother of the cauldron, the one that gives substance to the quest for inspiration.
Pause for a minute, and consider the stereotypical image of the witch—she stands aloft, a wand raised high above her head; words of power fall from quivering lips to be carried by steam. This steam floats from the surface of a bubbling cauldron, its contents singing the songs of the natural world. With her free hand she stirs the cauldron, her chanting increasing in tempo.
This image is evocative of Cerridwen; she is the original witch, whose actual place in time is as mysterious as her relationship with the Ogyrwen. But one can rest assured that each time you reach for your cauldron and gather about it, as a grove or a coven you are imitating the sacred dance of the witch Cerridwen. It is evident from the tale that her cauldron is the original and true witch’s cauldron, the contents of which are boiled according to magical direction and skill known only to her and the initiates of the mysteries. She is not a selfish witch; her knowledge is not restricted but can be accessed and studied by those who approach her cauldron with good intent and integrity. Her role is to teach and to guide; she may also chastise and rebuke, as all mothers must do.
We have previously explored the nature and significance of cauldrons in Celtic culture and the discovery of countless vessels in bogs and lakes throughout northern Europe. But here we are introduced to the iconic witch’s cauldron, a tool that continues to be used today by practising Pagans. What is remarkable is that the vessel, as a symbol and as a tool, has survived for countless centuries and continues to exist as a magical implement that offers direct access to the witch goddess. The next time you use your cauldron, ponder on its connection, hold it between your hands, and rest assured that the witch goddess hears you and can be summoned with ease.
• • •
In part 1, I explained how the Narrative Spirit has ensured the survival of the Celtic material, but it is not the only spirit at work. This may be a difficult statement for the academic to swallow, but I suggest that the spirit of the witch goddess, an entity who has been nurtured for centuries, lives on within the blood of the tribe and the land. She sings from the depths of lake and river; she is revered in groves from Anglesey to California; she chants with the covens of Middle England and the Midwest. She exists as a thoughtform and is nourished by the devotion of her followers. We can become lost in the trappings of dates and the semantics of language; the witch goddess is older than these—she sings of a magic that predates the ink of scribes. She is the queen of Witchcraft; her sovereignty resides there. Welsh folklore abounds with references to Cerridwen as the queen or patron of witches, a quality that I believe would enrich the devotional aspect of any modern witch’s practise. Welsh folklore perpetuates the belief that witches had the ability to transform themselves into animals, and that by certain incantations and magic they could change the form of other individuals. There is an account of a Welsh witch called Betti’r Bont who was rebuked by a servant man who disbelieved her supposed powers. He lived to regret his insolence and awoke one night to find himself in the form of a hare. To his horror, he was subsequently set upon by a greyhound, which he managed to escape the jaws of but was thereafter subjected to the same chase until spells were cast to release him from his torment.68 This tale and a hundred others beside it continue to be retold in the villages of Wales, each one mirroring the magical aspects of Cerridwen’s tale.
The trial and confession of Isobel Gowdie, a Scottish witch tried in 1662, echoes some of the transformation sequences in Cerridwen’s tale. Her vivid account offers a detailed and unique glimpse into the practise of Witchcraft during the seventeenth century.
O I shall go into a hare, with sorrow and sighing and mickle care, and I shall go in the Devil’s name, aye, till I be fetched home again. Hare, take heed of a bitch greyhound, will harry thee all these fells around,
for here come I in our Lady’s name, all but for to fetch thee home again.
Cunning and art he did not lack, but aye her whistle would fetch him back. Yet I shall go into a trout, with sorrow and sighing and mickle doubt, and show thee many a merry game, ere that I be fetched home again. Trout take heed of an otter lank, will harry thee close from bank to bank, for here come I in our Lady’s name, all but for to fetch thee home again.69
The witch’s powers are clearly demonstrated in the section of the tale commonly referred to as “the chase.” I shall briefly touch on this aspect in relation to Cerridwen and will further elaborate on its interpretation in the section devoted to Gwion Bach. Cerridwen evidently displays her superior talents as a witch by wilfully changing her shape; the sequence begins after Gwion Bach has ingested the blessed drops. In her rage and immediately prior to the chase, we are informed in one manuscript that she strikes the blind man, Morda, on his head with such force that one of his eyes falls from its socket. This striking of a creature of liminality may imply that she is initiating the chase sequence—she is informing the querent that a liminal process is about to begin.
Throughout the chase, Cerridwen retains her gender as she becomes a greyhound, an otter, a hawk (the female of which is reputed to be the more effective hunter), and finally a black-crested (or tufted) hen. In each case she initiates the transformative process. Immediately before her claws seize upon the escaping initiate, she forces him to transform, to leave the significance of one element and enter another. The chase is a complex and symbolic process that is controlled by the witch in her various guises. She is forcing the initiate forward, and we can assume that in this liminal state the true meaning of the entire sequence is made clear to her. Previously she was driven by the needs of a mother, but within the chase she is partially liberated from her human component; we are informed that her form is changed but not her nature. Therefore, in the shapes of animals and birds, she maintains aspects of her humanity whilst simultaneously accessing the source. Ultimately her task is to initiate.
• • •
Her wisdom and the contents of the Celtic tales and poetry are suggestive of a reliquary of Druidical wisdom and knowledge that continues to be perpetuated in Europe and countries colonised by Europeans. The myriad motifs that we find within the Taliesin and Cerridwen material are indicative of early Celtic narratives and are culturally specific. They include shapeshifting, cauldrons of magic, and the ingestion of liquid that transmits the prophetic and/or poetic spirit; according to professor Patrick Ford, these motifs are particularly specific to the Celtic traditions.70 This implies that the themes within the Celtic material arose within the islands of Britain, and although they may appear to be emulated on the continent, they are deeply specific to the Celtic cultural continuum. The material examined is riddled with magical significance and has adepts of the arts demonstrating their abilities and powers. This vast melting pot of historical documents and the narrative tradition can cause one to question what is what—are these the practises of Witchcraft or those of Druidry?
I would suggest that we are seeing both. It was generally accepted that the druids of the British Isles and Gaul were practitioners of the magical arts. Hippolytus, writing in the third century, said, “The Celts hold the druids as prophets and foretellers of future events because they can predict certain events by Pythagorean science and mathematics…The druids also use magic.”71
The description given above in Hippolytus’s Philosophumena suggests that the druid priests practised science and magic. It can be argued that the majority of ancient civilisations perceived magic and science to be one and the same thing, the theory being that magic is simply the science that we have yet to figure out. However, Hippolytus was not alone in his observations; other classical authors remarked on the magical qualities of the druids:
The Persians have men known as Magi…the Egyptians have their holy men. For their part the Celts have men called druids, who deal with prophecy and every division of wisdom.72
Furthermore, we have an account of the disciplines within the Druidic arts of which one is particularly pertinent to the discussion at hand:
Throughout these regions, as people gradually became more civilised, study of praiseworthy doctrines grew, introduced by the Bards, Vates, and Druids. The Bards sang praiseworthy deeds of famous men to the melodious strains of the lyre. The Vates endeavoured to explain the sublime mysteries of nature. Between them were the Druids, an intimate fellowship of greater ability who followed the doctrine of Pythagoras. They rose above the rest, seeking the unseen, making little of human mortality, for they believed in the immortality of the soul.73
You will note that in central position, balancing the arts of bardism and Druidism, is the sublime ranking of the Vates, modernised as Ovates. These were the magicians of the druid priest caste, those who walked between the worlds, seeking answers and clarity from the forces of nature and its gods. They were learned in the arts of magic, sorcery, and enchantment. Sound familiar? Cerridwen is also said to possess these qualities and to take the wisdom of nature and its mysteries in hand as an adept of the magical arts. It can therefore be argued that the Ovatic priests were the magicians of the druid orders. After the invasion by Rome and the subsequent suppression of Druidry in the British Isles, the philosophies of Druidry were amalgamated into the Roman culture to eventually blend with Celtic Christianity. The Ovatic arts, however, seem to have gone underground and survived in the folk magic of the British Islands, later to become known as Witchcraft.
This Witchcraft is not to be confused with the religion of Wicca. This was the Craft of the wise woman and cunning man; it was not religious observation per se. This wisdom passed the centuries by means of folk tradition, which survived because it existed outside the boundaries of religion. This magic, as old as the hills and valleys, continues to be perpetuated and reinvented by modern practitioners who, by means of subtle skills, tap into the vast cauldron of wisdom that is separated from us only by time. The revival of Witchcraft in the 1950s and the rise of Wicca served to preserve the folk magic of the islands of Britain within a religious framework, another example of the incredible ability this magic has to survive and evolve. It can be surmised that Witchcraft and Wicca embrace various magical traditions, whereas Druidry is defined by its course specifically within the Celtic continuum. I believe that the origin of Cerridwen stems from the Celtic Druidic era, and that the magic that she and the tales are, as Will Parker states:
the final and perhaps most unambiguous evidence for a residual druidic element blended in with the biblical and classical traditions… quite unheard of anywhere else in Europe at the time.74
When we look between the lines—when we close our eyes and journey with the spirit—we meet the archetypes of the tales. It is by this method that we can understand and perpetuate the mysteries contained therein. Nothing is truly lost, and we are connected to the past by more than just culture and heritage. This globe is a closed circuit; all the wisdom of all the times are here, waiting for us to access them. We are fortunate that our ancestors provided us with keys to fit the locks of mystery; and one of those keys is the witch aspect of Cerridwen.
Cerridwen as Goddess
We have briefly examined this aspect of Cerridwen, but I feel that it merits further exploration. When Skene translated the name Ogyrven and interpreted it as “goddess” in the Black Book of Carmarthen, I doubt he had any insight into the future dilemma he was to initiate. Subsequent authors followed in his footsteps and sustained the belief that she was indeed a goddess. But where does this leave us? How do we define her role as a goddess, and does it have any merit?
Several influential romantic writers of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries initiated the belief that Cerridwen was not only a witch but also a goddess. The translations by Skene were no doubt influenced by the works he consulted when compiling his Four Ancient Books of Wales. In A Dictionary of Eminent Welshmen compiled in 1852, Cerridwen is described as a British goddess and well-known personage in the Druidical pantheon. It elaborates further that “Cerridwen is a celebrated character in Druidical mythology whose attributes were similar in many respects to those of Ceres.”75 It is more than likely that the above sentiment was heavily influenced by an earlier work by the much-rebuked Edward Davies entitled The Mythology and Rites of the British Druids. Within this work, of which a generous section is devoted entirely to Cerridwen, Davies describes her as an ancient goddess of Britain and the first of womankind. He further elaborates, by means of several tangential diversions, that she is a representative of the moon, the ruler of bardism and poetry, the source of divinely acquired inspiration, the modeller of youth, a goddess of corn and grain, a botanist, and a sailing vessel. He expresses the notion that the history and character of Cerridwen
is a mythological allegory upon the subject of initiation into the mysterious rites of Cerridwen. And although the reader of cultivated taste may be offended at its seeming extravagance, I cannot but esteem it is one of the most precious morsels of British antiquity, which is now extant.76
This statement, along with many others, invokes a wondrous image of Cerridwen as a goddess and seems to reflect modern attributes given to her. On first glance one may be inclined to be in agreement with Mr. Davies; alas, he mixes fact with a good dash of conjecture where he arrives at several incorrect conclusions. Davies argues that a cult to Cerridwen as a goddess did exist and that she was worshipped conjointly with the moon as late as the twelfth century. He remarks that her temple resided in the district of Caergyvylchi, modern-day Dwygyfylchi in the county of Gwynedd in North Wales. He claims that the Book of Pheryllt she consulted was, in fact, priests of the Pharaon, whom he describes as “the Higher Powers.” According to Davies, the Pheryllt had a city among the mountains of Snowdonia that some may identify as the ancient fort of Dinas Emrys, anglicised as the Ambrosial City. He claims that the Pheryllt were the first teachers of the mystical arts and were immensely skilled in the arts of magic. However, Davies has been ridiculed by later academics for his outlandish remarks concerning temples, places of worship, and ancient priests of magic, of which there is no written or archaeological evidence to substantiate. D. W. Nash, in his Taliesin or Bards and Druids of Britain, seemingly embarks on a mission to utterly destroy and denounce the suggestions of Davies:
This statement that the goddess Cerridwen had a temple at Caergyvylchi in Caernarvonshire is made with all the historical seriousness with which we might affirm that there was a temple of Diana at Ephesus, or of Jupiter at Rome. It is nevertheless destitute of the slightest foundation, and affords another example of the modern manufacture of the Druidical Mythology.77
Although I agree with Mr. Nash’s criticism of Davies’ imaginings, I cannot help but feel that something is missing from his argument—his condemnation of Davies’ work and his lack of evidence is based entirely on the fact that no physical material exists to prove the theories set forth in Mythology and Rites of the British Druids. However, Mr. Nash and subsequent critics of the Celtic material have not considered local lore as worthy components to a body of evidence. The material examined in this book arose from locality- specific narration; the subsequent scribing of these tales is only one part of the story, for the Narrative Spirit continues to perpetuate these myths locally. Davies may have been liberal with theories, but I cannot help but feel that some descriptions tally with the locality specific legends and lore. How do we as modern Pagans judge what is appropriate and what is mere conjecture? After all, we have access to sources that pure academia does not. Can we justifiably use lore and folk tales as evidence? If not, do we then simply conform to the standard that if it is not written, it is not so?
The area remarked upon above, and purported to be the site of the temple to Cerridwen in the Welsh county of Gwynedd, is abundant with folkloric history and legend, the majority of which concern witches, cauldrons, fairies, and ancient priests who inhabited a temple at the summit of the mountain that overlooks the current village of Dwygyfylchi, the descendant parish of Caergyvylchi, as mentioned by Edward Davies. Local legend records that this was the site of a temple to the goddess Cerridwen and that her priests resided in the city that stood atop the mountain. It says that 20,000 men at arms protected the priestly caste that resided within the fortification and were known only as “the watchers.” With the coming of the Roman invasion, the watchers are reputed to have departed to the west, and with that they fall out of history. Now, among the aged of the area, it is still held that the watchers were none other than the Pheryllt, whose book Cerridwen consulted. This rich folklore is briefly mentioned by the writer Lewis Spence, who identifies the city of the Pheryllt as Braich Y Ddinas, which sat atop the mountain adjacent to Dwygyfylchi.78
These tales, rich in local lore and legends, can be at loggerheads with academia, for they may seem to contradict the written material. As we have seen, while the material of the Narrative Spirit may not have the strength of evidence that scholars prefer, it does, however, have merit. It is at this junction that the role of the witch, the magician, or the seer comes into play. The nature of the tale we are examining is an intricate allegory of transformation, but for that transformative process to take place all elements must be balanced—light and dark, liminality and physicality, content and form. It teaches that we must be balanced to see both sides of an argument, not preferring one over the other. This principle is vital for the exploration of the material; it is by means of all methods that we come to an authentic conclusion that is valid to our spiritual development and connection. The components and archetypes that make up these tales are real, very real, but it is our connection to them that defines that realism. Mr. Nash and Mr. Davies, to name but two, had their own agendas and connection to the source material, and whilst we can admire and be inspired by their efforts and studies, we must be cautious that we do not fall into the unmoving territory of literalism.
It is by means of examining local lore, legends, and the written material that we can study Cerridwen’s development into a goddess, and many influential individuals have been paramount to her deification. Their justification for doing so may be a little scarce on evidence, but nonetheless these opinions have moulded the modern-day practise of Celtic Paganism. The writer J. A. MacCulloch, when discussing Cerridwen, informs us that:
the cauldron was first of all associated with a fertility cult, and Cerridwen must therefore once have been a goddess of fertility…She may also have been a corn goddess, since she is called a goddess of grain, and tradition associates the pig—a common embodiment of the corn spirit—with her.79
MacCulloch and his successors were influenced by various scholars before them—W. F. Skene, who as we saw previously attributed Cerridwen as the goddess of various seeds, being one of them. But of greater influence to the deification of Cerridwen and what has had the most impact on modern Paganism is the body of work called The White Goddess by Robert Graves. This work has been heavily criticised in recent decades, and although it may often draw inaccurate conclusions, it has become central to the myths of modern Paganism. The White Goddess is essential reading for any practising Pagan, for within it one can identify the source for the majority of modern Pagan myths and the deification of mythological archetypes. This does not devalue current practise but simply demonstrates the ability of modern practise to evolve and create new material pertinent to the spiritual quest.
Within the pages of The White Goddess, Graves introduced the concept that Cerridwen shares an antiquated origin with various other female deities. He forms bridges that elaborate on the notion MacCulloch had of her being a grain goddess and links her with Demeter and Cardea. He claims that the etymology of her name shares a similar root as the Spanish word cerdo, meaning “pig.” With this, he presents Cerridwen as the white sow goddess, the barley goddess, and the white lady of death and inspiration. He also claims that other significant female deities of the Celtic chronicles are aspects of Cerridwen in her guise as the white goddess of life in death and death in life.80 We can see by these associations how Cerridwen has developed into the commonly accepted belief that she is an aspect of the Dark Goddess.
Her associations as a white sow goddess do have allegorical merit, and this aspect of her can be utilised within the practise of modern Paganism with astounding connection and results. When we look to the legends and source material, we find numerous instances where pigs played mystical roles or sparked wars and battles between various tribes. It was commonly believed by the Celts that the pig was a creature of Annwn, the underworld. In the fourth branch of the collection of legends known collectively as the Mabinogi, we encounter a white sow that performs the task of devouring the profane aspect of the initiate. Central to the tale is the birth, life, death, and rebirth of the offspring of Arianrhod called Lleu Llaw Gyffes, meaning “light, of skilful hand.” The fourth branch is perhaps the most mysterious and magical of the Mabinogi and is literally riddled with pre-Christian thematics and iconography; in fact, Will Parker suggests that “Lleu is literally a Druidic God in medieval clothing and we have definitive evidence of a pre-Christian cult.”81
The story centralises around the divine children of the Mother Goddess Don. A war is initiated by the stealing of pigs, which calls the great magician Math away from his palace, where he resides with his feet in the lap of a virgin, unless he is at war. His lap maiden is brutally raped and consequently we are introduced to Arianrhod, who is interviewed to replace the virgin. When asked to prove her virginity by stepping over the magic wand of Math, she gives birth to two babes: one slithers like a fish to the ocean and the other, Lleu, is secreted in a chest by his uncle, the great enchanter of the Britons, Gwydion, the son of Don. A series of trials ensue between the child, his uncle, and Arianrhod, who curses the child for the shame he brought upon her. Condemned to never marry a mortal woman, his uncle and Math create for him a bride from the flowers of the woodland. She, in turn, ultimately betrays him and falls in love with another man, and together they conspire to kill Lleu. However, he is not easily killed and demonstrates to her the complex situations that must be created to ensure his death. Alas, it is a trap, and a spear is driven through him, but instead of dying he transforms into an eagle and flies away. At this point in the tale we are told:
…and Gwydion discovered that upon each day a sow would break free from the swineherd and nobody knew where she went. Gwydion took to pursue her, and she went upstream, travelling beside the river in the valley now called Nant Lleu (in modern Welsh, Nantlle), and within this place she stopped to graze. Gwydion came under the tree where she fed and looked to see upon what she grazed. He saw that the sow was feeding on rotting flesh and maggots. He looked to the top of the tree and saw an eagle within its topmost branches. When the eagle shook its feathers, flesh and maggots fell from him to be devoured by the sow. It occurred to Gwydion that the eagle was Lleu, and he took to his spells to call him.82
This is not the only instance of a sow leading a querent on a journey. Another white pig leads the hero Pryderi and his mother Rhiannon to become trapped in the otherworld in the Third Branch of the Mabinogi saga. Pigs have long been associated with the indigenous underworld of the Celts, the realm of Annwn, and were believed to have free reign to travel between both worlds. In the account above, the role of the sow and its associations with Cerridwen mirror the actions of the witch goddess in the act of devouring the profane as she consumes the initiate Gwion Bach before his transformation is complete. In the Fourth Branch of the Mabinogi the hero Lleu is also undergoing a sublime initiation, and it seems evident that the sow is a facet of this process, the component that devours the profane, dense aspect of the initiate. In light of this we can associate Cerridwen as a goddess who presides over the act of initiatory transformation. The sow is also seen in folk tradition and concerns a chase, which coincidentally emulates the initiation process. A Calan Gaeaf (Halloween/Samhain) custom popular in Wales concerned a black sow that would chase the villagers and threaten to seize the hindmost and devour them. This tradition, most common in North Wales, is believed by folklorists to contain residual elements of an ancient initiation ritual.83 It may also account for the rise of modern trick-or-treat practise.
Within the sacred landscape of Cerridwen’s realm we find another goddess of significant antiquity, and one whom Cerridwen and Gwion Bach directly interact with. This is not so apparent upon initial examination of the tale, for it hides within the magic of words and names. Within the chase sequence we are informed that the goddess pursues Gwion Bach, upon leaving his guise as a hare, “ai ymchwelud tu ag afon Ayrwen (and chased him towards the river Aerwen).”
This statement is important, and I must reiterate that every word within the narrative is chosen for its significance within the greater context of the tale. Here we are informed that the river in which part of the chase sequence is enacted is called the Ayrwen (Aerfen in modern Welsh). On first glance, a would-be initiate may see nothing of value or meaning—surely it is just the name of a river, right? Indeed, nothing could be further from the truth. The names of rivers and lakes, mountains and valleys have enormous significance within the language of Wales, and this river is no exception. If we examine the name, we discover that Aerwen is the title of a war or battle goddess to whom the river is sacred. No longer called by this title, she is now referred to as Afon Dyfrdwy (the river Dee); Dyfrdwy is composed of two words that combined mean “the river of the goddess.” It is notable that the river begins its life in the mountains of Snowdonia and courses its way through this wild terrain to eventually meet with the lake at Bala, the home of Cerridwen and her family. After a few miles she once more takes her form as a flowing river that continues through the famous Celtic Land of the Dead. This landscape of hundreds, if not thousands, of burial mounds and cairns in the Ruabon Mountains hosts the river Dyfrdwy as she seeks a path to the sea. The river has been considered sacred for centuries and was even recorded in 1188 by Giraldus Cambrensis in his journey through the landscape of Wales. It was said that a temple dedicated to Aerwen was situated in the current village of Glyndyfrdwy and that to ensure success in battle she required three human sacrifices each year.84
It has long been assumed that Gwion’s shape in the river is in the guise of a salmon, although we are only informed that his shape is that of a fish. However, the river Dyfrdwy is famed for being the greatest salmon river in the British Isles; therefore, it is safe to assume that it was indeed the form of a salmon that Gwion took. It is also significant that we have the combination of two deities here, the goddess Aerwen and the deific aspect of Cerridwen. Cerridwen’s later association of being the goddess of life and death may have been confused with those of Aerwen, who inhabited the same realm; in fact, it would be impossible to state which deity would be totemic of Lake Bala. It has been recorded that a previous name for the lake was indeed Llyn Aerwen (the lake of Aerwen). It has been suggested that Cerridwen and Aerwen may be aspects of the same goddess.85 We may never know the true connection between these two archetypes, but the interaction between them is important to the understanding of the tale and the characters therein. Cerridwen and Aerwen share similar traits, and both are symbolic of a place and the relationship that human beings have with the land. In a visionary sense, Cerridwen is representative of the powers of magical transformation and the instincts of a mother. Aerwen is presented to us as a goddess of a natural force, the river, whose course cannot be altered or controlled. She is symbolic of nature and the relationship humanity has with it as it courses through the land touching and affecting. Cerridwen and Aerwen interact, and this relationship is important, for it grounds the characters within a place; they are imminent. Pertinent to this discussion is the fact that the identity of Aerwen as a goddess is an accepted fact, whereas it is by process of apotheosis that Cerridwen comes to us in the guise of deity.
It is by the means of apotheosis, the act of exalting a subject to a divine level, whereby Cerridwen indisputably has been deified and is currently revered and worshipped by devotees around the globe. We have explored the various mechanisms that may have given rise to her deification, and we have also witnessed the rebuke of her rank as goddess by various academics. But the fact remains that she is now perceived as a goddess and one who is applicable and appropriate to the new Paganism of the twenty-first century. It also serves to demonstrate the uncanny ability these archetypes have for survival, because no matter how often or how vigorously they are suppressed, denigrated, or devalued, they continue to exist.
The gods and goddesses of the current Pagan tradition will continue to be devalued and belittled, pulled apart and eviscerated to within an inch of decency, for they are still perceived as a threat. Paganism may be generally accepted, but it is still a fringe tradition seen as a threat to other institutions who would love nothing more than the demise of our deities. Thankfully these archetypes have significantly more power than the prejudices of little human minds, and try as some might, they will not succeed in suppressing these divine voices.
Many may argue that the gods bear no resemblance to those of the ancient world—that any bridge which linked us directly to the wisdom of the past has long since burnt. Many cry that the gods are not real but are merely romantic notions of fantasy and an unhinged mind. We may well hear the protestations that “They are not gods!” I would beg to differ. My gods are as real as I am, for I give my gods voice, as do you and the covens and groves that devote their spiritual practises to them. Nothing is inherently original; everything must evolve or suffer stagnation and annihilation; nobody would have the audacity to question the face or attributions of the Christian or Islamic deities, yet they too have evolved. Everything has to start somewhere, right? The gods of the revealed religions bear little semblance to the archetypes that gave birth to them. Our gods are new gods inspired by old gods; we are the new Pagans who give voice to this Paganism that we have created to emulate the past whilst consciously not trying to live in it. Cerridwen and her kin cause us to look to the future, to be inspired but not long for the past. We are encouraged to change and develop their allegories and tales and make them authentically applicable to the Pagan spiritualities of today and tomorrow.
Cerridwen as Mother
When we first encounter Cerridwen, her role is central to the transformative process. She is the initiator of the brew and its creator. She does this in direct response to the pain she feels for her child—she turns to the powers of magic to imbue within him the essence of Awen. This action expresses her instinct as a mother to sacrifice herself, her time, and her energy to a process that would ultimately benefit her child. This is what drives the tale—this is its purpose and reason for being: it begins with a mother. Only another mother would truly understand and empathise with this overwhelming call to do something so absolutely extraordinary for her child. Her motives are driven by the pain she senses within her son and the fact that he will never be truly accepted by society. Imagine what that must feel like. Consider for a moment the inexorable love that a mother has for her child and the subsequent torment she must endure in the knowledge that that child may never be accepted by the world. Her actions are indicative of a mother’s drive to ensure the happiness of her child whatever the cost.
Regardless of which version of the story we encounter, it is safe to assume that significant to the virtue of the tale is the presence of a son and a daughter. We are not told if one is older than the other, but when one considers the nature of Creirfyw and Morfran Afagddu, it may be assumed that, in all probability, they are twins. Imagine, then, a mother’s pain to gaze upon the wondrous beauty of one child and then to be forever faced with the hideousness of the other. Within the text we are provided the following insight into Cerridwen’s state of mind:
Because of their son’s wretchedness, his mother became very sad in her heart, for there was no obvious means by which her son would win acceptance amongst the learned men of the day unless he beheld qualities markedly different from his looks. And so to deal with this matter, she turned her thoughts towards her Craft to see how best she could make him in possession of the Prophetic Spirit and a great storyteller of the world to come.86
Morfran Afagddu is the drive; he is the catalyst for Cerridwen’s creation of the brew, yet he is reliant on his mother’s ability to transform him. This implies that the inherent powers within Cerridwen are learned, not inherited, otherwise it would make sense that her offspring be in hereditary possession of her powers. Seemingly they are not, but of course the tale has a dual aspect: we are faced with its merits as a tale of a mother’s love for her son and also the sublime aspect where each character is already playing a vital magical role. The tale bridges the river between the profane and the sublime, enticing the querent with identifiable human motifs. It is by means of her identity as a mother that we are initially introduced to her, and this is a vitally important aspect of the tale, for if we fail to identify with her, we fail to effectively transform.
Cerridwen is a wife, a devoted mother, and a talented witch who has subsequently been elevated to the dizzying heights of a goddess. But her overriding human identity remains that of a mother who just so happens to be a learned witch. What follows is a sequence of magical events ultimately concluding in her familiar human role of a mother. So we begin with a mother and we conclude likewise. At the commencement of the chase we are subjected to the unadulterated anger of a mother scorned—everything she has struggled and worked for is destroyed. She is intent on killing the individual who spoiled her plans and condemns her son to a life of ugliness with no reprieve. When she eventually destroys him in her belly, during her entire magical pregnancy she continues to resent the unborn child, who represents what her son can never be. But when Taliesin is born, we are once again faced with the uncompromising, unconditional love a mother has for her offspring. His beauty is such that her heart cannot bring itself to destroy him, and so she gives him over to the powers of nature to nurture, care, and transform him further.
Here we have the combination of the mother, witch, and goddess singing in harmony. It is as though regardless of one’s standing or experience, even the most adept and knowledgeable of initiates continues to learn. Cerridwen had her motives, but with the transformation of the initiate, something changed within her as she coursed through the slipstream of Gwion’s initiation. The teacher is always affected by the process of teaching; the student learns from the teacher and the teacher, by proxy, learns something of him- or herself in the process. Cerridwen may be perceived as a superior goddess, yet her tale serves to tell us that she is also the expression of humanity; she is learning what it is to be human by being a mother. Cerridwen’s own personal transformation is summed up beautifully by the Celtic scholar Angela Grant, who says:
…Cerridwen who, having thereby been impregnated by the combined spirit of poetry, wisdom and prophecy, then becomes the “mother of wisdom” and is changed, in a manner at least, from the dark, angry and vengeful Witch to the wise and beautiful mother who knows her child needs the fosterage of the sea for forty years before he can be truly reborn as the archetypal poet and diviner.87
We are each born into the world having spent nine months in the wombs of our mothers—we grow, live, and some of us reach for the spiritual. Within that spectrum we find another womb where we gestate and are reborn into the world as lucid practitioners of the magical arts. Cerridwen serves as the nurturer, the initiator, and the gateway by which we access the spiritual continuum of the universe and incorporate it into our human lives. She is the mother as teacher and the mother as student; our relationship with Cerridwen must be reciprocal.
• • •
Imperative to a true and experiential understanding of Cerridwen or any other deity is our relationship with them. Without connection there can be no relationship, and without a deep and sacred relationship with our gods, we are condemned to a life of cerebral or armchair philosophy, with no real interaction. A study of the Celtic material quickly demonstrates the personable nature of the deities and their desire to connect with their adherents. They are not ethereal imaginings flapping about in some otherworldly plane that is beyond touch and concept, they are here and present. They are the divine, imminent aspects of us and the powers of nature, which are forever connected to the source of all being, to the constant river of Awen. They exist within us and without us; they are both internal and external, depending on how we interact with them. Cerridwen provides us with the keys to transformation by presenting herself to us as a human being, a mother, and every individual on the planet can identify with that. She teaches us the fundamental qualities of magic, of study, of nourishing our skills and talents; she guides us into the process of change and encourages us to nourish and nurture others who come to us for inspiration. She is not an entity who demands unquestionable worship; she works with us—if we commit to knowing her.
Within the practise of Paganism, the interaction with deity is necessary to the connection we have with the natural world and its qualities. But we may also be at risk of only developing a conceptual, shallow relationship with our gods, and this is not enough. Think upon a relationship within your life that is of great value to you; it may be with a parent, a lover, or a sibling. Now compare the intensity of that relationship with that of a deity; do they emulate each other? Do they differ? If so, how? The manner by which we connect to deity is incredibly personal, and it is something that develops with time. I consider the flippant calling or invocation of a deity just for the sake of it to be imprudent and foolhardy. We would not assume a reciprocal relationship with a stranger, and we cannot assume the same for deity. We must connect, and as we have seen this is achieved by first identifying with the mythology and the iconography and then the attributes of deity. We then begin to “get to know one another” in a manner that constructs reciprocation. Too often a relationship with deity may be overtly passive or simply observational, with no real substance. This is not enough for magic to occur. When we arise to meet the gods, we must do so with integrity, with honour, and with an appreciation of the sacredness of relationship. We do this by getting to know them. But this is not a simple task, for we are denied the physicality of the gods. We have no flesh to touch or warmth to feel; instead, we must sense their pulsing spirit within the fabric of our flesh and the land.
People cannot conceptualise what they have no concept of, therefore when we move to meet Cerridwen we must have a concept of who she is, what she is, and why we approach her cauldron. Our relationships with these archetypes begin in the same manner as our connection to other human beings—we are attracted to them. It is by analysing that attraction and moving into the energy of that archetype that we begin to know them, and essentially they begin to know us. A selfish, one-sided relationship is doomed from the offset; reciprocation is vital. We all have motives and reasons for being drawn to the presence of deity, but Cerridwen and her kin are not there to entertain. When we approach the cauldron, we must do so with confidence. When we look into the dark pools of her eyes, we must do so with conviction and integrity, where we begin a relationship that is forged with honesty and trust.
In conclusion, Cerridwen may be segregated as a witch; you may approach her entirely as the archetype of Mother or as the Great Goddess. More than likely she is all these things simultaneously. It is your relationship with her that defines and delineates the borders between each role.
Are you ready to embark on a journey into the embrace of the witch goddess?
Exercise
Developing a relationship with an archetype begins just the same as any other relationship: by means of introduction. We would not accost a total stranger in a supermarket, wedge them between ourselves and a wall, and demand that they suddenly be our friend. We would be considered a little unhinged at best, a raving lunatic at worst. Therefore the manner by which you move yourself into Cerridwen’s energy must be gentle and, above all, polite.
We are not afforded the luxury of Cerridwen in the flesh; we must connect to her energy. At first glance this may seem an impossible task, but in actuality it is no different from recalling the memory of a loved one who has died. The dead and the gods exist beyond the veil that separates the realms of existence, and to meet them we must become adept at parting those veils. Think of someone whom you were close to who has since died. Recall their features and their voices; invoke memories of them and interact with the image. Call them to you from beyond the veils. This task is made easier by the fact that we have a point of reference—a memory, a photo, or a video capturing the deceased in life. We do not have those associations with Cerridwen, so we must forge new ones. But the images that we may subsequently invoke will be similar in nature to those we summon for our dead.
Begin by settling yourself in a quiet place where you will not be disturbed, and have your journal ready. Think of the witch goddess and her attributes and her role in the tale. Jot down some notes, a poem, perhaps maybe even an illustration of her features as you imagine them.
Now close your eyes and imagine before you a curtain, perhaps similar to the style in a theatre. These represent the veils between worlds. By the powers of your imagination, cause them to open. As they sweep gently aside, they reveal a woman who stands alone on a stage that your mind creates. Allow her to appear naturally without attempting to steer what appearance she assumes. This is Cerridwen.
Introduce yourself to her, talk to her, tell her who you are, where you live. Interact with her—chat with her as if you have just been introduced to a new person, which, in fact, you have. Don’t try to be all mystical and spooky, just talk to her like you would any ordinary living person. Tell her where you went to school, what you do for a living, and who the members of your family are. Tell her stuff about you. There is absolutely no need to reel off antiquated words of worship or honour, no point falling to your knees with cries of “O great Mother, I bow before thee!” She may be a goddess, but don’t idolize her; treat her with the respect that you would show any being, human or other. Stand in her presence and revel in the fact that you are starting something new. When you are ready to go home, simply bid her farewell and cause the curtains to close again. Every time you go to meet her, begin by invoking the image of the curtains; this will inform your subconscious mind that the subtle senses are being utilised and that something extraordinary is about to occur.
Try to avoid direct images of the otherworld, which may serve to confuse and frustrate you. Always use liminality to reach it; this is the purpose of liminality. The curtains act as a symbol of being betwixt and between; they form the bridge between your conscious mind and the subtle realms. However, do not be restricted to this suggestion alone; by all means use your own imagination to conceptualise and envision other symbols that are of a liminal nature.
It is useful to have an item that is representative of Cerridwen, perhaps a figurine, a talisman, or a statue—something that may be kept on your altar or sacred table or shelf that is evocative of her. It would be best to utilise Awen to create this item, so that as much of your own connection is imbued within it.
Record all your experiences in your journal.
56. Evans, The Black Book of Carmarthen.
57. Evans, Facsimile and Text of the Book of Taliesin.
58. Skene, The Four Ancient Books of Wales.
59. Bevan, Geiriadur Prifysgol Cymru.
60. Skene, The Four Ancient Books of Wales, 498.
61. Note that in modern Welsh the letter V is replaced by the letter F.
62. Nash, Taliesin or Bards and Druids of Britain, 195.
63. Evans, Facsimile and Text of the Book of Taliesin.
64. Translated by the author from Chwedl Taliesin by Ifor Williams, 1–2.
65. Haycock, Legendary Poems from the Book of Taliesin, 312–19.
66. Bromwich, Trioedd Ynys Prydein: The Triads of the Island of Britain, 312–13.
67. NLW 5276D (my translation).
68. Owen, Welsh Folklore.
69. The trial and confession of Isobel Gowdie, taken from Robert Graves’s The White Goddess, 401–402.
70. Ford, Ystoria Taliesin, 48.
71. Hippolytus’s Philosophumena (ad 170–235) as translated by Philip Freeman and J. T. Koch in Koch’s The Celtic Heroic Age, 35.
72. Dion Chrysostom, Orations 49 (ad 40–112) in Koch’s The Celtic Heroic Age, 30.
73. Ammianus Marcellinus (ad 330–395) in Koch’s The Celtic Heroic Age, 31.
74. Parker, The Four Branches of the Mabinogi, 100.
75. Williams, A Dictionary of Eminent Welshmen, 73–74.
76. Davies, The Mythology and Rites of the British Druids, 186.
77. Nash, Taliesin or Bards and Druids of Britain, 187.
78. Spence, The History and Origins of Druidism, 57–58.
79. MacCulloch, The Religion of the Ancient Celts, 117.
80. Graves, The White Goddess, 68–98.
81. Parker, The Four Branches of the Mabinogi, 447.
82. Math Fab Mathonwy, The Fourth Branch of the Mabinogi, translated by the author from The White Book of Mabinogion edited by J. G. Evans.
83. Isaac, Coelion Cymru, and Frazer, The Golden Bough, 635–36.
84. Blake and Lloyd, The Keys to Avalon, 144–45.
85. Ibid., 145.
86. NLW 5276D, my translation.
87. Grant, Magical Transformations in the Pedeir Keinc y Mabinogi and Hanes Taliesin, 56.