the heart of transformation
• • •
She employed a young boy called Gwion Bach from
LlanFair yn Caer Einion in Powys to tend the cauldron.
Ystoria Taliesin
When we first meet Gwion Bach, it is in his guise as an employee of Cerridwen, who recruits him from a life as a yeoman’s son from a village to the south of Bala, in the neighbouring county of Powys, to tend her cauldron. The manuscripts specifically note that he is employed, which implies that Cerridwen is rewarding him for the task of cauldron tending. We are not informed if this is by means of payment or board and lodging, but it is significant that he is subservient to Cerridwen and must do her bidding. In light of the circumstances that arise, it is easy to empathise with Cerridwen’s fury when one in her employment robs her of the miraculous potion. But, as with all things in the Celtic mysteries, there is complexity and various levels to the tale, more so than first meets the eye. As we have explored in the previous sections, this tale is more than just a folk tale and is beautifully described by professor Patrick Ford:
…the tales of Gwion Bach and Taliesin cannot be lightly dismissed as “folktale” or late developments. Perceptible in them and in their attendant poems, despite the layering of successive generations and external influences, lies the myth of the primeval poet, in whom resides all wisdom.88
The above quote reiterates the origins of the tale in the distant past and not as simply a product of medieval Wales. The tales’ deep magic causes those who come into relationship with them to be transformed, and they do this, as we are exploring, by means of the archetypes that swim within them. As our journey brings us to the main protagonist of the tale, the one who is to undergo transformation, it is pertinent to explain his primary function above all others.
Our initial encounter with Gwion may cause us to feel a little sorry for him; after all, he had been minding his own business for a year and a day. To suddenly be burnt by boiling liquid was, again, not entirely his fault, and then all at once he is to be chastised or at worst killed by the wrath of Cerridwen. We would be somewhat hard and cold-hearted to not feel a dash of sympathy for poor Gwion and the incommodious situation he has got himself into. His innocence and the accidental nature of the calamity that befalls him draw us in; we feel for him, and on many levels we can identify with him. We have all been in situations where things have seemingly conspired against us, corners turned to be met by brick walls or, worse, hostility. Sometimes things just happen. And in this case, this lowly lad is at the sharp end of Cerridwen’s wrath, when in all honesty he hasn’t really done anything wrong.
The realms of mystery are difficult to enter; to begin with, they are invisible to human eyes. You may find clues that allude to them, but they are elusive and enveloped in mists of secrets. To access them we must find the keys that unlock the appropriate doors, and this entire tale is one of those. But even when we find the keys that match the mysteries, we must still find the locks into which they fit. The material may at first seem compelling yet incredibly baffling, leaving one scratching the head in confusion. This is a typical symptom for the majority of folks who approach the doors of the Celtic mysteries. But there is a significant key that allows all other keys to find their matching locks with ease. The riddled poems of Taliesin and other Celtic verse and mythologies cannot be explained unless one refers to a folk tale, which the scholar Ifor Williams identifies as being the tale of Cerridwen and Taliesin. He claims that the shapeshifting Gwion Bach, who is transformed by means of successive initiations and a triple birth, is the key to accessing the mysteries. The legendary and prophetic myths and poems, without exception, require this key to activate their power.89 When activated, the mysteries begin to glow with a light that shines to the furthest recesses of the spirit. The process is quite simple once the key to mystery has been acknowledged, and Gwion Bach is only half the story—the rest of it is fulfilled by you.
For all that is to follow to make sense, a deep and profound acknowledgment must be accepted at this point. By all means, the study of Gwion Bach, the etymology and the interpretation of his part in the story, both visionary and scholarly, is a worthy exercise. But for the tale to be incorporated as experience, not simply a mental exercise, we must accept that the role of Gwion Bach is indicative of you, the hero on his or her own quest to inspiration and the divine receipt of Awen. This is achieved by seeing oneself in the role of Gwion Bach and accepting the tools that he provides along with his fellow archetypes to embark on the journey. This is a journey in the true sense of the word, for it involves a deep commitment to the study of mystery and immersion in the teachings of our ancestors. The quest becomes a source of knowledge and our heartfelt attempt to access the blissful rapture of connection to the mysteries and the gods of the Celtic continuum.
The most important aspect of the entire journey, as epitomised by the trials and initiations of Gwion, is the heroic journey into the self. This is achieved by being immersed in every single facet that makes up the self; to balance the otherworldly components of the spirit in harmony with the earthly aspect, not to antagonise or belittle the other but to create harmony. The Celtic systems are the opposite of the traditions of belief commonly found in the East, which encourage the transcending of the self and the acceptance of a universal truth that we have no other choice but to adhere to. The Celtic mysteries do not demand that we transcend or even seek enlightenment per se; they ask that we be of the world whilst simultaneously being aware of the otherworlds and the inexorable link to our primordial origination. By being in the world we learn, we seek, we educate ourselves and expand the mind to be a child of this world and of all others. In Celtica the world is not perceived as an illusion that gets in the way of enlightenment; in fact, the experience of being here, now, is deeply illuminating.
This old, deep magic is one of being fully present and aware of our true purpose; the meaning of life is to live. To live is to live in all worlds, to sense the worlds beyond the veil and those that inhabit the furthest reaches of our galaxy. To live is to be here now without the desperate searching for another dimension that transcends the one we currently occupy. We are mortal, yet we are facets of the universe learning about itself; the more we learn and experience, the richer our contribution to the whole will be. As we encounter the words of Taliesin in subsequent verse and poetry, we realise that he speaks of being present in all places and as all things simultaneously. Taliesin describes being the universe experiencing itself through a plethora of lives and objects and elements. He also makes reference to his previous life as Gwion Bach, the yeoman’s son who knew nothing of such magic until the blessed drops descended to scald his thumb. The Gwion that he speaks of is you—that is, if you are prepared to embark on this journey into lucidity and magic, where you walk side by side with those who inhabit the other realms. Into the cauldron you have cast aspects of your shadow, your stability, and your strengths; you have acknowledged aspects of yourself, which is necessary for the brew’s productivity. You have identified your talents and skills, your flaws and your passions; you have sought out the witch goddess, lest you impudently approach her cauldron without consent. With all things in preparation, there is only one thing left: the acceptance of you as the vessel that is Gwion Bach.
It is easy at this point to become lost in gender identification, and it is not the intention of the mysteries to privilege one sex over the other. Gwion Bach may be presented to us as a boy, but in actuality he transcends gender. Gwion’s position in the tale and subsequent transformation applies to both males and females. You are Gwion Bach regardless of your sex.
Now, as we will discover a little later, the actual realm that Gwion Bach occupies has always been a subject of contention. There is a school of thought that claims the entire tale is based in the otherworld. Eventually it interacts with our dimension with the passage of the babe in the coracle. This concept is worthy of exploration, for although we are told that the tale takes place in an actual, real location, the events that unfold are nothing other than supernatural in nature. Some versions of the tale suggest that it unfolded on an island in the middle of the lake—a physical impossibility, as the lake is a glacial cleft and is unfathomably deep. Now this may imply that aspects of the tale took place between the worlds, in a dimension that bridges this world and the ones that run parallel with it. This theme is a common one in Celtic mythology, particularly in reference to islands; consider the associations with Avalon. If this is the case, then we are provided with a scenario that explains the interconnection of the worlds and how they are blended or knitted closely together, hidden only by the doubting mind. This hints at the fact that the relationship with the otherworld is imperative to the understanding of the mysteries; they are so tightly interlinked that to dismiss the otherworld as mere fantasy is to dismiss the mysteries themselves, for they originate there. Regardless of where the tale takes place, what actually matters is your role in it. It is the search, the quest, famed in Celtic tradition as the quest for the grail. The search, as the term quest implies, reaches into all worlds and deep between them into the space occupied by the flowing spirit of Awen.
What’s in a Name?
Gwion Bach literally translates as Gwion the Small, or Little Gwion. It is suggestive that he is either small in stature or demeanour, that his body is perhaps thin and wiry, and that he may not be as strong or robust as his siblings. The name Gwion is constructed from two specific components—gwi and on. If we take the suffix on, we are given a vast storehouse of information relating to the nature of Gwion Bach as something other than entirely human. This opens doors into the world of mystery that otherwise would have remained closed. Within the Welsh language, the suffix on denotes a creature or individual of supernatural erudition and quality; they seem human on the surface, but their identity places them in the realms of the otherworld or in having originated from there. The meaning of on is eloquently described by the scholar Eric Hamp:
The segmentation Gwi-on is immediately natural since in the Taliesin material we are dealing with a mythical stratum of personages comparable to those whom we meet in the Mabinogi. Therefore we have the Celtic suffix “on” which characterized supernatural beings.90
This provides us with the notion of how we must commence our examination of this character; again, all is not as it seems. Without the keys of language this information would remain unknown, and we would be ignorant of a cauldron of knowledge that we would otherwise be unable to access. Gwion shares a name in line with other enigmatic supernatural characters of the Celtic mysteries—there is magic here, much more than initially suspected. Owing to the meaning of this suffix, Gwion Bach’s position is similar to that of Rhiannon, who also shares the same “on” aspect. When we meet this creature of magic it is in the first branch of the Mabinogi—she rides upon a white horse and is unable to be stopped unless asked. Her origin is otherworldly, and she is commonly identified as heralding from the realm of Annwn, from the indigenous underworld of the Celts, the land of shadows and the Fair Folk. The implication here is that Gwion Bach may not have been entirely human to begin with, and that his innocent human aspect is a construct that allows us to access him prior to engaging the mysteries. This concept is articulated by John Matthews in his exploration of Taliesin:
…he is perhaps not human at all, but an Otherworld child whose first adventures take place in the Otherworld but who, once he has undergone a human birth, must go out into the world of men and become human.91
This is an interesting concept, for it is demonstrative of the complex levels that this tale is engaging with and expressing. On one hand, as we have seen in previous sections, it is a tale set amidst the valleys and woods of Bala, a real place in the apparent world, yet the unfolding tale is nothing less than supernatural. It is easy to imagine that these people were flesh and blood and that they lived real lives among the villagers of the time. But we find that their names belie a deeper, mysterious aspect to them that seems to indicate they are of another origin. I believe that they exist on all levels; as we saw in the examination of Cerridwen, we approach her as a mother and we leave her in the guise of a Mother, yet her attributions betwixt are immensely magical. The same can be said for Gwion Bach; we are able to sympathise with this lowly creature from a humble background. We can sense the pressure of back-breaking work that he endured within Cerridwen’s employment, and finally we empathise with him as the cauldron’s contents accidentally imbue him with the knowledge of the universe. It wasn’t his fault; his innocence draws us in, and this is a vital aspect of his song that is imperative for our own personal approaching of the mysteries.
The initial attributions of Gwion Bach are related to his innocence; he is a child. The Celtic myths are abundant with stories that tell of children who are born with magical powers or abilities, or who inherit these powers during their childhood. John Matthews refers to these individuals as “The Wondrous Children.”92 Something happens to them—they are changed or transformed or face terrible adversity, some are kidnapped or kept prisoner—but eventually they are rescued or found, and wondrous situations befall them and their kin. The main protagonist in the Four Branches of the Mabinogi is Pryderi, the son of Pwyll and Rhiannon. He is half human, half otherworldly. He is stolen by a supernatural force in his infancy and is subject to myriad magical adventures before being reunited with his parents. Similarly Gwion Bach is taken from his family, from the comforts of his home, and positioned in liminality; he is subsequently transformed and chased through an initiatory process before being reborn as the divine Prophetic Spirit. But vital to our understanding of the entire process is the acknowledgment of the initial quality of Gwion Bach: innocence. Without this incredible attribution we may never find our way to the cauldron, for we must approach it with the innocence of a child. We may come prepared, but we also come trusting that the witch goddess will guide, protect, and ultimately initiate. A child can do nothing other than trust his or her mother; there is no alternative that is conducive to transformation. This is a further lesson of Gwion Bach—to abandon the doubting, cynical, overly analytical mind of an adult who may have succumbed to the apathy of modern society, and to throw caution to the wind and engage with the mysteries in a manner that encourages development and permits magic to enter and dance with the spirit.
To approach the mysteries with innocence does not imply that we do so uneducated. A child spends years immersed in the tasks of learning, and it would be wise for us to do the same. For we are approaching these mysteries and the teachings therein as children, in a way; we are in the process of learning, of becoming learned. In the same manner as Cerridwen was learned in her arts, so must we become learned in ours. To do this whilst retaining an innocent disposition is a part of the overall magic—to approach the task of learning, of building relationships with a heart and spirit that gasps in awe at magic, is a giant step towards transformation.
Gwion Bach sings numerous songs of mystery, just as Cerridwen, Morfran Afagddu, Creirfyw, and Morda do; each song is unique, each one a vital ingredient of the brew’s making. The mysteries require us to listen—not just hear, but to listen intently with our spirits. Mystery can hide amidst the colour and drama of a tale, and the keys to accessing them may elude us until we are guided towards them. To begin to understand, we must first study and then commence relationship before eloping fully with the archetypes. In this instance, the name alone provides keys to the teachings of Gwion Bach. Having explored the meaning of the suffix on, we move on to the prefix gwi, where things become a little more interesting, if somewhat befuddling.
The Paradox of Poison
The first three letters of Gwion Bach’s name belie another mystery, for they refer to something that at first glance may appear contradictory to the entire process of transformation. The element gwi is cognate with the Old Irish fi, meaning “poison, venom”; this has been extensively explored and researched by the scholar Eric Hamp, who refers to Gwion Bach as “the little prototypic poison.” Since this seminal work was published in the 1970s, it has been accepted that Gwion Bach’s name in its entirety can be translated to mean “the little divine poison.”93 Now this may seem a strange and somewhat perplexing piece of information that is in direct contrast to the nature of Gwion Bach within the tale. For him to be identified as poison or poisonous may seem a harsh blow to deal upon an innocent. But, as usual, there is more going on here. There is more to learn within the meaning of his name.
Consider the immediate consequences of the ingestion of the three blessed drops. We are informed that the contents of the cauldron are instantly turned to poison, which implies that everything within the brew’s constituents, except for the three drops, were deadly toxic. We are informed:
…the cauldron broke in two pieces, the water within was now poison except for the three blessed drops, the liquid poisoned the horses of Gwyddno Garanhir who drank from the estuary whose waters were contaminated by the cauldron, and because of that the estuary has forever been named Gwenwynfeirch Gwyddno (the estuary of Gwyddno’s poisoned horses).94
It seems apparent that once the brew had reached critical mass and expelled the required drops, the contents thereafter were rendered useless. This is a clear indication that the brew is only meant for ingestion by one individual alone; it cannot be shared. Only the initiate must partake of the brew. To receive Awen secondhand is to be in receipt of something that is impure or corrupt, as only the true initiate for whom the brew is truly intended may be imbued with the Prophetic Spirit. Regardless of how much we want it or how noble our intentions, unless we stir the cauldron and tend to it, it will serve only to poison us. There is a profound occult warning hidden within this theme. In order for us to be in receipt of the Prophetic Spirit and assimilate the mysteries, we must undergo the experience alone and with integrity. We cannot receive it by proxy of someone else’s experience; we are not permitted to share. There are rules, as Cerridwen herself states in the poem “The Chair of Cerridwen”: “This is my cauldron and these are my rules!”95
In order for us to approach the vessel and undergo assimilation of the mysteries, we must be fully prepared and do so of our own volition. We cannot hope to be in possession of the Prophetic Spirit unless we are prepared to work for it. The process requires commitment and devotion. Nothing less is acceptable or in line with Cerridwen’s rules. “The Chair of Cerridwen” poem speaks of her appreciation and acknowledgment of learning; her admiration for Gwydion, the Son of Don, from the Fourth Branch of the Mabinogi, whom she refers to as having “the best learning.” She refers to herself as being one of the most knowledgeable ones within the court of the goddess Don. Knowledge and learning are vastly important qualities that are essential to the brew, combined with innocence and trust. These attributes are the primary qualities we must possess before engaging with the mysteries. We approach them informed and educated, and trust that the archetypical forces will serve to guide and assist us. Cerridwen’s demand that we be learned enforces the primary Druidic tenet of ages past that the skills of the mind and the intellect must be encouraged and developed. Learning is of immense importance, not only to the development of the mind and to enrich the storehouse of wisdom, but also to encourage relationship with the mythological material and the archetypes therein. It highlights a common condition of the twenty-first century and its inappropriateness to occult study: the “I want it now” mentality.
We are blessed to live in an age where we have access to information at the touch of a button; we have health care and medicines that would have turned our ancestors green with envy. We have technologies to improve our lives and enable exploration of our planet and universe. But by proxy of this we have become used to the “instant society” we have created. Alas, this expectant attitude can also infiltrate the realms of the spirit and its exploration. We can buy courses, purchase the mysteries, and be awarded a title for a few hundred dollars—but, just as the remains of the cauldron were toxic, so can the “I can buy my spirituality” mentality poison and corrupt. The mysteries of any tradition require utmost devotion and commitment, and the Celtic mysteries are no exception. The subtle power of words informs us of how we must commence and what the gods require of us. The process of the brew becoming toxic is teaching us that collateral damage is a real and apparent risk. If we approach the mysteries without integrity and due attention, we may cause damage to ourselves and our environment. In an instantly gratifying world, the Celtic mysteries teach us the importance and value of patience, of absorption and commitment.
We are also informed by means of Gwion’s name that he becomes the embodiment of poison. Whatever collateral damage has been enacted by the spilling of the cauldron’s contents, it seems evident that Gwion is not only transformed into the Prophetic Spirit but is also an embodiment of poison. Gwion becomes the epitome of what nourishes but also poisons, a quality that we explored earlier within the cauldron fort of Caer Feddiwt. Gwion tells us a little of his nature after he is transformed in the Book of Taliesin poem “Prif Gyuarch Geluyd”:
I am old, I am new, I am Gwion,
I am universal, I am the sense of fine things.
I am a bard, I do not disclose secrets to menials.
I am leader, I am a sage in contest.
Convoluted bards will come,
To meet about the mead vessels,
To sing wrongful verse,
To secure rewards that they will not get.96
Here Taliesin speaks of his previous incarnation as Gwion Bach, and of the nature of his being, he claims a universal presence and that he is of superior sense. He also states that he will not (or cannot) disclose his secrets to menials. The term menial is taken to be representative of those who are not in possession of the Prophetic Spirit, and therefore not privy to receive them. To do so would be akin to being poisoned. He also condemns those who tarry about claiming great things and speaking in verse as if they are knowledgeable, and seems to be portraying the common “jack of all trades and master of none” persona. It is apparent that the Gwion Bach/Taliesin figure has very little patience for those who do not approach the mysteries with good intent and preparation. Gwion, as a vessel of poison, mirrors the poisonous virtues of the natural world; not all that is sweetness and light is necessarily good for us. The bees forage among flowers, gathering nectar; their honey is a rich source of carbohydrates, yet it can be immensely toxic to a child. The humble nut can provide protein and nourishment, and yet, to an unfortunate few, it can kill. Hidden within innocence and beauty is the risk of toxicity. The collateral damage that the natural world can cause is emulated in the occult mysteries. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, particularly in the wrong hands. Cerridwen’s rules are steadfast. We must embark alone to seek the wisdom and magic of the cauldron; anything else would be untrue and impure, a corruption of Awen, and, as we have seen, the remains serve only to poison. Gwion Bach’s multilayered meaning serves to guide, to inspire, but also to warn.
There is a further teaching here that emulates the message of Morda: liminality. We are informed that the horses of Gwyddno Garanhir (whose weir Taliesin is later discovered in) were drinking at the estuary of Gwyddno Garanhir and consequently ingested the poisoned waters. Their deaths are eternalised in the name of the river and estuary to this day: Afon Gwenwynfeirch Gwyddno means “the river of Gwyddno’s poisoned horses.” The horses are the only victims of the cauldron’s toxicity, or at least the only ones that we are informed of. It would stand to reason that every creature within the river is also poisoned and subsequently dies. But there is a dichotomy here. To begin with, this is the river in which the watery aspect of the chase takes place; therefore, we must assume that somehow Cerridwen as an otter and Gwion as a salmon are immune to its effects. Secondly, the horses are drinking from an estuary, which is odd in that the water would be primarily salty. Also, an estuary epitomises liminal space: it is neither land nor sea but a combination of both; it is a place that is betwixt and between. However, a further complication to the significance of the horses’ poisoning arises in relation to the fact that horses are indicative of the sovereignty of Britain. Their deaths seem to imply that something is being challenged; perhaps this something is identity, both national and individual.
What can be deduced is that liminal space is a key aspect to the entire transformational process. It does not happen in actual or apparent time. Regardless of whether the tale unfolds in the otherworld or not, what is significant is that the section immediately after the ingestion of Awen takes place in liminality. As mentioned previously, we are not informed of how long the chase sequence takes, but we are informed that the newborn child is set adrift for forty years after birth and then found by Gwyddno Garanhir’s son, Elffin. A paradox is immediately apparent here, as the poisoned horses belong to him; now he must be incredibly old or another creature of supernatural erudition. All of this serves to demonstrate the complex nature and interconnection between the various characters or archetypes in Celtic myth. Whilst they all provide a meaning or teaching significant to them and their part in myth, there is a crossover point where certain attributes are mirrored or mimicked by others, perhaps as a process of reiteration. Therefore, to interpret the archetypes and explore their meanings as I am attempting to do here is fraught with difficulties, for they have a tenacity to share certain attributes and meaning.
Within the sequence that directly involves Gwion Bach, we can see the interchange between him and the other archetypical qualities that continue to interact throughout the chase and birth sequences. Therefore, although the character of Morda seems to have vanished from the tale, what he represents—i.e., the qualities that he brought to the cauldron—continue to be paramount to the unfolding of the initiatory events. All the archetypes are present; they are simply not referred to. If we take Morfran Afagddu and his qualities of shadow, we can see them at work in Cerridwen’s wrath and in the fear that Gwion evokes. Creirfyw’s influence remains in the sense of beauty and wonder and love that Cerridwen feels as the great Mother. This interaction is essential to the unfolding of transformation, reaffirming that the qualities we initially placed in the cauldron are never vanquished; rather, they are assimilated.
exercise
So what is in a name? How important are names to you? We have seen what mystery lies in the name Gwion Bach. How about your name—what does that invoke? Stop for a minute and consider your given or chosen name; what does it describe, if anything? Does it express your qualities? Perhaps your name honours something, maybe an ancestor, or it may provide you with a sense of heritage and belonging. Names are incredibly powerful things, and although we may dismiss their power as simply an unimportant label, we cannot deny that we live in a world of labels. Our names may well be one of those badges, but how do we give them meaning? Meditate on the function of your name, and what it means to you, your loved ones, and your community.
For example, my own name is vitally important to my identity within my tribe. My surname honours the Celtic Hughes tribe; derived from Hu or Huw, meaning “fire” and “inspiration,” by proxy of this name I sense my connection to centuries of Celtic history and heritage. My first name honours my parents and their choices in naming me.
The Sacred Chase
We now move on to the most magical aspect of the transformation process, the chase. In the section devoted to Cerridwen, we were introduced to her role within the chase sequence and the significant use of shapeshifting magic that she utilised. This section differs in its point of view, for we now explore the chase through the eyes of the hunted. As we previously saw, Cerridwen is the hunter; she forces the initiate ever forward. However, there is further magic to behold in the smallest details. On first glance, it may appear that the purpose of the chase is directly related to the wrath of Cerridwen, and that Gwion Bach is simply responding in a “fight or flight” fashion. The witch goddess may seem to be the aggressor intent on destroying what has, for all intents and purpose, been stolen from her, but by now we realise that there are deeper levels of meaning.
The transformational combat has a specific purpose and meaning and is perfectly adapted in a mythological sense to be of a dual nature. On one hand, it serves to entertain—to pass the dark nights sharing stories by candlelight—and on another level it speaks of a sequence of mysteries that addresses an audience of another nature, those of the schools of mystery. One can imagine the storytellers of old expertly articulating the tale, creating tension and drama, culminating in the thrill of the chase and the peril it contains. Without the latest Hollywood productions to capture the imagination, the old storytellers were the A-list celebrities of their day, each one capable of mesmerising his or her audience. Mouths would be gaping in anticipation, bottoms firmly rooted to the spot as myths and legends were brought expertly to life. And yet, in the gloom of a court or a gathering hall, sat other folk who simply smiled knowingly at the contents of the tales. The old storytellers and travelling bards were the teachers of the day. With no newspapers and no Internet, the only manner by which the students of mystery heard of the latest teachings and developments was through the mouths of the wandering orator.
If we leave aside the thrilling nature of the chase and descend below the depths of entertainment, we begin to find meaning in the transformational combat. This meaning is not a mental exercise but a template for our own initiation into the mysteries of the Celtic tradition. Caitlín Matthews suggests that the changes are in keeping with the various levels involved in the training of the initiate as he or she travels towards transformation. Each sequence of the tale provides the initiate with insights into the nature of things and eventually to a state of “all knowing.” Matthews explains how the chase forces the querent through deeper levels of understanding until he reaches “the primary essence of life itself, here symbolised by a grain of wheat.”97
This is interesting, for the implication is that we have, at some point in our lives, lost this meaning and connection to the primary essence. The individual elements of the chase sequence transmit the mysteries of being to the initiate as he or she is immersed within the experience. There is a relay of information happening whereby the initiate is in receipt of teachings by means of the natural world and its direct link to the source of all being. The aggressor, who appears in this case to be Cerridwen, is none other than the initiator; her role is to ensure that inertia does not occur and that the immersion in each component of the chase is in perpetual motion. Throughout the sequence the initiate is bombarded with information by proxy of the lucidity of Awen; an element of threat and danger is also present in the form of the hunter pushing the querent onwards. Eventually there is a period of rest and assimilation by which the initiate digests and makes sense of the teachings he or she has received. In the darkness of the womb, the teachings coalesce into meaning. Therefore, a function of the chase is the initial coalescence of wisdom and knowledge. The blessed drops have opened the doors to mystery, and the chase sequence is their entrance.
In order for the mysteries to be admitted unhindered, it is necessary for certain human functions to be temporarily suspended. Gwion Bach is suddenly in receipt of such a vast storehouse of wisdom that he is in danger of a mental breakdown; therefore, the functions of the human are briefly halted to allow unhindered ingestion of the mysteries. An animal acts in accordance to its nature; there is no other agenda. Humans, on the other hand, are riddled with agendas. Gwion’s form is transformed, but his essence remains unchanged; therefore, a component of his humanity is retained whilst in animal form, but he is, in essence, acting according to the instincts of the animal shape he finds himself in. The primary instinct here is survival.
There is always an ordeal within transformational rites and initiations, and it is imperative that this element be present, for it causes us to act on instinct. The ordeal causes the brain to be reset to factory settings, if you like, to reconnect with the primary essence of life. The conscious mind is temporarily suppressed to allow access to the higher states of being. Gwion’s form is changed, and he goes forth through the elemental realms, receiving their wisdom as he travels whilst being free of the restraints of the critical mind. His spirit is open; he has surpassed the doubting, insecure, disbelieving aspects of himself and is immersed in the lucidity of mystery; he has been returned to the primary state of being.
At its heart, the purpose of the transformational combat is to return the mind to the default state. It bridges the canyon that forms between the mind and the spirit as we succumb to the programming of our societies. A powerful spell must have been cast over the minds of humans that caused them to believe that they are separate from the world. We are taught to strive to make our lives better by working hard and earning buckets of money—only then will we be truly happy! The spell is so powerful that it may cause us to believe that rather than being an aspect of nature, instead we can control it. Nature is something “out there,” and all that matters is the here and now and the constant battle for gain. The spell also causes us to believe that a lost part of ourselves left and travelled elsewhere and that we must embark on a physical (and sometimes costly) journey to “find ourselves.” And yet, the “self” was there all the while—within us. It never left, it didn’t go anywhere; we simply were led to believe that such things hold no value and do not necessarily exist. The effects of this spell still grasp our human world in its clutches. The process of transformation by returning us to factory settings breaks this spell and causes us to see clearly the interconnection of all things and the primordial origination of the soul. Doreen Valiente, the mother of modern Wicca, captured this sentiment beautifully in her Charge of the Goddess, where she exclaimed that if we seek what we do not find inside us, we will never find it outside of us either.
But is all this worth it? Imagine all the study, the work, the devotion, the commitment that is needed to embark on a journey into the spirit. Surely it’s just a huge waste of time, right? After all, it’s not going to get you a bigger house or those designer shoes that you just have to have. It’s not really going to put an awful lot of money in your purse either, nor will it cause your credit card debt to miraculously vanish. It won’t get you a better job, nor will it cause that sexy guy who works at the coffee shop to fall madly in love with you and whisk you away to the Caribbean! But it will cause pieces of your spirit to float gently back into coalescence with your entire being, so you will be unable to accurately define where you end and the world begins. It will cause you to realise that there was nothing actually missing in your life in the first place. The process of transformation causes our lives to be enriched by the realisation that we are the world experiencing itself. This lucidity brings the spirit in line with the soul of the universe as it sings in praise of itself—aware, conscious, and blissfully swimming in the rapture of being.
Each culture, each tradition has its own unique set of keys that allow doors to open, that return us to factory settings. Our lives are not restricted by this action—nothing is impeded; in fact, the opposite is true. We learn to live by means of a positive morality whereby all life—all elements of the earth and its inhabitants—is an integral part of us. The act of initiation into the mysteries brings all dimensions of the universe into awareness and causes us to experience this world as integral aspects of it, not separate from it. We fall into meaningful relationship. What you hold in your hands is one of the keys of the Celtic tradition that fits neatly into the lock of a door that society has taught us is forever locked. The chase allows us to ingest this information before we assimilate it into meaning.
In the past, some of our greatest and perhaps most criticised authors have explored the meaning of the chase and its significance, and without exception they are all in agreement that a profoundly magical process is at work. Edward Davies claims that the swallowing of the initiate at the culmination of the chase is his symbolic placement in the sanctuary of the Goddess and implies that there is much more going on than initially is apparent. He believed that the aspirant is intended for the priesthood and that his imprisonment in the womb is the manner by which he assimilates the doctrines and rites of Cerridwen.98 Robert Graves, on the other hand, presents us with an interesting correspondence that has some merit and can be incorporated into an exploration of the tale. He claims that the entire cycle runs in strict seasonal order, and that by breaking the sequence down we can attribute a particular season to each facet of the chase. He states that the hare is indicative of the autumn coursing season, the fish takes place in the rains of winter, the bird in the spring during the migrating season, and the grain of corn during the summer harvest.99 These links may be somewhat tenuous, to say the least, but it would be foolhardy to dismiss them entirely, for the seasons are of great importance to Pagan practise.
These varying thoughts that span centuries of exploration teach us that there is an abundant source of inspiration and guidance out there where folk have made tentative steps to approach the cauldron. The interpretations of these authors permit us to freely explore meaning and significance that is appropriate for our journey into transformation. Although it is easy to academically dismiss attributions of this kind, they do have visionary merit and can be used by current practitioners of the mysteries. These seasonal correspondences can be utilised by means of ritual, used for meditation and developing relationship with each sequence of the chase. All explorations are worthy of investigation; they cause us to be further involved and strengthen our relationship with the material and its archetypes.
• • •
Perhaps the first thing we notice when we look at the tale from an occult point of view is the obvious elemental correspondences; the chase takes place within earth, water, and air. This fact alone is immensely significant, and it is tempting to cause these components to fall in line with modern Pagan concepts, but as you will see our concepts can also be challenged. Within current Druidic practise there is the concept of land, sea, and sky, and this falls neatly into the elements described in the tale at hand:
Pagan ritual consists of honouring four elements, each of which occupy a cardinal point within the circle, or sacred space; these “quarters” form meaningful correspondences that practitioners invoke and connect with during ritual. The use of the four elements in Pagan ritual is influenced by their usage as the four classical elements of ancient Greek philosophy and science. However, there is no evidence to suggest that the Celts honoured them in the same manner. In fact, there is some evidence to imply that only the three elements of earth, water, and air were acknowledged. This is not a discourse to negate the current practise of honouring four elements, but rather a challenge to the current assumption that all four are sequentially present within the tale, for as you will discover, they are not. It is somewhat tempting to assign all four classical elements to the chase sequence—understandably so, for three of the elements are sequentially present. The corresponding animals emulate the qualities of these elements, but the fourth is missing or not so obviously placed. The general school of thought has thus far dismissed the obvious sequential inconsistency and assumed that the element of fire is represented by the corn and hen sequence. Admittedly this is a tenuous link to say the least; fire is not mentioned, and the digestive fire or the metaphorical fire of conception is a further tenacity that simply hides a more magical meaning.
It is sometimes easier to make assumptions than go to great efforts to explore exactly what is going on, but as we have seen previously, the act of learning and of being learned is a sacred rite in itself. Within the Celtic mind, Fire is what brings about the transformation of the other elements; it instigates change and was present at the beginning of creation. “I was gleaming fire when I was caused to exist” said Taliesin in the Black Book of Carmarthen, reiterating the fact that fire underlies the other elements. If we explore the significance of fire and its interactions, we gain a deeper understanding of its nature and how it was perceived in the Celtic mind. The Celts conceptualised everything in a tripartite fashion. Just as our apparent space has only three dimensions, they believed that only three primary elements existed and that they arose and were transformed by means of fire. Now we are more than aware that our physical universe was created by an explosion; fire initiated its commencement and caused the other elements to spring into being. I quote the eloquent Jean Markale, who explains that
when a solid burns, it becomes gaseous; earth becomes air thanks to fire. When a liquid burns, it becomes gaseous; water becomes air thanks to the activity of fire. When a gas burns, it becomes a different gas, whether it is a liquid, for example (the hydrogen and oxygen that create water), or a solid: air becomes air, earth, or fire through the activity of fire. For fire is the very principle of action.100
The Greek philosopher Heraclitus challenged the classical assumption of the existence of four equal elements by claiming that fire gave rise to the other three. He believed that fire was the fundamental element. Therefore, with this in mind, fire underpins all things in the physical universe; it is the primordial element that encapsulates all the energy contained within the other three. They are all changed by the action of fire.
Taliesin describes how he was gleaming fire before he was caused to exist, and his subsequent existences contain all aspects of the elemental world. He originated as fire, and those flames cause the subsequent transformation of the other elements. Interestingly, some of the manuscripts claim that Taliesin was found during Beltane, perhaps the greatest fire festival of the Celts. This is the feast of Bel, the shining one, or “he of fire.” This festival is the celebration of light and heat and flame, and it is recorded that the druids built enormous pyres and would drive herds of animals between them for cleansing. The fact that it is either Beltane or Samhain when Taliesin is found is in itself demonstrative of the connection each author had to the subject matter. To one author, fire may have been of immense significance to the meaning of the tale, whereas to another it may have been the liminality of Samhain. When we examine the tale, we find the presence of fire throughout. Initially we encounter it as the flames lit beneath the great cauldron. This fire causes the transformation of the water within to boil into steam, and water becomes air because of the action of fire. Earth dissolves into water as the ingredients are transformed by the action of fire. A metaphorical fire is present in the searing heat of the three drops that alight on Gwion’s thumb. Subsequently the fire of all knowing and its sheer power to transform is imbued within the innocent. The simple yeoman’s son travels through land, water, and air because of the action of fire. Fire underpins the entire process.
The subject of the elements is an interesting discourse, for it challenges our own concepts of the elements and how we honour them, but not in a manner that negates their usage. To further explore this idea serves to deepen our relationship with the very real components of Pagan practise. After all, we are not dealing with mere concepts when we call each cardinal power; we are dealing with forces that are awesome and present. To explore them in a manner that challenges our current working practise serves to further our understanding of them and why they are included in our rites to begin with.
Prior to exploring the remaining three elements involved in the chase sequence, it is pertinent to contemplate what has been said concerning fire. This concept may well be new to you; you may find it an interesting discourse that differs from the normal elemental functions in modern Paganism. You may, on the other hand, completely disagree with it. However, take some time to meditate on the ability of fire to cause the transformation of the other three elements.
exercise
“With seven created beings I was placed for purification; I was gleaming fire before I was caused to exist.” These words by Taliesin sing of the mysteries of fire. How do you perceive fire and how do you relate to it? Look to the ball of fire in the sky and feel its heat upon your skin; what causes such a thing to perpetually burn? What understanding do you have of the physical properties of fire? Fire can be a metaphor—it may represent your passion, your vigour and zestfulness. Identify the fire aspects of yourself and how they are presented to the world at large. In Celtic traditions, the “fire in the head” is a common theme whereby the light of spirit shines from the radiant brow to inspire and transform. What is the nature of your own “fire in the head”? How brightly does it shine? Chant the words of Taliesin over and over until the mind is lost in the rapture of fire: “I was gleaming fire before I was caused to exist!”
Earth/Land
Immediately after Gwion ingests Awen and awareness descends upon him, he senses the wrath of Cerridwen and goes forth in the shape of a hare. Cerridwen wilfully changes her form and pursues him. The subsequent chase takes place in the realm of earth, or land. It is within this sequence that the teachings of earth are transmitted to the initiate. He goes forth as one of the Britain’s most enigmatic and symbolic of animals: the hare. The moon gazer (as the hare is lovingly referred to) is the epitome of the divine feminine by means of her association with our satellite.
Traditionally the element of earth is placed in the northern quarter of the Pagan ritual circle and is the embodiment of security, hardness, coldness, darkness, and stability. It is the reign of the Earth Mother and the metaphorical location of the gods and the ancestors. Gwion’s initiation into the mysteries of earth is not restricted to this planet alone but expresses the meaning and teaching of all matter in the entire universe. There is a temptation to consider that this reference to land is related only to our planet and her qualities of nurture and security. But there is a vast universe out there with an infinite amount of planets that also sing of the universe’s secrets. We may not be able to physically see or visit them, but they are there, and their gravitational pull affects our homeworld just as we affect them. Therefore, the message of earth/land during the chase encapsulates the mystery and meaning of the entire physical universe. Gwion Bach eventually transforms into Taliesin, who further elaborates that he has been all things, even the light of distant stars. It is by means of the mystery of earth/land that he receives this omnipresent quality.
When we look to the stars, we are looking at our point of origin; every single molecule of carbon in our bodies was forged in the searing, incomprehensible heat of stars. Nothing is entirely new but rather in a constant state of recycling. Our corporeal forms, our earthly components, are made of the stuff of stars in precisely the same manner as the substance of our planet; we all come from the same place. It is only the arrangement of molecules that causes us to appear different. With this in mind, we are inexorably connected to the earth beneath our feet, for we share the same birth; we have never been separate from it. It is this knowing that deepens our relationship with the globe which we inhabit and causes us to appreciate and understand the significance of origin. We are the impeccable dance of molecules and atoms, forever locked in a galactic embrace until the moment our sun implodes upon itself. Even then, the dance will begin again—a new star will be born, a new stage will spring into being. Nothing is ever lost; it is simply recycled. As each molecule sprang forth and coalesced, life arose from the primordial soup, and we are now its sum totality.
Our relationship with the world can be as superficial or as profound as we choose. For many, it is sufficient to skim the surface and dash through life without even a glance at the magic that surrounds them. To others it is not enough, and to hear the song of spirit compels one to observe through different eyes. The mystery of earth/land and the chase in animal form serves to teach us all these mysteries, the whys and whatnots; it causes new eyes to open to a universe of mystery. Our relationship to this element is complex, for it has two distinct aspects to it. On one hand, we have the universality of earth/land and its presence throughout physicality. On the other, we have the apparent aspect that relates to the element as it directly affects our lives. We move constantly through earth/land, interacting with it, changing it, and being transformed by it. It holds our communities and our homes. Where we are located on the earth serves to identify who we are and the history of our people. Earth/land serves to display the cycle of moon and sun and the unfolding faces of the season; it is the element that causes us to connect to the natural world.
EXERCISE
Ponder on this aspect of the chase: visualise the pursuit of the hare by the hound. What does the landscape look like? How does it appear in your vision? Is it indicative of the landscape you inhabit? What is the song of your land? Consider the aspect of the hare. They differ in relation to rabbits in that they do not burrow beneath the ground, they are fully present in the light of the sun, and they gaze towards the moon at night. What does it mean to be in the form of a hare; what teachings does she relay? Be imaginatively immersed in the chase—feel the pounding of your hind legs against the land, the hot breath of the greyhound behind you. Sense the fear and trepidation and the coursing of survival hormones that flood the bloodstream. Write your experience in your journal.
Consider the land upon which you live. Choose an appropriate day for this walking meditation, then gather your journal and thoughts and embark on a journey into earth. When you move from one location to another, how do you do it? More often than not, you will move by means of an internal automatic pilot. Our lives are busy; we are constantly moving from one place to another, performing chores, our minds preoccupied by duty and purpose. Today, walk consciously. Make every step matter; sense it and the ground upon which you move. How does it appear, and what is its nature? Perhaps you are moving through the suburbs or the countryside, or perhaps you are near water. Are there tall buildings around you? Is your view of the sky impeded?
Sense the ground beneath you and the facets of earth that surround you. Everything that you look at originated from the same place that you did. Listen to the sounds of your landscape as it sings the songs of being. What are their lyrics? What do they tell you of their nature and their interaction with one another? Nothing is truly inanimate; everything is in a constant state of flux and movement. Can you sense this? Do not be a passive observer of your environment; instead, question your relationship with it and how you interact with it. Sense the people who share the landscape with you and how they are the sum totality of the people who went before them.
Challenge your knowledge of your landscape. Jot down the following questions into your journal and attempt to answer them by reflecting on the properties of the land you inhabit:
All these things serve to deepen our relationship; our eyes open to the meaning of earth/land and our connection to it. The chase initiates this perception and the sense of being at one with the element that sustains our physical forms.
Water/Sea
At the culmination of the teachings of earth/land, the initiate becomes weary; the legs leaden and the claws of the hound draw ever closer, the snapping of its powerful jaws like a chill wind against the hind legs. The hare sights a river ahead and is forced towards it. With a final pounding leap, the furred creature takes momentarily to the air before diving into the crystal-clear water. As the surface breaks, the fur vanishes, to be replaced by scales; the initiate goes forth in the form of a fish. Its gills open to hasten the absorption of oxygen from the surrounding water, its heart beats to a different tune, and its auditory senses no longer operate in the same manner. But its heartbeat quickens as it senses the crashing of the hound against water, then the sleek form of an otter appears beneath the river’s surface, its claws ever deadly and its jaws poised in readiness. The chase continues through the realm of water.
It is believed that it is the presence of water that provides the stage for life to develop. To discover water on another planet would indicate the possibility of alien life. Our blue planet is awash with this magical, life-giving element; it causes our skies to be filled with fluid-soaked clouds. It causes the greening of the earth and the nurture of vegetation. Without water, no life would be possible. Within earth we explored the physical molecules that make up the hardness of our bodies, our bones and flesh, yet they constitute only a small percentage of our entirety; water makes up the rest. We are indeed creatures of water. The Celts believed that water affected both the spiritual and physical dimensions, and it is perhaps this belief that gave rise to the numerous healing springs and wells of Britain and Ireland. It was believed that water contained elements of the spirit and hid other worlds beneath its surface. Not only was water an element that encouraged or facilitated healing, it was believed that it could also heal the spirit. Hence shrines and temples were erected near significant stretches of water or at the bending of a river or where fresh and salt water mixed.
The river Severn in the British Isles is perhaps one of the most famous rivers in the islands and is known for being sacred to the goddess Sabrina. Temples to her were built along its course, from its origin in the west of Wales to the current monuments in the Shropshire town of Shrewsbury. In Gloucestershire Sabrina meets the sea, and twice a day the Severn Boar, a gigantic wave of tidal water, courses its way inland, affecting everything in its path. Tutelary deities of rivers and springs are recorded in the current names of many of Britain’s rivers and springs. Where thermal waters erupted from the ground, ornate temples and baths were constructed to benefit from their healing properties and to honour the deities of that place. Every spring, every brook, every stream and river, pond and lake was believed to be the habitat of divine creatures. Our ancestors noted these places to be immensely sacred, especially banks and estuaries where land and water collide. But these rivers were more than simply sites devoted to local deities; they epitomised the well-being of the land and of its tribe. Primarily fertile, the waters were sacred on many levels; they sustained the land and also provided a link to the unseen worlds.
When Gwion Bach enters water, he is admitted into an almost alien world, a place not often explored by man, or at least not for very long. Life down here is incredibly different to that of the land, and the creatures that inhabit it are equally as mysterious and enigmatic. In Celtic tradition, the salmon is traditionally associated with wisdom, which implies that water is a conduit for the transmission of wisdom. In Irish traditions the Salmon of Wisdom is eaten, and it is the act of consuming its flesh that imparts wisdom; however, the British system differs significantly, for it is not a salmon that is found in the weir but a human being. The salmon is the carrier of wisdom, whereas Gwion Bach, who later becomes Taliesin, is the actual personification of wisdom. (More on this in the section devoted to Taliesin.) Water is perceived as a conduit for the transmission and assimilation of wisdom, but this is fraught with another of its attributes: emotion.
In the esoteric arts, water is seen as what represents the emotions; the ebb and flow of our hormones’ impact upon our emotional stability. The waters of our oceans are pulled by the gravitational attraction of the moon, which in turn is believed to influence human emotions. Considering that we are primarily made of water, it stands to reason, esoterically, that we are affected by our satellite. Our emotions mimic the nature of water; they both arise from an unknown, invisible place and they must run their course or risk breaking their banks or, worse, being dammed. The relationship that we have with this invisible world within us teaches us a great deal about the nature of our selves and the nature of the realm of water. Not everything in life is visible or in plain sight, and as students of the mysteries, we gain this teaching from the wisdom of water. Throughout the tale, its presence is constant—the initial components take place on the edge of a vast, deep lake. The cauldron requires water to contain the ingredients for the brewing of Awen. The mysteries are transmitted via water, the drops, into the body of Gwion Bach. The salmon and otter interact with a sacred river before Gwion Bach swims in the amniotic waters of the witch goddess. The newborn child is placed on a river and set adrift for forty years before being discovered in a weir. The waters of our tale are symbolic of the interaction between the land and the element that sustains it and its riches. It is a constant that holds the initiate and causes him to be moved from one experience to another; it facilitates assimilation. The teachings that it transmits are suggestive of the hidden worlds and the effect they have on the apparent world. It is the conduit for the transmission of wisdom and the assimilation of it before its utilisation in the visible world.
EXERCISE
Meditate on the quality of water within your own body. Your blood emulates the action of rivers, irrigating and bringing nourishment to what surrounds it. It holds within it a life force that no microscope can detect, no scientist eviscerate. The ebb and flow of your hormones floods the bloodstream, the rivers and streams of your being, and causes you to affect yourself and the world around you. The water within you acts in the same manner as every other body of water on the face of the earth. Therefore, the elements of mystery contained within it are, by their very nature, contained within you.
The Celts were renowned for their riddles and for their tendency to answer a question with a question. On the surface of things, this can appear a little annoying, but there is much that can be learnt from this process. Contemplation is a vital skill of any student of the mysteries. With this in mind, I ask that you contemplate the following statements made by Gwion Bach after his transformation:
Awen I sing,
From the deep I bring it,
It is a connected river that flows.
I know its might,
I know how it ebbs,
And I know how it flows,
I know of its course,
I know when it will retreat,
I know what creatures there are beneath the sea.101
Taliesin is describing the knowledge of these things; his immersion in water has enabled this knowing. What do you know of the nature of water? Do you go with the flow, or is it only dead fish that go with the flow?
It is one thing to be observant of water and indeed to be immersed within it, but how different is it to “be” water? Taliesin elaborates:
I have been a drop in the air,
I have been a bridge over sixty estuaries,
I have been a coracle on the sea,
I have been the sparkling bubbles in drink,
I have been a raindrop in a shower
And foam in water.
From the ninth wave’s water was I made.102
Repeat the verses above; if possible, memorise them and chant them in a mantralike fashion. If you are able, contemplate the nature of water whilst reciting the verse near a body of water—allow the mind to drift, letting the words flow like rivers from your lips.
The ninth wave is a common motif in Celtic mythology; although its meaning is lost to the mists of time, it carries a certain enigmatic quality that inspires awe to this day. The ninth wave contains within it the magic of the Celts’ most sacred number, three. The number nine—three times three or the square of three—was perceived to be immensely sacred. The ninth wave can be perceived as the mystical border between the worlds; it is the wave that carries the mystery of the sea to the land.
Record your experience in your journal.
Air/Sky
The teachings of water are transmitted and the salmon grows weary; the waters become murky and the brine of the sea stings the gills as it nears the estuary. The otter is relentless, merciless; she continues her pursuit, pushing the initiate ever onwards. As the waters shallow, the salmon is forced upwards, and as its head appears above the surface, a beak takes its place. Feathers appear where once scales were, and a tiny wren emerges from the water’s broken surface. Its small form ascends into the sky; its pure, bright voice calling to the element that holds it. The otter breaks the surface tension of the river and she emerges as a hawk; her cry shatters the air with its piercing call, pushing the little wren onwards and upwards. Cerridwen senses the resentment rising within her yet again, but it is subdued by the mysteries. This is her task: to force the wren onwards into the mystery of air.
The realm of air/sky is perhaps the most ambiguous of the elements, for we are so accustomed to it that we barely pay it any attention. Unlike water, we do not seek to consciously replenish ourselves with air; the process happens naturally. When we need water, we thirst, thereby responding to the call of water within us; it is not often that we encounter situations of suffocation that would make us gasp for air. Our need to breathe is obviously vital, but we tend to give it little thought. Yet the breath has long been associated with the spirit, and this can be seen in the etymology of the word spirit, which is derived from the Latin spiritus, meaning “breath,” which in turn is related to spirare, meaning “to breathe.”103 The breath carries the voice and the voice carries the power of words; magic exists within breath, within the element of air.
Air is the realm of winged creatures, both physical and mystical. Inhabited by birds and insects, the world of air is also believed to be the domain of other elemental creatures and spirits, in particular the Fair Folk. On the physical plane, many birds and insects have long been associated with divinity or as vessels for gods and goddesses. Several archetypes of the British Celtic system are identified with the crow family or with the wren. In the insect world, the bee is particularly associated with the dead for its ability to carry the spirits of the dead across the border into the next world. It is believed that aspects of the spirit are held within the breath and that at the last breath it is set free to continue its journey into mystery.
Air has long been associated with magic, and the raising of the winds was a particularly special skill of the witch. In Britain, the “tying up the wind” spell is as ancient as man’s ability to build sailing vessels. This spell involved the tying of three knots into a piece of string, rope, or cloth. The witch would summon the winds as she tied each knot and use her breath to invoke their powers into the material used. This would then be sold to a sailor who in turn would release the wind tied into the knots, if and when needed. For a moderate wind, one knot would be untied. Two knots untied would summon half a gale, whereas all three would surely call a hurricane. This spell is still used to this day in coastal regions of Britain.
As Gwion Bach, in the form of a wren, takes to the skies, he is immersed in the teachings of that element. As he flies through it, it also courses through him, his heart thumping as it takes the vital gas and sends it to his organs, powering him away from the claws of the hawk. As you course through air, stop and meditate on its qualities. As each breath enters your mouth and descends into your lungs, its encounters the bronchial tree. Incredibly, within our bodies we have a representation of a tree, the most sacred symbol of the British Celts. Albeit upside down, the tree mimics the nature of trees in its processing and exchange of gas. The magical quality of air happens within our bodies every single second of our lives. Each red blood cell holds a molecule of gas in its concavity and sends it to the tissues and organs of your body, thus ensuring your well-being. The powers of air are entirely invisible, yet their effects are more than apparent. A gentle breeze can be a welcome relief on a warm, sunny day. A hurricane may mercilessly kill thousands of innocent lives. Like all the other elements discussed, air acts only according to its nature; it is amoral, it simply serves to be itself.
EXERCISE
Consider the following riddle from the Book of Taliesin. It speaks of something indicative of the element discussed, yet I shall not offer the answer. Meditate on the statements and the message and teaching that it relays.
Guess who it is.
Created before the flood,
A creature strong,
Without flesh, without bone,
No veins, and no blood,
Without head and without feet.
It is not older, nor younger
Than it was in the beginning,
It will not stray from its mission
Through fear nor death.
It has not the needs
That created beings have.
It is in the field, it is in the wood,
With neither hand nor foot,
Without old age or illness.
It is not troubled by affliction.
It is as wide as the face of the earth,
And it was not born,
And cannot be seen,
It is on the sea and on the land,
It sees but is not seen.
It is bad, it is good,
It is there, it is here,
It unarranges and apologises not.
It makes no amends for what it does.
For it is blameless.104
Meditate on the riddle above, but do so in the knowledge that what you read connects you to countless centuries of wisdom and magic. These are not words that have been plucked from air; instead they speak of it in a manner that is as old as the standing stones that decorate the fields.
Record your encounters with air in your journal.
• • •
At the culmination of the chase, Gwion Bach is forced by the relentless hawk to descend into a farmer’s yard and assume the form of a grain of wheat. Here he becomes, in essence, the symbol of life itself: the humble seed. Cerridwen, in her form as the hen, maintains her role as initiator; sensing the journey’s end, she pecks at the grain until she consumes the initiate. Instead of certain death, Gwion Bach is mysteriously transferred from the belly of the hen into the womb of the witch goddess, whose fury returns upon the assumption of her human form. Within the form of various animals, it seems that Cerridwen is able to temporarily switch off her vengeance and accept that the chase is part of a mystery that even she may not entirely understand. Yet within her human form, her anger returns to the forefront of her mind: within her womb is the subject of her wrath, and she is still intent on killing him.
Gwion Bach now finds himself in different waters, the womb waters of the mother. This process is necessary for the assimilation of the previous experience. For it to be fully incorporated into the mind and spirit, a period of isolation and absorption must take place. The initiate must retreat in order to make sense of what has happened and to become one with the knowledge and wisdom that he or she has received. With any course of study there must always follow a period of reflection and revision, but there are obvious questions that warrant asking. Primarily: if Gwion is in possession of the Prophetic Spirit and is indeed the vessel for all the knowledge and wisdom of the universe, why does he not prevent the chase from ever taking place? Surely he has the ability to transport himself to the furthest reaches of the galaxy or to another realm entirely? With his newfound abilities and powers, Cerridwen would surely be unable to follow him. With a similar question in mind, one would imagine that for a witch as learned and skilled as Cerridwen, she could prevent the transfer of the grain into her womb. With her magical prowess, one would imagine this task to be easily achievable. There must be a reason why these alternatives do not take place. It seems that Gwion must pass through a triple birth to be in effective possession of the Prophetic Spirit and be reborn as Taliesin. First he is born of his ordinary mother in a small Welsh village, secondly he is born to the witch goddess Cerridwen, and finally he is birthed, almost by means of a caesarean section, from the coracle, or skin-belly. On some level both the initiate, Gwion, and the initiator, Cerridwen, are aware of this. The old life of Gwion Bach, including his features and personality, is destroyed in the womb of the great mother; for all intents and purposes, he is killed. It is his spirit that is transferred into the foetus that Cerridwen carries. It is at this point that our exploration of Gwion Bach comes to its natural end, but we have explored much. We have established that Gwion has a supernatural element to him, that his birth and life are not as clean-cut and transparent as we may have initially thought. We discovered the nature of what nourishes and also poisons, and that learning and assimilation are imperative to transformation. We have also established that Gwion Bach, in essence, represents you—you are the hero of your quest, and Gwion’s tale serves as a template that guides you into the understanding of mystery.
EXERCISE
Gwion’s initiation is silent; he does not protest nor raise his voice in objection. For the duration of the chase he is silenced by being in animal form. He is silent in the womb, and only when he is reborn does he begin to speak. But one could argue that this is no longer Gwion Bach. An exercise into the nature of Gwion Bach is, in a manner, counterproductive, for the act of immersion in the tale and assuming Gwion is the exercise. But there are methods that our ancestors used to prepare themselves to be in receipt of Awen.
It was common for the Celts to retreat into dark cells for long periods of contemplation, where light was not permitted entry. Within the darkness they would meditate on questions that required answers or clarity. After several hours or days, they would emerge into the sunlight, at which point Awen would fill them with wisdom and the answers would spill forth. In a similar fashion, take yourself to a room or space that can be entirely darkened to prevent any admission of light. Ensure that you will not be disturbed, and remain there for a lengthy duration of time. Watch your thoughts as your mind projects images onto the walls of darkness. Immerse yourself in the nothingness, and relish in the sheer potential of the unmanifest.
Memorise and meditate on the following questions:
The goal here is to lose the restraints of your mind by being deprived of the sense of sight; this, in turn, will affect your other senses. Some may be heightened, others dampened. Remain in the darkness until you feel it is time to leave. Walk out into light and record your experience in your journal.
88. Ford, The Mabinogi and Other Medieval Welsh Tales, 21.
89. Williams, Chwedl Taliesin.
90. Hamp, “Varia II,” 149–154.
91. Matthews, Taliesin, 21.
92. Ibid.
93. Hamp, “Varia II,” 153.
94. Peniarth MS 111, Hanes Taliesin.
95. “Kadeir Kerritwen,” The Book of Taliesin.
96. “Prif Gyuarch Geluyd,” the Book of Taliesin (my translation).
97. Matthews, Mabon and the Guardians of Celtic Britain, 141.
98. Davies, Mythology and Rites of the British Druids, 236.
99. Graves, The White Goddess, 400.
100. Markale, The Druids, 152.
101. Extract from the poem “Angar Kyfundawt” in the Book of Taliesin (my translation).
102. Adapted from the poem “Kad Godeu” in the Book of Taliesin (my translation).
103. Chambers Dictionary of Etymology.
104. Adapted from the poem “Kanu y Gwynt” from the Book of Taliesin (my translation).