Heroes: Hild of Whitby

Hild of Whitby is going to be, in a way, the most difficult of my heroes to talk about. That's because she lived in the 7th century AD, and only one story about her, plus a handful of references, survive. The rest is conjecture, a superstructure built out of literary archeology and some actual archeology. To get to know her is to dive into a world where the boundaries between myth and history are porous and rarely clearly defined.

Hild came to me, or I came to Hild, however you want to look at it, via Bede's story of Caedmon. This is the one story where Hild is a main character, though her role in other stories and historical moments can be imagined. So, we might as well get it out there right now. Bede's story of Caedmon exists in several medieval manuscripts (somewhat unusual) and there is both a Latin and an Anglo-Saxon version, which are similar but not the same. Here are both versions (and a Modern English translation for your reading convenience!)

Bede's Story of Caedmon
http://www.heorot.dk/bede-caedmon-i.html
on Ben Slade's Beowulf on Steorarume website

If your read one or both the versions of that story, then you'll know 90% of what anybody knows about Hild or Caedmon. Scholars of various things - Anglo-Saxon, folklore, Irish history, women's history, archeology etc. - have tried to understand this story better by looking at it with reference to various other things: words and tropes that exist in the story and in other texts, myths about dream/creation, similarities between Caedmon's experience and that of Irish or Welsh poets; other women in medieval history, the physical culture of Whitby as revealed by the artefacts unearthed there (the last approach was taken up by yours truly in my joyous student days).

Bede's story of Caedmon has become one of my myths, meaning one of the stories I carry with me as talisman, power story, creation hymn. And this is how I will talk about it. I have studied it and absorbed a fair amount of the knowledge and bibliography surrounding it, but it is not primarily information that I will share now. The information and bibliography is out there for anyone who is curious about the story: Anglo-Saxon scholars today are as dedicated as the medieval scribes of old to preserving and sharing their texts of study and their scholarship. (And they are a very witty and intelligent community of people.) But I will talk about what Caedmon and Hild have become to me.

I first encountered Caedmon as a child. I read any book that got in my way when I was young. (Not much has changed.) I particularly liked history books, when they were written in an engaging way with lots of pictures, and one favourite was a nice fat book with stories from the history of Britain. It was picked up at the big annual library discard sale (a yearly ritual where my family would line up for an hour or so for a chance to go into a warehouse and pick up books by the box load, for a few dollars). It has detailed engravings and a few awesome colour plates which I can still recall as if I saw them ten minutes ago, even though I haven't looked inside that book for years. Like all of my favourite books, I read it over and over and over and over. I encountered the story again, much later, as a university student in my Old English course. This time I got to read it in the original Anglo-Saxon. Putting together the story word by word, phrase by phrase, seeing it again through adult eyes, was as much or more of a discovery than reading it for the first time as a child.

Both as a child and an adult, I found I could easily identify with the hero, Caedmon. He wanted to participate in the song circle but ended up on the side lines, listening to others, too shy or awkward to do his turn when the harp came around to him. He must have been considered quite boring by his fellow cowherds and pub-bench wits. I was another person who was labeled "shy" or "quiet" because I didn't speak up a lot in groups. However, quiet people are often not quiet at all: inside they may carry companies of voices, troupes of dancers, whole orchestras and choirs of music. To sit and listen is no passive act for quiet people of this sort: not much gets by them. It is never "in one ear and out the other." To be alone is not to be isolated or sad, but to be fully with oneself, imagining out an opus, a community of spirit; it is to feel more "together" than it is possible to be with the clacking crowd. Now that I've become literate in my own way of being, I would laugh at anyone who called me "quiet" (it rarely happens anymore). I would say "You aren't listening on the right frequency." Listening on the right frequency is a skill that is well worth practicing: I have known many "quiet people" who shock your socks off by suddenly revealing the garden within them, whether it's with photography, writing, artwork, conversation, music, or something else.

But people who are quiet in this way also long deeply for something else: for a real-life community of people who will bring out what they really are, who will encourage and allow that inner symphony to emerge. They are not lonely when they are by themselves, exactly, but they are lonely for that community of people. And for many it is very very hard to figure out where to find it. It is common to search for years not knowing exactly what one is looking for, or to look for the wrong thing, or look in the wrong place. Or perhaps, to give up and not bother to look at all, thinking that it is one's doom to always be alone, to even start to believe one's gifts or deep desires doom one to be alone. This is completely untrue, because those gifts are the very thing that should lead one to one's community, but the world is full of detours and charlatans and distractions and wastes-of-time and liars and it is not surprising that many people feel exactly that way.

I've been through all of those phases, more or less. I never gave in to the more destructive of the distractions: i.e. drugs, alcohol, or some other sort of detour from reality. Part of the reason why I was never particularly tempted to do so, however, has to be because I "knew" people like Caedmon from an early age. Caedmon hasn't found his real community at the beginning of the story. Scholars have speculated, because of his name and the manner in which his poem came to him, that he was a sort of cultural minority: a Brythonic man whose culture was in the process of being overwhelmed by Anglo-Saxon settlers and invaders. His shyness and inability to recite a poem or tell a story when the harp came to him may have been in part because he was unfamiliar with the Anglo-Saxon language, or lacked confidence. He may have had cultural reasons for not feeling like he "belonged." Or maybe it was just the way he was. There are always people like that. But there is more to the story.

Caedmon didn't give up. He kept going to the mead-hall to listen and learn, even though he knew that he would be laughed at when he couldn't participate like the others, that he would go away and hide by himself in the end, with who-knows-what desire and chorus of voices rising up in him, wanting out, wanting to say...what? When one is trying in this way, it can feel like time is slowing down, like things are getting interminably harder, like the whole world outside is pressing down, while the whole world inside is pressing up, and you only stay standing because you don't know which way to collapse. Somewhere, something is going to give. Trying is all very well, but this kind of trying makes you feel more than a little insane. And yet, you have to reach this point, the point where your own strength is simply not enough anymore. It's only then that you can feel and appreciate the strength of the something else.

And this is where the central mystery of the story is, and where Hild is too. As to the mystery, I can only tell it just the way it happens and just the way it is, because one could speculate and analyze it forever, but in the end it would still be a mystery, and that is entirely appropriate. After leaving the meadhall one...more...time, Caemon goes to the stable where his animals are and falls asleep. There he dreams a dream, and a "man" comes to him.

"Caedmon, sing me something," the man says.

Then he answered and said: "I do not know how to sing and for that reason I went out from this feast and went hither, because I did not know how to sing at all."

Again he said, he who was speaking with him: 'Nevertheless, you must sing.' ( 'Hwæðre þu meaht singan.')

Then he said: 'What must I sing?'

Said he: 'Sing to me of the first Creation.' When he received this answer, then he began immediately to sing in praise of God the Creator verses and words which he had never heard, whose order is this....

At that point the Anglo-Saxon version of the text includes the poem that Caedmon sang in his dream, and that he also remembered when he woke up (!).

I find these lines of dialogue delightful and hilarious, in the sense that they make me want to laugh with joy. I recognize Caedmon the shy cowherd, and I also recognize this man in the dream. This "man" has come to me in many shapes, sometimes as a human teacher or friend, sometimes through a song or book that arrived in my life at just the right miraculous moment, sometimes through a dream (yes) or as a beam of light through a crack in the wall that I never knew was there, at all. And it goes just like that: "I can't." "Nevertheless you must." "But what and how?" "This way."

For a person who creates, the most important thing he or she must learn is to listen, without question, to that voice that says "Now" and "Nevertheless you must" and "This way." And it always struck me as so intuitively right that the first song Caedmon sings is about the creation of the world, because he himself has been touched with the gift of creation.

After his miraculous dream, Caedmon goes on to speak his poem to others. He knows he has been given something real or true, and now there is no hesitation or shyness in his manner. He is not afraid of those with power. He goes straight to the town alderman, who sends him to Hild, the abbess. Hild assembles the most learned men, and Caedmon recites his poetry to them, too. No cringing, no running away now. They listen (another kind of miracle, but we'll get to that one) and Hild and her scholars declare that his gift is from God, and that from now on he will make poems in service to the abby. Caedmon has found his true community, the people who will nurture his gift, bring it out, give it the respect it deserves. He has arrived.

But then there's the other half of the story, and the other half is this: How there was a community for Caedmon to go to in the first place. And here now is Hild.

It took me a while to find my real community(ies) and the search is never over. But I believe that when you really try to do something worthwhile or find where you belong, that there are hints or markers showing the right way to go. Those hints are markers are put there by the people who are trying to find you, whether you know it or not. Even if you are trying in a confused way or seem to be just going in circles, the markers are there just the same. For example, I discovered quite soon that where I find one thing or person who is good, there are other good things and people as well. Good things do not exist in isolation; they are connected to each other in a kind of complex network, and the task is to find the threads that connect them to each other.

I have been lucky to find those kind of networks many times in my life. When was in my late teens/early 20s, I started talking to people in the online Celtic music network. There I found individuals who not only knew interesting things about Celtic music, but who had understanding and sympathy toward my way of seeing the world, who even helped me develop some of the job skills that led to me getting my first breaks in the adult world. I would never have guessed I would find them that way. It was astonishing what strangers were willing to do to help me out, and how quickly they became friends and allies. Some years later, when I started playing music in a community band, I was deeply touched by the music teachers who led the group. At that point in life I'd had some good teaching experiences, but some awful ones too, and although my self-confidence had started to recover, it was still pretty shaky. I didn't apply to any teaching jobs when I came back from Europe, nor would I even consider subsitute teaching. I was wary of schools in general and cringed a little when learned our music class was going to be in a public school. Again, what I found in our beginner music group was something I would never have guessed at. Our directors showed such love of music and people in all their interactions with us. They slowly helped convince me that teaching could be a tolerable and honourable undertaking. It was a huge part of what gave me the courage to get in front of a class again. Even with my self-imposed silence (it took months before I would admit to anyone in that group I was a teacher, and that was no coincidence, trust me) somehow, I was discovered, to myself and others. Again.

I see Hild in the story of Caedmon as one of the people who sets out the markers showing the way, who welcomes people 'home.' The evidence in Bede suggests that she was a very gifted teacher and administrator. She might have been married in early life; nobody knows. But fairly late in life by the standards of the time - she was 33 - she began founding houses of nuns and later, the double monastery at Whitby. She must also have been a very warm and approachable person; Bede says that everyone called her "Mother." Hild's astuteness is shown when she immediately recognizes Caedmon's gift. She herself was the daughter of a king, and well educated; she would not have had much in common with an illiterate cow-herd who may even have been of a different culture than her. But she immediately could see that something very special had happened to Caedmon, and that their futures would be intertwined. Without Hild, there would be no miracle of Caedmon; he would never have been heard of.

So even though I identify with the Caedmon of this story, over the years I've identified more and more with Hild, too, because they are linked in essential ways. In her I see all the people who have welcomed me, and shown me the way, and in her I see something of what I hope to be for others, too.

Heroes: Seamus Heaney

I first came across Seamus Heaney in my second year university literature text book. I think the first thing that caught my eye was his name. The Irish-ness of it was exotic to me, a student who at that time had only traveled via books and imagination. Then the poem, "Punishment", had slightly lurid content. Nothing like a little luridness for getting a student's attention. (Seamus Heaney is actually significantly less lurid by comparsion than many contemporary poets.) But what caught me for good was Seamus Heaney's voice. He is keenly observant, almost scientific in his precise description of things. But at the same time, he maintains a very present, personal tone.

Punishment
I can feel the tug
of the halter at the nape
of her neck, the wind
on her naked front.

It blows her nipples
to amber beads,
it shakes the frail rigging
of her ribs.

I can see her drowned
body in the bog,
the weighing stone,
the floating rods and boughs.

Under which at first
she was a barked sapling
that is dug up
oak-bone, brain-firkin:

her shaved head
like a stubble of black corn
her blindfold a soiled bandage,
her noose a ring

to store
the memories of love
Little adulteress,
before they punished you

you were flaxen-haired,
undernourished, and your
tar-black face was beautiful.
My poor scapegoat,

I almost love you
but would have cast, I know
the stones of silence.
I am the artful voyeur

of your brain's exposed
and darkened combs,
your muscles' webbing
and all your numbered bones:

I who have stood dumb
when your betraying sisters,
cauled in tar,
wept by the railings,

who would connive
in civilized outrage
yet understand the exact
and tribal, intimate revenge.
******
In the poem the "betraying sisters" are Catholic girls who were publicly humiliated by the IRA for dating British soldiers. There were basically tarred and feathered and handcuffed to street railings. Heaney begins by observing the body of the Bronze age "adulteress," and feels pity for the brutal tribal revenge enacted on her for her crime. But then he also notices and comments on his own hypocrisy: he shouldn't act all superior and horrified about the customs of the ancient tribes, because he has witnessed a similar act in his own time, and was complicit in it.

Some people have read this poem as if it is normalizing brutality toward women, but I think that reading is missing the tone of the poem. I hear the poem as self-accusation, in a way: a recongnition that living in an advanced technological civilization hasn't made people's tribal and violent natures disappear. While the poem doesn't outright condemn that events that it describes, the speaker's recognition of what is inside him is somehow more powerful than an outright condemnation would be.

"Punishment" has a lot of the typical qualities of Heaney's poetry: using the past as a lens through which to understand the present; the use of excavation or "digging down" as a metaphor for the search for knowledge or insight; the careful observation and interpretation, or re-interpretation, of artefacts. Sometimes these artifacts are ancient artefacts like the bog bodies, or pieces of Viking carving, or bits of Old English or Latin poetry, but sometimes they are everyday objects:

A Kite for Michael and Christopher

All through that Sunday afternoon
A kite flew above Sunday,
a tightened drumhead, an armful of blow chaff.

I'd seen it grey and slippy in the making,
I'd tapped it when it dried out white and stiff,
I'd tied the bows of the newspaper
along its six-foot tail.

But now it was far up like a small black lark
and now it dragged as if the bellied string
were a wet rope hauled upon
to life a shoal.

My friend says that the human soul
is about the weight of a snipe
yet the soul at anchor there,
the string that sags and ascends,
weigh like a furrow assumed into the heavens.

Before the kite plunges down into the wood
and this line goes useless
take in your two hands, boys, and feel
the strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief.
You were born fit for it.
Stand here in front of me
and take the strain.

************************
People often tell me that poetry is difficult and complicated and contains meanings that are always hidden for some reason, perhaps because of the malice or madness of the writer. I say: a poem is not like a messy closet where a few useful objects are hidden beneath piles and piles of junk that must be sorted through before anything of worth is discovered. Lots of things in life are exactly like that, but not poetry. A poem is like one of those reusable shopping bags that folds into a space as small as your fist, but can be unfolded to become a tote-bag that carries twenty times its mass. A poem does not take long. A poem weighs very little. You can tuck it into your handbag or pocket, and go about your business without even knowing it's there. No heavy book to haul around. No big expectations to harrow your mind. No nattering person at your ear trying to convince your of this or that or the other thing. When you need the poem, or your little shopping bag, you pull it out and poof! it expands into another form, makes itself ready for what you need at the moment. The real beauty of poetry is it's simplicity, compactness and praticality.

"A Kite for Michael and Christopher," one of my favourite poems ever, is a poem just like that. It is a simple poem: it's about Heaney making a kite with his two sons, Michael and Christopher. He describes the kite in detail, and how they go out on a Sunday afternoon and fly it. Then in stanza four the poem unfurls into a big bag, the kind that carries all sorts of meaning.

The kite becomes a metaphor of the soul. The soul tries to ascend, but is held onto by the person on the other end of the string. Heaney describes this in a variety of ways: flying the kite is plowing a field, it's like trying to pull up an anchor that is caught in a shoal. The feeling is labourous: keeping the soul up in the air, while not letting it fly completely away, is intense work.

In the last stanza Heaney, having apparently got the kite into the air, hands the line to his two boys.

Before the kite plunges down into the wood
and this line goes useless
take in your two hands, boys, and feel
the strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief.
You were born fit for it.
Stand here in front of me
and take the strain.

Presumably when the kite plunges into the wood, then life will be over. In the meantime, hanging onto it, living life with your soul in the air, is one's life work. "Feel / the strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief." Whose grief that is is not totally clear. Perhaps it is the soul's grief: the soul wants to fly higher and higher into the sky, but can only go so far because it is attached to a mortal. Or perhaps it is through grief, the inevitable grief that comes from living, that one begins to feel the presence of the soul. Probably there's something of both meanings in it. The lesson that Heaney passes onto his children is: Don't be afraid of grief. Grief will come, but in the end its presence means you are alive. It means that as a human you strive to reach into the heavens. And you are strong enough to take the pain with the beauty. Indeed, grief is almost a beautiful thing in the poem: "strumming, rooted, long-tailed." It is like the music of a harp, like a firmly rooted tree, like a long-tailed kite flying in the wind. And we can "take the strain:" by holding on to the soul, accepting the grief, we can live fully.

I see this poem as a twin to a "Old Smoothing Iron," a section from "Shelf Life," which again looks at every day artefacts and tells a story about each one. This one, I believe, is about Heaney's mother.

2 Old Smoothing Iron

Often I watched her lift it
from where its compact wedge
rode the back of the stove
like a tug at achor.

To test its heat by ear
she spat in its iron face
or held it up next her cheek
to divine the stored danger.

Soft thumps on the ironing board.
Her dimpled angled elbow
and intent stoop
as she aimed the smoothing iron

like a plane into linen
like the resentment of women
To work, her dumb lunge says,
is to move a certain mass

through a certain distance,
is to pull your weight and feel
exact and equal to it.
Feel dragged upon. And buoyant.

*******

Labour is another theme that comes up in Heaney's poetry, especially physical labour. This poem plays upon the scientific definition of work: to move an object of a certain mass through a certain distance. The work described is not work involving a lot of education or intellectualism, and yet the poem suggests that satisfaction comes from "pulling your weight" and feeling exact and equal to the thing being moved. Whatever the particular task, there's pleasure in feeling equal to it and seeing your actions move something in the world. Even if one's job is not always utterly fascinating, even if there are some dull, repetitive moments, there's a reward in seeing something moved or transformed by one's efforts, however big or small.

Poetry like this is the reason that I often turn to Seamus Heaney as a restorative, or when I need a clear voice to drown out the babble around me. They are the sort of poems that you want to memorize and carry around like a gift, like a piece of life-saving luggage that is as big as a sunset but doesn't weigh even a gram.

As a student, Seamus Heaney also spoke to me because we shared, in a way, a journey into the English language. When he wrote about reading and translating Anglo-Saxon (Old English), the words rang true for me:

Bone-house:
a skeleton
in the tongue's
old dungeons.

I push back
through dictions
Elizabethan canopies.
Norman devices,

the erotic Mayflowers
of Provence
and the ivied Latins
of churchmen

to the scop's
twang, the iron
flash of consonants
cleaving the line.

What Heaney describes here is a journey back through the English language, passing through the stages of Elizabethan (Shakespearean) English, past the influence of the Normans (Middle English) and Latin, back to the Anglo-Saxon roots, to a language that is almost more recognizable to German speakers than modern English speakers. A scop was an Anglo-Saxon poet; the "iron flash of consonants cleaving the line" was the way that scops used alliterative sounds (which is unfortunately rather hard to render in Modern English; but I'll keep my eye out if I find a good example.)

In the coffered
riches of grammar
and declensions
I found ban hus,

its fire, benches,
wattel and rafters,
where the soul
fluttered for a while

in the roofspace.
There was a small crock
for the brain,
and a cauldron

of generation
swung at the centre:
love-den, blood-holt,
dream-bower.

IV

Come back past
philology and kennings,
re-enter memory
where the bone's lair

is a love-next
in the grass.
I hold my lady's head
like a crystal

and ossify myself
by gazing: I am screes
on her escarpments,
a chalk giant

carved upon her downs.
Soon my hands, on the sunken
fosse of her spine
move toward the passes.

********

This is incantatory writing; it takes you to a world-between-worlds, as Clarissa Estes would call it. "In the coffered riches of grammar / and declensions / I found ban hus": It might seem odd to think of the study of grammar being liberating; one might think of soaring eagles, floating clouds, or Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto Number 1 as liberating, but not grammar, for goodness' sake. But in Heaney's poetry, it's digging down into the darkness, feeling the the weight of the bone, doing the hard labour that liberates.

And indeed, I experienced this too. Struggling to understand and form Old English grammar freed me and excited my poetic voice, in a way that nothing had previously. There is something about Old English that feels like handling clay, that feels like touching the very bricks and mortar of language itself. I felt the same way when I began learning music: the endless exercises and scales were the opposite of boring, even if I wasn't making music quite yet. It was engendering, astonishing, cosmic, unbelievable except for being more real than anything I could imagine: I was touching the essence of a thing, and its power was coming to me.

Seamus Heaney is interested in the past, but he doesn't write about the past per se, nor is his writing anachronistic. Instead it seems to exist in a place where past and present are equally in the moment.

Child on the way, it won't be long until
You land among us. Your mother's showing signs,
Out for her sunset walk among the big bales.
Planet earth like a teething ring suspended
Hangs by its world-chain. Your pram waits in the corner.
Cows are let out. They're sluicing the milk-house door.

This segment from "Bann Valley Eclogues" has one of my favourite lines ever: "Planet Earth like a teething ring hangs by its world-chain." "World-Chain" is a kenning: an Anglo-Saxon construction that is part metaphor, part riddle. If the Anglo-Saxons knew anything about gravity they might have described it so. But the image of planet earth dangling in space, fragile, beautiful, new, is not an image that any Anglo-Saxon scop would have ever come up with. Only someone of the 20th century, who has seen pictures of Earth as viewed from space, would think of that one. In that one line, the ancient past and present come together in a moment.

In Heaney's poetry one is often aware of the here and the there, and the tension between them. But the tension is not, or not always, the kind that pulls things apart, that is anxious or uncomfortable. Rather, it is like the tension of a violin string: without it, the string would not be in tune, no music would be possible. Perhaps this is another reason I identify with Heaney: I am a naturally "high strung" person, easily brought to a state of tension, who lives about equally in both the "outer" world and the "inner" one. Such a way of being can lead to a lot of anxiety, of wondering where one is, who one is, how it all fits together, how things can ever be unified. But if I switch my thinking, think of tension as something that can be finely tuned, managed, engineered, it becomes something quite different.

Steady under strain and strong through tension
Its feet on both sides but in neither camp
It stands its ground, a span of pure attention
A holding action, the arches and ramp
Steady under strain and strong through tension.

Reading through Seamus Heaney's poetry again, I enjoyed some old favourites, and noticed other poems that I hadn't before. Like all good books, they are a slightly different journey each time. Some poems seemed more personal to me, others seemed more resonant with meanings that I hadn't found the first time. The other part of Seamus Heaney's writing that I enjoy deeply is his writing on other writers. But that's a whole other topic. Finders Keepers, Heaney's collection of essays on other poems who have been significant or inspiring, is one of my most treasured books.

There's not a lot of his prose online, but his Nobel Acceptance speech can be read here, if you would like more of Heaney in his own words.

Heroes: Dr. Estes

The other day I was talking to a good friend about dreams, and Clarissa Pinkola Estes came up. When I was 17 I was wandering through a bookstore for no particular reason, as I did quite often back then. On impulse, I pulled off the shelf a book called Women Who Run with the Wolves. * A glance at the cover, a look at the chapter titles, a perusal of the first chapter - I no longer remember what the exact reason was - but something made me decide with no hesitation to buy it, right then and there.

* Each link in this entry points to a different website with information on the book.

By the time I walked out of the store, I was so captivated by this book that I walked home with it open in front of me, reading. I don't think I've ever done that with a book before or since, not even later in university when delving into books was my full-time occupation.

Dr. Estes is a story-teller ("cantadora" in Mexican), Jungian psychoanalyst, poet, therapist, and more than anything a woman with an unnervingly accurate reading of my own spiritual reality. Women Who Run with the Wolves has sold more than a million copies so clearly there are others who get a similarly good shake-out from her.

For a good four or five years after I bought the book, I read and re-read Women Who Run with the Wolves regularly, in whole or in part. It was my go-to book if I ever felt too tired, discouraged, stressed, frustrated, creatively dry, or whatever, which were things I felt quite often in my late teens/early twenties. (It was great to be that age, in many ways, but I wouldn't choose to live it over again, or be twenty-one forever, that's for sure. The belief that I will age gracefully and calm the hell down has always been the hope of my life.) I would never have lent Women Who Run with the Wolves to anyone or put it anywhere where it could not be picked up at a moment's notice.

It was only after graduating with my first degree (at age 22) that I began to feel like I was outgrowing Estes, a little. It was a natural process. I encountered Seamus Heaney, St. Augustine, and Thomas Carlyle, among others, and I also felt a deep recognition of their voices. I became one of the many people who reads Old English (Anglo-Saxon) literature and feels like an explorer discovering an ancient, lost continent, but one that is at the same time marvelously new. But every reading of a great book can be like that. In my case, learning the grammar of a dead language was one of the most liberating things I had ever done. (Life is not necessarily what you expect.)

So, I stopped reading WWRWTW so often, though I know it remains in my mind. Once I became a bit more knowledgeable of who I am, I could accept that other writers than Estes could also reach me on a similar deep level. Still, she was probably the first writer I encountered as semi-mature person who helped me to see that there is a community of like minds "out there," who gave me the courage to look for them and keep looking. Many of Estes' quotes are never far from mind. "An artist is an artist from the moment she picks up the brush. A runner is a runner from the moment she laces her shoes." My friend Knate gave me the same idea in six succinct words: "You are what you are becoming." The perfectionist in me needs to hear that, so I don't tear my work to pieces before it is begun.

Anyway, after the brief conversation with my friend, I decided to read Women Who Run With the Wolves again, just for the heck of it. And it's still a great read. It's still a book I would recommend.

This being the age of the internet, I decided to see what I could learn about Dr. Estes now. Google wasn't around when I first read WWRWTW. I discovered she's still doing lots of good work around the U.S.A as a trauma therapist, among other things, and encountered a few intelligent blog entries about current events. Of course everybody is blogging these days, but Dr. Estes is the kind who takes the time to discuss the background, share some knowledge, and really explain her point of view, instead of just spouting off. Always appreciated.

I also discovered this link, which is a closing address to the 2004 Call to Action conference (CTA is a movement within the Catholic church that works for "equality and justice in the Church and society. ") I make no endorsement of Dr. Estes political or religious views as such; I don't know enough about the CTA to say much about it either way. I did enjoy this account because I learned about the life of a woman whose writing has connected very deeply with me. Her story is one of those you can sense before you read the details of her life, because she has distilled experience into her craft. But it's also interesting to learn some of the details, and I gain more respect for her as a person after reading her personal story. And I love the energy of belief and spirit that comes through in her account of herself. She is a fighter, a woman who has been through some dark times but is not afraid to hold up a light, however small, to show a way to others.

So I share. And it gives me an idea for this blog, too. I've not been inspired with any subjects lately. I'm going to do a series on my heroes, and try to find an article or a poem or essay or a piece of music by them that really illuminates who they are. I could also call the female heroes (of which there are many) "heroines," but "heroine" has a rather brittle sound to my ears. I think I would rather call them "girly heroes." :-)

Anyway, we'll call Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes the first of the series, which chronologically, she basically is. Here she is in her own words, talking about herself.

The Church Beneath the Church.

When we walked to church with my grandmother and were in view of the church, she would often say, “See that church?” “Yes, we see that church,” we would say. “That’s not our church,” she would say. “Yes it is, grandma, that’s our church.” “No, no. Our Church is beneath that church. We don’t belong to that brick church. We belong to the Church underneath that church.” (more)

New bright shiny thing

So, today I drove down to St. John's Music and forked over the cash for my very own, very shiny, very sweet euphonium.

It wasn't an impulse purchase; I've had in mind to buy one this spring for quite a while, and I seriously started the research process about a month ago. I read every opinion I could find on the internet, whether rational, passionate, prejudiced, professional or amateur; perused a few websites, and went on a couple of excusions with Christy to music stores where we played around with various instruments. Out of the confusion I came to some understanding of what I wanted. I ended up playing it safe; same brand and model that I've been renting (Yamaha YEP 321: 4-valve, non-compensating).

I bought it new, so that there would be no hidden issues, and from a local vendor, so that I have somewhere to take it for repairs if it's necessary. I may have been able to get a better deal money-wise if I went with a used instrument or an internet vendor, but I'm not enough of a risk taker for that. And I don't begrudge the money at all if I'm reasonably sure I'm getting something I'll enjoy for many years.

Most importantly....I have my own instrument, and I never, ever have to give it away again! I can play it for the rest of my life, barring some diasaster or a serious lapse of sanity that prevents me from playing. Both are possible, but rap wood that they don't happen.

And yes...."she" has a name: Laura Cecily. AKA Baby Laura. Her name has an etymology, of course:

Laura was the name of my first best friend as a child; or at least, she was the first best friend that I really needed. She also had a personality very much like that of the euphonium: mellow, gentle, dependable, solid. Quite different from the tempermental nature of something like a flute, which can go to all kinds of extremes. Laura is also a euphonic-sounding name, all soft vowels and consonants. Plus the name Laura has a lot of positive associations, from Little House on the Prairie to Laura Secord chocolates. I haven't yet met a jerk or a brat called Laura.

Cecily is the diminuitive of Cecilia, who is the patron saint of music. (She wasn't a musician, but sang a song before she died, and that did the trick.) The only other Cecilia I know was a professor of mine, who played a fairly important role in my life during a difficult time. Interestingly, she was also a music teacher, though that had no signicance for me then. Cecilia/Cecily are also names I like. I go with the diminutive form because euphoniums are small and cute. (Most people think they are big and heavy, but they don't understand. You have to hold one: they are about the size and weight of a one-year-old.)

So much for name origins. Just in case you think Laura Cecily is just another materialistic purchase, I assure you she is not. This particular purchase is significant for me for many reasons, some of which scare me a little, but all of which I'm willing to embrace.

First of all, Baby Laura the euphonium is a fairly big investment money-wise, which means I'm committed to making music part of my life for many years. No protest there. I've been waiting a long time to have a rich cultural life; I just didn't know how to make it happen. I believed for many years that I could never be truly happy outside of Nova Scotia, where music and dancing permeate the very air you breathe. Learning an instrument, being part of a band, and attached to a community of like-minded people has slowly changed my mind on that accord. It's not, by itself, enough reason to stay here, but it's removed what was a large part of the reason to leave.

Laura Cecily cost about as much as a nice vacation, including plane tickets to some distant locale. That's OK too. I love to travel, and I want to again in a few years, but music can take me to places that even a plane ticket can't. My journeys will happen through imagination and the absorption of culture. I know that when I do travel again, my mind and soul will be more open than before.

Secondly, despite being quite portable (she doesn't require a forklift or anything) Laura Cecily is a pretty heavy, solid instrument. She's not a fiddle or a banjo or a guitar or a whistle or any of the instruments a gypsy would carry from town to town to play on the street corner. Moreover, although I love playing it by myself, the euphonium and me came together in a social setting - a band - and that's where we fit in best. Bands are elaborate social projects that require much time, skill, committment, and community-building. In other words they are part of a settled, civilized life that has always somewhat eluded me. That's probably the scariest part of this: the real milestone. I've just committed myself to that kind of a life, being a part of the community, making sure I have the time, money, and leisure to pursue this endeavour. Again, it's a welcome change. But the lack of this settled life, the longing for it, the vague but irresistable desire to do something, anything that would lead me to it - all this has caused a current of existential anxiety and muffled pain that's run through most of my adult life. Suddenly facing up to these feelings makes me feel a little dizzy. Can I really? Is the time now?

*slams the book shut*

So yes, I have a new bright shiny thing. I already love its voice. Maybe it's because it's clean, maybe it's because it's new, but I'm sure my higher range in particular sounds way better. I can't wait to wander through more soundscapes. I look forward to a future of musical fun, and have no fear, you'll be bored with plenty of news about it on this blog.

(note: the original date of this post was lost when I republished it. If I have a chance I will look up the real date on the bill of sale sometime.)

One crowded week of glorious life

Put your feet up, pour a coffee, or a hot chocolate, or a frappe, or an orange juice, or whatever you like - actually, better to pack a lunch that will last you for a few days, and get very, very, comfortable, BECAUSE

THIS IS

....that's right....

THE CEOLAS POST!

(.....takes a deep breath.......)

1. Introduction to Ceolas ~ Planning the Journey ~ The Journey Proceeds with some Mishaps, soon Overcome ~ Arrival in South Uist ~The Geography of the Island ~ Triona Meets Various People from Scotland and the World ~ Getting the South Uist Groove

It was a difficult journey to plan, because the route between Athens and the Hebrides is not the most well travelled. I suppose, looking at it objectively, the Hebrides wouldn't be too attractive to Greeks. They're cold, rainy, and boggy, and people eat a lot of animal fat.

But that's not taking into account Celtic-music obsessed Greek Canadians. From the first moment I found the Ceolas website, I knew I had to go. Ceolas is a collaboration between Celtic music fanatics in both Scotland and Nova Scotia, Canada. For one week every year, they run lessons in fiddle, piping, piano, stepdance, singing, writing, and of course, the Gaelic language. This has been going on for the last 10 years. (for more, see http://www.ceolas.co.uk/) .

Everything about it called out to me. While I like concerts, I would much rather be involved and be learning. Plus it was a chance to make up for missing Celtic Connections in January, something I'd always regretted. And, just as important, I would have a chance to see some people from Cape Breton I hadn't seen in a year or more.

So I had a fun two months of planning and anticipation. I looked up the routes and schedules of the Athens Airport Express, Easyjet, the Gatwick Express, The Tube (Mind the Gap!), British National Rail, and British Airways to figure out how to get there. My final itinerary was about 8 pages long and would do credit to Phileas Fogg of Around the World in 80 Days. I planned to fly to London, then commute to King's Cross station, from whence I would catch a train to Glasgow, and from there a flight to Benbecula island (The Western Isles of the Hebrides) the next day. After that I had been promised a bus will be waiting. With anything that complicated, something's got to go wrong. At the same time nothing must go wrong!

And so the story begins....

Saturday, July 1st (Canada Day!)

I said goodbye to my aunt (who had been armed with a copy of the Phileas Fogg itinerary. Hey, I was/am proud of that itinerary. I swear, it's like my Ph.D thesis in travel. It proves I can get myself around.)

Athens is sunny and hot. Mind you that kind of goes without saying in Athens. I get to the airport ridiculously early, and know exactly where to go to check in (because a month earlier I did a practice run.) In the check in area, I read about all the stuff that is going wrong in the world, in The Economist. On a positive note, Warren Buffett has just donated a few billion to the Gates Foundation. This, and the equally important fact that I am going to Ceolas, can easily compensate for whatever bombings, murders, kidnappings, tortures etc. that are currently happening in the world. Or so I feel at the moment.

Several articles later, the Easyjet flight for London still hasn't come in, but an Air Finland plane taxis to the gate. Apparently, this is the plane we are flying. The slightly bewildered passengers board ("Are we going to London or Helsinki?") However, the pilot gets us to London almost on schedule. A slight lurch in my stomach, not entirely caused by turbulance, welcomes me back to the country where I started my international adventures. But I successfully train/tube to King's Cross station (ha! I could get around London with my eyes closed) and after collecting my ticket from the ticket machine, finding my train, and my seat, figure the worst of my worries is over. I settle in for the 5 hour ride to Edinburgh.

The train proceeds to klunk about a hundred metres out of the station, and comes to an ominous stop in a tunnel. After sitting in the tunnel for an hour, we are informed the train has been "declared a failure." It limps - barely - back to King's Cross, and the passengers are herded onto a train for Newcastle, which has been extended to Edinburgh. I ask when the train is going to get into Edinburgh, since I'm supposed to catch a connection there to Glasgow. Nobody knows. The guard doesn't come to check tickets either. He's probably scared to to face the passengers. Not only have they been delayed an hour, but England has just lost to Portugal in the World Cup finals. This is not a happy train.

I resign myself and snooze on the train. At about 10pm it arrives at Newcastle. And stays there. Passengers to Scotland are now ordered to board buses. I find the Edinburgh bus, only to have the driver mumble something about "not sure there's enough room. Please wait..." As soon as his back is turned I throw my luggage on board and jump on the bus. I ain't waiting for nuthin' nor nobody!

I sleep on the bus because I'm beyond worrying at this point. I wake up to see it passing "Airdrie" which makes me think of home. I wave to Bob and Eileen in Airdrie, AB. At 1am we arrive in Edinburgh. Edinburgh is full of limping people in skimpy clothes and bare feet. Ah, long night in party shoes... I have missed my connection by a good 2 hours and no trains are running. But luckily the train company pays a taxi to take me and a few others on to Glasgow. We have a very nice taxi driver who manages to drop everyone off where they want to be in Glasgow, even though he doesn't know the city. Thanks to him I finally make it to the airport.

Sunday July 2nd

Glasgow airport is fun. I sleep on a bench, look at all the shops, and sit in a massage chair. I buy two clip on flowers for my hair. They match my travel wardrobe perfectly. I am a good travel shopper.

At about 6 AM I eat a "traditional breakfast" - eggs, sausage, something that tastes like it was once a potato, and a black pudding. "Pudding" in England/Scotland appears to mean various unhealthy substances all mixed up with animal fat and fried. Not sure what's in black pudding, though I think it includes blood.

Feeling rather sick, and missing Greek food, I wander around the airport, pacing like a caged animal in front of the flight monitor sign. I wanna be on South Uist now!

Finally it's time to board. I am flying with the tutors from Cape Breton, who are arriving at the same time as me. I feel shy, bury myself in The Economist, but soon conclude that terrorists, and even Warren Buffett, are a sorry substitute for conversation with nice musicians, and put the mag away. I chat with Kinnon Beaton, who I haven't seen since the Cape Breton Trip in 2004 (another week to remember). I also meet Anna Wendy Stevenson, from Scotland, who is teaching fiddle. The plane is stuffed with as many instruments as people. After a few minutes, I'm all smiles. Though I'm so sleepy I actually doze off despite the excitement, and despite the fact the plane is really cold.

The airplane that took me to Benbecula

Bogs from the air

On the ground at Benbecula, we are met by a bunch of happy people chatting in a strange language, which intitially sounds like a mix of German and Japanese, but is Gaelic, of course. Well, that doesn't bother me - I've just come from Greece after all, where I can't understand anything people say, either. Here everyone speaks English too, but they choose to keep their traditional language. I get a ride to my B&B, getting a good view of South Uist in the meantime.



South Uist is mostly flat, with some low mountains. There are almost no trees. Mainly you see green plains, dotted with many small white boulders, and equally many white sheep. The rocks are some of the oldest in the world, formed 300 million years ago as the crust of the earth cooled. The landscape was also shaped by glaciers which carved out shallow valleys. The islands are rocky, and much of them is covered in peat, which is made of decayed plant matter. It is often used as fuel. There are also many bogs, which form when the (frequent) rains waterlog the ground. It is difficult to build roads for this reason, and they are often only wide enough for one car. However, this doesn't seem to bother anyone; people drive very politely and always make room for each other. Visitors from cities such as Seattle (and Athens, ha) were full of praise for the "civilized" motorists.

The sheep/rocks/sheep view is hardly dramatic, but it's very easy on the eye. The view from the window of my B&B, run by Margaret and Robert MacDonald (seriously, it seemed like half the people I met were called "MacDonald") is very nice to wake up to in the morning.



But I didn't come all this way for the view, of course. Later I go over to the school to register. There I meet some of the other students (about 70?) While the majority are from Scotland and the U.K., there's a pretty decent international component. I meet Enrique from Columbia, Maria from Moscow, Russia, and Takuko from Japan. Enrique is doing research for a thesis on Gaelic, and Takuko is also studying the language. Maria is in my dance class and is also learning Gaelic song. Another notable guest is Graziano (16 years) from Sardinia, who is learning pipes and dancing, and who plays an instrument called the triple pipe with impressive skill.

There are also many students from the U.S.A, some of whom have come over with their whole families. Susanna, who plays the fiddle, is from the U.S.A., but is attending a school for the blind in the U.K. Her mother has come over from the U.S.A., and they are attending Ceolas together. David MacDonald, a doctor, is at Ceolas with his daughter, and his wife is with them too.

Not as many people from Canada, but I think I met someone from Vancouver, and of course there was Kinnon and Betty Lou Beaton, (teaching fiddle, and piano) and Troy MacGillivray (fiddle). Joining them were two new faces, Angus and Kenneth MacKenzie. All from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, with the exception of Troy who is actually from Antigonish, the little university town you pass before crossing the Canso Causeway.




I also meet Lucy (fiddle and song) and Jayne (dance and fiddle) from Scotland. We spent a lot of time together during the week.



A celebration of regional identity: On the right is the Cape Breton flag, in the middle the Ceolas flag, and on the left, the flag of South Uist (all unofficial).


After registration, there was a welcome service at St. Peters Church.

The church was very pleasant inside, with high ceilings, and pale green walls and a lot of natural light. Enrique and I marched right to the front, and Lucy joined us. Might as well start the week with enthusiasm, I said; there's no point in coming all that way just to hide in a corner. The priest talked in Gaelic for a while, then cheerfully asked who couldn't understand the language. A dozen or so people sheepishly raised their hands, including myself. "Well, you're in the minority, I guess you'll have to suffer," he said and went on talking in Gaelic. Ouch! I felt rather sorry I couldn't understand anything; I would have liked to. But on the other hand, the islanders are a tiny minority in the big world. On their island they are surely entitled to do exactly as they please.

And soon none of that mattered, because they began to sing. Now I've heard a lot of music. But as I listened, all I could think of was a passage I vaguely remember from St. Augustine, where he admits he is a bit suspicious of music because it can be more beautiful than religion itself. He could have been talking about the Gaelic hymns of South Uist.

After that we went across the road to the hall, for the Welcome Ceilidh. This began with the Canadian Barn Dance, which apparently is very popular on South Uist. Naturally everyone wanted to know if I knew it. I'd never heard of it. (Have any of you in Canada?) They found that surprising. I should have asked if they use Scotch tape.

But despite that a local lady asked me to go out on the floor and try it, and I made my best effort to represent Canada, even after slipping on the wooden floor.

I joined in a few more group dances, but couldn't quite bring myself to stepdance....yet. Enrique saw this and kept teasing. Finally, just at the end of the evening, when we were about to leave, Fin Moore and a couple of others started a dance set on pipes and fiddles. So I told Enrique I'd do a dance for him. Then I had to, having promised, of course.

I didn't pay much attention to what I was doing, just focusing on the music. I hadn't practiced much before coming to Ceolas after all, just enough to make sure I remembered some steps.

But it surprises me how much easier it is to dance when the music is live. I always think it will be harder than dancing in private, because there's more of a risk involved. People are watching. Going on to the floor is an emotionally charged experience. You're not just dancing to the music; you're joining in with it and adding a new element. It can be intimidating, because I wonder if I dare add that element, how people will respond, and if I can be part of the moment or if I will just get in the way. But somehow it seems to work. My feet find the rhythm, and my mind and body follow them.

Ah yes, that was fun.

But tomorrow was a whole other day.....


2. Transportation on South Uist ~ The School Begins ~ The Weather of South Uist ~ The Piping Ceilidh ~ The Morning After Day 1 ~ Strathspey Theory ~ House Ceilidh at Peggy Anne’s ~ Frank Shows an Unexpected Talent

Monday, July 3rd

I sleep very well at Margaret and Robert’s, and wake up to find a beautiful sunny Monday. Monday! Happy day, the first at Ceolas. I chat more with Margaret, even convincing her to try baklava, and make acquaintance with the dog, Molly. Molly greets me as if she’s known me all my life. Lucky I’m not a robber; Molly wouldn’t do much to defend the place.




Margaret tells me, as every local will do at least five times a day all week, how very lucky we are that it’s sunny.

After breakfast I set off to St. Peter’s Hall, where my stepdance class is held.




This part of South Uist is rural; there is no town centre anywhere near by. The hotel, school, church, and church hall are with a fifteen minute walk of each other, but at least an hour's walk from Margaret's. Every day I start walking in the general direction with no idea how or when I will get there, and every day I get there in perfect time. Somebody either stops and gives me a ride, or the Ceolas bus, driven by Angus, happens by at just the right time. I don’t know how it works, and I don’t ask. I’m just grateful.

Maria and Jayne are at St. Peter’s Hall, and we immediately start comparing and analyzing each other’s dance shoes. It doesn’t even occur to me that this is the first time I’ve taken a dance class since Grade 12 (9 years ago). Into this melee come Maddy, Rachel, Tim, Dale, and the irrepressible May, and finally Frank McConnell, our dance tutor. And Kenneth MacKenzie, who plays fiddle for us.



Frank is from Glasgow, with strong ties to the Hebrides. And he can dance! He does some strathspey steps with us that are completely different from anything I’ve seen before, but which seem quite easy to pick up. That we follow with some reels that are variations on steps I know well, and so are a lot of fun.

L to R: Jayne, Dale, Irena, Maria, Rachel (behind Frank), Maddy, Tim, and May
Frank, tutor, in centre

For this whole class, and the next one, and the whole day, I am so high on adrenaline I can barely sit still. Everything seems oh, so marvelous, more marvelous every moment. I force myself to eat since I know I have to, but the notes from fiddles, pipes and songs drifting through the halls seems like the only sustenance I will ever need.

After dance I join Lena Walker’s Gaelic beginners class. I take two classes; one that all students go to, and one I’ve chosen as a second option to dance. I mainly took it because I didn’t know what else to take, not being able to sing or play an instrument, and I’m a little bit apprehensive. Other than English, I don't consider myself very good with languages.


But Lena is a very good teacher. It seems she would rather be hung by her toenails than make anybody at all uncomfortable, ever. We make some progress learning how to say our names, and where we're from, and finish by making up a song that includes the phrases we have just learned.

Lena Walker, Gaelic tutor


After this Gaelic class, I go to my next one, and meet David MacDonald (U.S.A., Highland bagpipes), Fergus MacDonald (Scotland, pipes and fiddle), (see what I meant about MacDonalds!) and Robin (U.S.A., Ceol Mor on the highland pipes; a graduate student in music composition). We repeat the same stuff from the last class (good; that means I might even remember it) and learn a few more things.

The last element of the "academic day" at Ceolas is the Crossover Class. Crossover classes are a mix of musicians, singers and dancers, at all levels from tutor to beginner. On this first day we learn our mission, which is to work together to create a 5 minute piece, involving everybody, which will be presented on the final day. Cathy Ann MacPhee, one of the singing tutors, already has a vision, and a Gaelic poem in hand, penned by the Artist in Residence. It’s all rather fun, and confusing. The tutors in the crossover class are Kinnon Beaton, Cathy Ann of course, and Angus MacKenzie. Tiber from P.E.I. , with a set of bagpipes permanently attached to his body, is also there. There isn’t any dance tutor though. Perhaps because of this, nobody seems to really want to dance except me. Oh well, a solo won’t be too bad. I can do exactly what I like.


The singers in our crossover class


After classes - oh the joy! oh the hyperness! - I join Enrique, David, his family, Robin, and Graziano, for dinner at the Borrodale, which is the after-hours hub of activity, and scandal, at Ceolas.




Candid shot from a session at the Borrodale

We enjoy ourselves, then it's off to the piper's ceilidh at St. Peter's, the first of events every evening through the week. First of all, I should say that bagpipes and singing are to South Uist what the fiddle is to Cape Breton. Of course, Cape Bretoners pipe, and sing, and many other things, but nobody questions that it's the fiddle that represents the place, accompanied by piano. In South Uist, it's the song and pipes. Piping and singing are their true religion, I am sure.


Ross Ainslie, rock star of the pipes (Ceolas photo)

Jayne and Lucy and I get good seats at St. Peters, which is all decked up for the concert, which incidentally is being recorded by the BBC. No two pipers play alike, but they are all very good. Toward the end however, I need to step outside for some air. It is all a little overwhelming. I watch a lovely sunset over the bog.

I ride home reflecting that I've certainly got enough bagpipes for once. I even have dark, dark thoughts that I might get enough Celtic music for once.

But if my thoughts are dark, South Uist never is. At about the 57th parallel, it never gets completely dark at night in the summer unless the sky is cloudy. (For you Albertans, that's about the same latitude as Fort MacMurray.)


Tuesday, July 4 (Independence Day!)

I wake up the morning after the piping ceilidh, reflecting on having sat through 3.5 hours of bagpipes. When I tell this to people back home, they will surely conclude I am either Scottish, or insane. I decide not to think about that for the moment.

The adrenaline has finally run its course. Everything seems a little bit...harder....today. And a little bit...slower. Frank teaches an excellent lesson on strathspey steps, and how to get inside the rhythm of a strathspey. Exactly what I want to know. But today it feels like work. Phew. Does he have to make us think? Frank nevertheless tells us that everybody is dancing much better than yesterday? No, really?

My energy drop leads to a mood drop. I can't think of a thing to say to anyone. I eat dinner by myself at the Borrodale and feel blue, so blue.

But I don't have much time to mope. Tonight, the students and tutors spread out over the island for the house ceilidhs. These are hosted by the locals and we go to whoever's house is closest to our B&B/campsite/hotel etc. I am at Peggy Anne MacDonalds.

I arrive at Peggy Anne's and for the moment am almost the only person there under 30. Lucy and Enrique give me a ride but they go on to another house. Everybody is talking Gaelic. For the first time I feel awkward. I don't know exactly what's appropriate at a ceilidh, but sitting like a stone and staring doesn't seem like it would be. Not that anyone seems to notice. But living in a small community, they've probably mastered the art of appearing to notice nothing, while noticing everything.

Soon, however, some others arrive. I meet Tara, who plays the Celtic harp. And she dances, so we have plenty to talk about. Frank shows up with his two sons. Oh dear! My first time at a house party, and I'll have to dance in front of Frank. When you are self-conscious, everything seems like a big deal.

Tara plays a few tunes on the harp, and her friend accompanies her on piano accordian. This is the first time they've played together. Harp and piano accordian together seems like an atrocity, but the music actually sounds great.




Angus and Kenneth MacKenzie arrive and play a set, on pipes and fiddle. Frank dances.

Robin plays Ceol Mor on his pipes (politely going outside, since pipes indoors can be a little intense.) He plays very well and I tell him so.

Then several people sing songs. I sit beside Rachel on the floor and listen. Really listen now, letting everything go, thought by thought. I know one of the songs, "Hi Horo 's Na Horo Eile," from Rita and Mary Rankin's recordings, so I sing along. Why not. I'm here, after all. And as I take the melody in, the jagged edges in me stop feeling so sharp. Like the pieces of a puzzle, they come together, they fit as one.

Suddenly a cameraman from the BBC rushes in. A young piper goes to the center of the room and starts to play. Was this arranged? No matter, everybody listens while she plays and the cameraman creeps softly around the room like an undertaker, filming her and everybody's reaction. Everyone is on the verge of laughing, it seems, but you'd never know. We play to the camera perfectly, all smiles, feet and hands tapping, cheering. Immediately after the set, he sneaks out without another word, and a sort of repressed giggle goes through the room.

Angus and Kenneth start playing again, and I ask Rachel if she wants to get up and dance. "Sure," she says, and we go on the floor. Rachel is instantly my favourite person in the room.



My shoes are under the chair in a bag, and I leave them there. Sometimes you can't be prepared. Anyway, in Nova Scotia they often dance barefoot. Rachel and I dance the strathspeys, then the reels. I keep thinking Angus and Kenneth are almost done, but they keep going. We keep it up for about 10 minutes, then we have to sit down from sheer exhaustion. No matter - Tara takes the floor immediately after. She's good! And then Frank finishes off the set. The BBC comes sneaking in at some point again, but nobody pays them any mind. And they sneak out again.

After the set we're all tired and happy. Frank says thoughtfully: "Wouldn't it be funny if the BBC came in to film and were were all singing country songs." Everyone laughs. Then he starts singing "Oh My Darling Clementine." He can't remember the words - or says he can't - so he starts making them up as he goes along. This is priceless! After he's done I laugh so hard I knock over not one but two drinks. Which incidentally I don't only do in Scotland. I swear I can't get through a social evening without spilling something or dropping the cake. Frank comes rushing over and helps me wipe it all up, without saying a single word. Frank and I are on the same side from that point on.

No more blues after tonight. And I'm definitely ready for more music!

3. Dance at Eriskay ~ The Stepdancer's Queue ~ No-one's a winner, but everyone's a dancer ~ Ceilidh on the Bus ~ Margaret Likes the Weather ~ A Conversation About Sheep ~ Triona on the Pipes ~ A Sharing of Song

Wednesday, July 5

It is still sunny in South Uist, as everybody takes due notice of.

I have my second wind back. I feel very refreshed after the ceilidh the night before. Our dance classes go very well. We do a few reel steps and by the end I'm much more natural and confident with them. I feel terrific, as if someone put endorphins in my tea. I feel full of music, and my feet keep tapping, even in the lunch line up. At break I chat with Troy and Betty Lou. Betty Lou has a lovely smile. Then I even make some progress in Gaelic classes.

Tonight is a big event - the Cape Breton square dance, and the Scottish dances known as reels and quadrilles. They are in Eriskay, which is a tiny island south of the Uists, connected by a causeway. The area around Eriskay is beautiful, with a rocky coastline and numerous tiny beaches with white sand.


http://www.clandonaldchiefs.org.uk/events/eriskay.jpg

Several of us, including me, Lucy, and Troy, catch the bus from the Borrodale to the Eriskay hall. A Nova Scotia flag flies outside the door. This is fun. Inside, the place is packed. The evening starts with the Scottish dances. They are done to a couple of accordians. Maria asks me to dance one. She has an excellent lead, which allows me to pick up the dance without tripping over my feet too many times.

When it's time for the Cape Breton square set, Frank goes to the microphone to talk everyone through it. "Oh great, a square set," Tiber says, and rushes into the crowd of people waiting to dance. I am about to head onto the floor, and then I'm distracted by Tiber storming off again. Still looking for a partner, I follow him, curious. He says he absolutely won't do the dance because it's not being done the way they do it in West Mabou! I find this funny and tell Tiber he has to dance anyway. He refuses and I insist until the square set starts without us, and I end up sticking around and talking with him and Tim, from my dance class. Or rather listening to them talk. Mainly I'm determind to stay until I convince Tiber to get out and do the next dance, and I'm not going to give up till I hear yes. Eventually he says he will....later. I consider this victory enough and Tim and I agree to do the next square set.

They don't play the sets one after another though, like in CB. (Maybe Tiber was onto something...) First there's a break, and then a raffle with Frank reading the numbers. The raffle appears to be a necessary part of every social event in South Uist. This one is memorable because nobody seems to have the winning numbers, ever, and they have to be redrawn constantly. Meanwhile I find out Tim sings puirt-a-beul (mouth music). I ask him to sing one for me. He sings it in my ear, and I dance. Thanks Tim!

There's no hurry for the next square set, apparently. But Kinnon, Betty Lou, and Troy come on again to play a set for stepdancers. Alexander MacDonnell (Cape Breton/Ontario) leads off. Then some of the tutors dance as well as others from Ceolas, whom I don't know. The BBC has their cameras out as usual.


Troy, Kinnon, and Betty Lou (photo credit: http://www.ceolas.co.uk/)

I am like a firecracker waiting to go off, and finally, I go out onto the floor. I feel a bit cheeky, since this is all being filmed, but I cannot remain sitting while Kinnon, Betty Lou, and Troy are playing. I don't care who's watching! I wouldn't care if I was naked! But by now I'm more relaxed about dancing in public and it feels quite natural, even with the crowds and cameras. After me a couple of others dance as well (the whole set must be about 15 minutes or more) and finally even Troy does a few steps.

Then finally it's time for the square set. There's a moment of worry when Betty Lou's keyboard falls over with the crash, and then refuses to make a sound. Somehow they get it working again. The floor is crammed - over a hundred pepole - and I don't envy Frank the task of trying to organize everyone. But somehow he does it, and the dance proceeds. I notice Tobar is indeed out on the floor. Ha. Satisfaction.

For anyone who's wondering, the CB square set is done in groups 4-6 couples. It's a mix of stepping, dancing with your partner, and dancing as a group, in a circle. Several groups of couples usually do the square at the same time (as was the case with this huge crowd). There are two sets of jigs, and one set of reels, and the dance gets more wild with each set. The idea is simple, and yet it's a really exciting dance, and very active. Afterwards I'm wiped. They play more Scottish dances, but I sit and chat, and think. Pleasant thoughts. It's been a good evening, and too soon, it's all over.

At Ceolas though, it's not safe to say the music has ended. I get aboard one of the little 16-seater buses to go home. As usual there is a long discussion about what direction the bus should go, and several people switch buses until things are worked out. Some of the final occupants of our bus turn out to be half a dozen young islanders. As the bus starts rolling, they start singing. In Gaelic. And they sing really well, despite it being late and everyone being either dead tired, or dead crazy. We stop at the Borrodale and Tiber goes in and gets his bagpipes. Is he really going to...? Yes, he is! We lurch onward to Boisdale, and Tiber plays his Highland bagpipes in the bus.

Only on South Uist.

Thursday, July 6

When I get up the ground is wet and the air is moist. The sky is gray and there's a fine mist everywhere. "It's raining today," Margaret says when I come in for breakfast. Then - "Och, I like this weather better anyway. It's nice and cool."

Dance classes and Gaelic continue to go well, though the pace of the week is slowly starting to catch up with me, and I just might be tired if everything wasn't still so fun and interesting. There's only 2 of us left in Gaelic Beginners now: myself and David MacDonald. But that's fine, because now we know enough to have a little bit of a conversation, with Lena's help. I'm actually enjoying it.


David, L, Irena, R

Meanwhile our piece for Crossover class is coming along. We have a poetry reading, a song, and then the fiddlers play a couple of jigs, and I come in and dance. Today, with just a few hours to go, we add in a reel, which makes me happy, because it will allow me to do more steps.

After classes I'm pretty tired, as everyone is. Troy and I and share the one comfy seat in the lobby. We talk about allergies and whether it is possible to be allergic to sheep. I think I might be, because I can't stop sneezing. Oh dear, I suppose that means I can't stay forever on South Uist. I will have to leave in 2 days after all. Or the sheep will be the death of me.

Meantime David walks by carrying his highland pipes. I've never seen them up close, and I ask to take a look. David lets me hold them. One thing leads to another, and I ask if I can blow into them. After a few puffs I fill the bag up. And I get them to drone! Oooh! Wow!



But that's only half the battle. I blow - and squeeze - harder, and then, at last, I get a skirl! Ha! What a rush! Then I sit down before I faint.



"Now you can appreciate what Tiber does," David says, nodding toward the same, who is sitting some distance away, looking unimpressed.

"Tiber," I say, truthfully, "I have a lot of respect for you now!"

"Not that she didn't before," David rejoins, laughing.

This evening is the song concert. I am more excited by the active events, but this is good timing since I feel like a rest. Some of the students skip the evening events to recharge, but I don't want to miss anything. The song concert is very good, like all the events. Local singer Kathleen MacInnes headlines, since she is releasing a new CD. Cathy Ann also sings, as do the song students. I'm afraid I start to nod off during some of the slower songs though. I'm sure plenty of people notice (I see one old man glaring at me) but I can't help it. I hope they forgive me.

4. The Lamb ~ The Power of the Dance ~ The Freedom of the Song ~ Ceilidh Mor ~ Party at the Borrodale ~ The Drunken Piper ~ Mary of Glasgow ~ Home Again

Friday dawns sunny again. The last day of Ceolas! Can it possibly be? Yes, it must be - I'm completely exhausted!

But I get to St Peter's Hall early and have a lovely walk in the morning silence, taking a few photos. I spend five minutes trying to get a picture of a lamb perched on a rock. Every time I lift the camera, it turns its rear end toward me. Finally I get the photo (see the "Once upon a time" graphic at the top).

In dance class, Frank goes over all the steps we have learned. Then he solemnly tells us to "stop thinking." We aren't just dancing to the music. We aren't just responding to it. We must get right inside it. And to do that, he says, we can't be worrying about what we are doing. Otherwise we are focused on ourselves, and not on the music.

I am high on endorphins again and I wish he would stop making pretty speeches and let us start dancing. But he continues:

"If you relax and let the dance into you, it will teach you. Because I believe music and dancing are much more powerful than mere mortals."



Frank McConnell

In the afternoon, it's time for our 5 - minute Crossover class performances. There are 5 groups presenting. They all have a mix of singing, dancing, piping, fiddles, and a few other elements depending on the talent - including some rap.

May (in red shirt) does some very nice steps for Group 1.


Frank, L, and Jayne, 3rd from L, and others do a stepdance number for Group 4.



Lucy, R, also played fiddle for Group 4:



My group was last. Oh, the pressure!

As mentioned before, the artist in residence, Angus Campbell, had written a poem for us. First one of the singers read it in Gaelic.

Then we all sang "Oh Mo Dhutaich," a lovely slow song that was written by a Canadian from South Uist. He had moved to Manitoba and was missing his homeland. Maybe the mosquitoes got to him. Even I sang, thanks to a phonetic rendition from Lena.

Listen to Karen Matheson sing Oh Mo Dhutaich


I was the only person from the group dancing, so when the pipes and fiddles started up, I stepped out there and did my thing.



Afterwards David told me that I look very natural when I dance. I seem to be in my own space, and then I smile a little, as if to say, "This feels so right." I liked that, because it shows he, and probably others, could see me for what I am. The best compliment of all is to have someone see your real self, and tell you they like it.

Our piece ended with the English translation of Angus Campbell's poem. It talked about how people have left the islands, and the windows have been boarded up. But on South Uist, the windows had been thrown open.

"And through them I see the birds
The beauty of the mountains
And the people in the hundreds
Singing the freedom of the song."

And so ended our last day of classes.

Oh! But Friday was just getting started.

First I joined Rachel and Kevin at the Borrodale for dinner and talk. Rachel, in addition to dance, also plays the fiddle and I'd caught her and Kevin at a Borrodale session once


L to R: Seoras, Rachel, Kevin, and Alan from London

Then it was off to Ceilidh Mor, a big concert featuring all the tutors. Cathy Ann and Kathleen sang a Gaelic song called "O Luiadh" (Oh My Dearest Darling.) It's a beautiful tune I'll always associate with that evening.

Outside it was cold and rainy, and most people ended up at the Borrodale afterward, drinking and hanging out. We were packed elbow to elbow but very happy. Everyone was talking, so several of the boys got out their bagpipes - the only instrument you would be able to hear. Tiber stood two feet from me and played full blast. But hey, I'd been on South Uist for almost a week, and I didn't even flinch.



Troy came and sat with me and Lucy. We talked about his job as professional musician. What a wonderful job! In my eyes at least. Of course to him it seems less glamourous. We talked about meeting at some place in the world again. Maybe Glasgow? Maybe Celtic Connections? Would I travel hundreds, or thousands of kilometres again for something like Ceolas? Who knows? What is it that calls out to me? Is it the music, the feeling of release and catharsis when I step out onto the floor? Does that take me, emotionally, to a place I can't get to any other way? Is it the people, the community, the shared passion for music and tradition? Is there something there I can't anywhere else?

Perhaps it is because people look completely glorified when they give themselves to music, and to the dance. Perhaps I have a deep need to see people that way. To believe I can be that way, too.

The conversation ended with us being kicked out of the pub, due to it being about 1 AM. Lucy and I looked at each other.

'Are you tired?"

"Yes, I really want to sleep..."

"Yes, sounds good..."

But somehow we found ourselves on the road to St. Peter's Hall, walking through the rain to the dance. We sang "Far am bi mi fhìn," or "The Drunken Piper," to stay warm in the cold wind and rain.

Far am bi mi fhìn is ann a bhios mo dhòchas
Far am bi mi fhin bigh mo dhochas ann .

Siubhal air na cladaichean 's a'coiseachd air a'ghainmhich
Thèid mi fhin is Sine null gu taigh a'phìobair,
'S nì sinn brod an ruidhle leinn fhin air an làr

"Where I will be, there will be my hope,
Where I will be my hope will be

Traversing the shores and walking on the sand
Sheena and I will go over to the piper's house
And we will do an exceptional reel by ourselves on the floor "

(Trad., translation by macfhionn)

St. Peter's Hall was still buzzing when we got there. My dance shoes had been worn smooth and not having sandpaper, I kicked them off and joined the dancers barefoot. We did several dances, including one called Strip the Willow, in which you whirl your partner around really fast. You just pray the person hangs on to you or you'll go flying through the wall. It was fun to dance with many of the people I'd met over the week.

At about 4 am I got back to Margaret's, and packed my bags in the pale light of early morning.

"One crowded hour of glorious life, is worth an age without a name." -Sir Walter Scott

Saturday, July 8

The bus ride to Benbecula was the only really unpleasant thing I experienced on South Uist. Those narrow, winding roads that go up and down are pretty, but ugh....I almost puked.

May and I and a couple of others hung out at Benbecula until our flight came. We ate at a nice cafe and visited MacGillivray's, the "everything" shop. The plane was cold, again. And soon, we were in Glasgow, and I waved goodbye.

Glasgow seemed awfully noisy and crowded after South Uist. And to my dismay, I could understand people's conversations. It's been months since I could walk down the street and understand what people are talking about. People talk about really stupid things! And they use bad words, too!

After checking into my hostel, I wanted some hot chocolate. But I'd never been in Glasgow before, and anyway everything appeared to be closed. Not even a Starbucks in sight. However, the hostel is close to the train station. So I went to the train station and got hot chocolate. And sat there and drank it. I felt a bit silly, going to the train station for coffee, but after spending so much time in them I felt as at home there as anywhere else.

Sunday, July 9

Today I spent with my friend Mary, who moved to Glasgow from Canada with her husband almost two years ago. Mary is the sort of person I can talk to for five or six hours, and then feel sorry to leave because there is so much more to talk about.

We met up at Glasgow Cathedral, the famous "black cathedral." (it's just really dirty). We attended the service, which felt appropriate, because I had a lot to be thankful for. The cathedral is beautiful inside, and despite the convention that you close your eyes and look down when you pray, I always wanted to look up. Hey, why did they make the ceiling so high, and put in those stained glass windows, not to mention the paintings on the ceiling, if you're not supposed to look up!

Then we went downstairs to the crypt, or whatever it was, which actually wasn't spooky at all. On the contrary, it was uplifting. The ceiling was made of elaborate interlocking arches, and they made me think of music I could see. Mary found something that she thought was a toilet, but it was the well. Oops. We got away without being pushed down it. Then we visited Glasgow's oldest house, and made fun of the paintings of Henry VIII. From there we took a tour bus. Admittedly there didn't seem to be a whole lot to see, but it was a chance to talk.

Next we went to a nice pub, tucked away in a corner. I tried haggis, because I vowed I'd eat haggis in Scotland.

It wasn't terribly exciting. But it was nothing to be afraid of, either.


Irena eating haggis. Mmm, mmm!

Then we took a nice walk around Glasgow University. We had an "oh, bliss" moment by the towers.



It was terrific to see Mary again, and it didn't feel like she'd been away that long, though it was a year and half. Here's to the next time!

That evening was the World Cup final, but I was coming down with a cold, and the wild days and nights of Ceolas were catching up with me, so frankly I didn't give a damn. I plunked my worn out body into bed and slept.

Monday, July 10

My trip home was fairly uneventful. Everything seems to work more smoothly on return trips, well, other than the A/C breaking on the train. Yuck! That train ride couldn't end soon enough.

I ordered a salad at Gatwick Airport and was thrilled to see a green leafy vegetable again. They do exist in Britain!

Waiting to board the plane to Athens, I noticed again, the dark complexions, dark eyes and dark curly hair of the people around me. I smiled. There is something nice about being surrounded by people who look like you. Then the lady sitting next to me tried to talk to me in Greek. Ah! Almost home.

And then I was home, with no idea who had won the World Cup.

Before I left, some Hizbollah terrorists had captured an Israeli soldier. Now Israel was lobbing rockets into Lebanon, and vice versa. It took me a day or two to figure out why.

The world seemed to have moved forward rather fast while I was gone, and I felt like I was chasing a train, trying to catch up with it again and get aboard. But my feet, my feet had wings.

Captain, we have safely completed the time warp and exited the wormhole. The chonometer confirms that we are back in present day Athens, sometime around the date July 22nd, 2006.

I feel differently after South Uist. I feel richer. I feel like some power touched me, moved something within me.

I guess Frank was right. Music and dancing are more powerful than mere mortals. But when you have them, how good it feels even to be a mere mortal!




Watch the Ceolas 2006 documentary:
(I found myself eating in the dining hall, and they filmed me for about 1 second getting on the BUS!! LOLOLOLOL)