Dom-fharcai Fidbaide Fál/The Scribe in the Woods

"Dom-fharcai fidbaide fál
 fom-chain loíd luin, lúad nád cél;
 h-úas mo lebrán, ind línech,
 fom-chain trírech inna n-én.
Fomm-chain coí menn, medair mass,
 hi m-brot glass de dingnaib doss.
 Debrath! nom-Choimmdiu-coíma:
 caín-scríbaimm fo roída ross."

*********
"A hedge of trees overlooks me;
A blackbird’s lay sings to me {an announcement which I shall not conceal};
Above my lined book the birds’ chanting sings to me.
A clear-voiced cuckoo sings to me {goodly utterance}
In a grey cloak from bush fortresses.
The Lord is indeed good to me:
Well do I write beneath a forest of woodland."

~ Dom-fharcai fidbaide fál/The Scribe in the Woods {Author unknown, found in an early 9th century manuscript margin. Translation from Gerard Murphy's Early Irish Lyrics}

I Am Going Home With Thee...

"I am going home with thee.

To thine eternal bed, 

To thy perpetual sleep."

~Carmina Gadelica Vol 3

May your Samhain be filled with joy and memories surrounded by loved ones here and past! 

Warm Hearts & Hearths,

Laurel

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Sona Daoibh!

Standing stone image by JG O'Donoghue

"Ailiu iath nErenn, 

Hermach muir mothach, 

Mothach sliab srethach, 

Srethach caill cithach, 

Cithach aub essach, 

Essach loch lindmar, 

Lindmar tor tipra, 

Tipra tuath oenach, 

Oenach rig Temrach;

Temair tor tuathach, 

Tuatha Mac Miled,  

Miled long libern ; 

Libern ard Eriu, 

Eriu ard diglass, 

Dichetal rogaeth, 

Rogaes ban Breise,

Breise, ban Buaigne, 

Be adbul Eriu, 

Eremon artus, 

Ir, Eber ailsius — 

Ailiu iath Erenn."

*********

"I seek the land of Ireland, 

Coursed be the fruitful sea, 

Fruitful the ranked highland, 

Ranked the showery wood, 

Showery the river of cataracts, 

Of cataracts the lake of pools, 

Of pools the hill of a well, 

Of a well of a people of assemblies, 

Of assemblies of the king of Temair ; 

Temair, hill of peoples, 

Peoples of the Sons of Mil, 

Of Mil of ships, of barks ; 

The high ship Eriu, 

Eriu lofty, very green, 

An incantation very cunning. 

The great cunning of the wives of Bres, 

Of Bres, of the wives of Buaigne, 

The mighty lady Eriu, 

Erimon harried her, 

Ir, Eber sought for her — 

I seek the land of Ireland."

~ from Lebor gabála Érenn:The book of the taking of Ireland

Below is a A beautiful song that I originally heard on the movie Brooklyn{which is a pretty good movie if you haven't seen it yet!}. It is Casadh an Tsúgáin sung by Iarla Ó Lionáird, this version is by The Gloaming, which Iarla is a member of.

 Lá fhéile Pádraig sona daoibh/Happy Saint Patrick's Day everyone!

Laurel

Brigit Búadach/Victorious Brigit

"Brigit búadach,
 búaid na fine,
siur Ríg nime,
nár in duine,
eslind luige,
         lethan bréo.

 Ro-s íacht nóibnem,
mumme Góidel,
riar na n-óiged,
óibel ecnai,
ingen Dubthaig,
duine úallach,
Brigit búadach,
         bethad béo."

***

"Triumphant Brigid,
glory of her kindred,
sister of Heaven's King,
a noble woman,
a danger to perjurers,
a broad-spreading flame.

She has reached holy Heaven,
the foster-mother of the Gael,
the desire of visitors,
a spark of wisdom,
daughter of Dubthach,
a proud woman,
triumphant Brigid,
living one of life."

~ Brigit Búadach/Victorious Brigid {Old Irish, translated by Kuno Meyer. Found in Miscellanea hibernica.}

 Beannachtaí na Féile Bríde agus Imbolc oraibh/ Brigid's Day & Imbolc blessings to you all! 

Solstice Wood

"That doire bheag air an druim
is that mi cinnteach,

gu robh i an còmhnaidh ann.

Nuair thig grianstad a’ geamhraidh

is cruinne ruadh a’ tuiteam air cul chraobh

is caomh leam creidsinn

nach eil mi gu tur nam aonar

ach tha sùilean eile thar tìm

maille rium, is an aon tlachd aca

on is e sin an là as giorra

is roth draoidheil na grèine

na rolladh gu luath dhan Earrach."

***

"There is a spinney on the ridge
and I am certain

that it was always there.

When the winter solstice comes

and a red sphere falls behind trees,

I like to think

I am not entirely alone

but that other eyes across time

are with me, and show the same pleasure

that this is the shortest day,

as the druid wheel of the sun

rolls swiftly towards Springtime."

~ Doire A’ Ghrianstad/Solstice Wood by William Neill from Caldenoian Cramboclink

To Our Lady's Mantle

"Our Lady's Mantle ! When I musing stray

In leafy June along the mossy sward,

No flower that blooms more fixes my regard

Than thy green leaf, though simple its array;

For thou to me art as some minstrel's lay,

Depicting manners of the olden time,

When on Inch Cailliach's isle the convent chime

Summoned to Vespers at the close of day.

Tis pleasant 'mid the never-ending strife

Of this too busy, mammon-loving age,

When Nature's gentler charms so few engage,

To muse at leisure on the quiet life

Of earlier days, when every humble flower

Was known to all, and cherished as a dower."

~To Our Lady's Mantle from Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems By James Inglis, 1853

To The Cowslip

"Of all spring joys, the dearest is

To drink thy breath again,

Freshest of flowers; 

The bluebell lights the copse,

The primrose paves the glen,

But thy frank beauty overtops

In open fields

The new-born grass, to meet the kiss

Of sun and wind and showers,

And yields

Spring's essence from five red drops

That dyed the breast of Imogen.

Sun-freckled art thou, as the child

Who kneeleth down to snap

Thy sturdy stem,

And fill thy pure gold

Her snowy-aproned lap,

White treasury of wealth untold;

Deftly she makes, 

In bountiful profusion piled,

A regal ball of them,

And takes

For sceptre one that high doth hold

His head in pride of April sap.

My earliest love of flowers, how good

To lay my sunburnt face

In grass so lush

It shames the name of green,

And fold in one embrace

The clustered heads of all I glean,

And kiss the pure

Warm lips of that fair sisterhood, 

Or'mid their golden flush

Immure

The splendour of some clowslip queen

Who reigned apart a loftier grace.

Then home to sleep by Avon stream,

Cheered by the honest wine,

Of cowslip flowers;

So pure a draught alone

Gives slumber so divine;

All night I breathe the sweet air blown

O'er fields thick starred

With cowslip constellations, dream

Of golden-embrasured towers

That guard

Some fay for whom bees make moan,

While cowslips by my cheek recline."

~ To the Cowslip by Alfred Hayes {from The Vale of Arden and Other Poems}

I Have Been in the Mood for Yeats Lately...

...or more so than usual.

And now I wander in the woods
When summer gluts the golden bees,
Or in autumnal solitudes
Arise the leopard-coloured trees;
Or when along the wintry strands
The cormorants shiver on their rocks;
I wander on, and wave my hands,
And sing, and shake my heavy locks.
The grey wolf knows me; by one ear
I lead along the woodland deer;
The hares run by me growing bold.
They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.

 ~From The Madness of King Goll  by William Butler Yeats

 

Waxing of Light, Waning of Darkness

 

Glass úar errach aigide,
úacht ina gaíth gignither,
glaidsit lachain linnuisci,
luind cendach corr crúadéigme.
Cluinit cúana a ndíthrebaib,
fri h·éirge moch matanraid,
dúscit eónu a hinnsénaib,
móor bfiad riasu bfirteititt,
a fid, a féor glass.

~ Glass úar errach

 

Translation:

 

Spring with a chill bite is borne,
the breeze cast in whispers cool;
the cry of ducks' held on high,
and the hard tune of the crane's call.
The cadence of hounds is heard
as haled are morning's marches,
moving to life all the land;
it's light a glittering guide
where glens and grass spring.

~ Translation by Hymir's Kettle

 

{I believe that the poem was originally from The Book of Leinster--formerly Lebar na Núachongbála}

  

*********

 

As a gardener in a region with long winters {this one particularly long!}, I always look forward to spring, when I can finally dig dirt instead of snow.

 

Last year I started observing Latha na Caillich, which as a Gaelic Polytheist and as someone who lives where I do seems like a sensible time to celebrate the coming of spring. It is a day where I make offerings to both An Cailleach and Brigid; for me personally An Cailleach is very present during the dark part of the year and the winter and to me  Brigid oversees renewal and regeneration.

 

During Latha na Caillich there are some sources that state that this is when An Cailleach loses a yearly fight to the coming of spring, where she either turns to stone, falls asleep until the winter, or becomes young again. Some of these sources associate the triumphant spring with Brigid, although as Annie of the Tairis site points out, it is unclear where the An Cailleach/Brigid connection originally comes from {here and here}.

 

So my decision to honour both Goddesses during this time are just due to making sense to me, more so than based on any firmly rooted tradition.

 

While I have been eagerly awaiting spring to show its face, I have been keeping myself busy starting seeds for the garden and making charms for new beginnings and rebirth. Hopefully soon spring will be here and I hope that you are all having a wonderful beginning to this new season.

 

I leave you with a song version of the poem I posted above.
 

 

 

Sláinte!

 

Laurel

Tree Corpses

photo by Hailey Toft

Tree Corpses

An electric hum sounds off a warning that their community will die:

The breath,

The heart,

The life of the forest will fall,

One tree at a time.

Their corpses will be carried out in a retinue of lumber hearses;

Bodies piled high to be processed at the mill.

Cadavers to be butchered and fashioned into trophy furnishings for

Murderous hearts.

The forest will fall one tree at a time.

After the ancient ones are gone there will be an ocean of saplings;

But the new hope, a chance for life will be mowed over and encased in concrete.

Another highway for the parade of

Wooden bodies.

The breath,

The heart,

The life of the forest will fall,

One tree at a time.

No longer a sacred refuge. Their community will die.

Táim Sínte ar do Thuama {I am Stretched on Your Grave}

I took this photo of my family cemetery a couple of years ago, and it reminds me of a 17th century Irish poem Táim Sínte ar do Thuama {in English I am Stretched on Your Grave}.

 

Here is the poem in Gaeilge:

 

Táim sínte ar do thuama agus gheobhair ann de shíor mé.

Dá mbeadh barra do dhá láimh agam, ní scarfainn leat choíche.

A phlúirín is an tsearc sé ann domsa luí leat.

Mar tá boladh fuar na cré uait, dath na gréine is na gaoithe.

Is nuair is dóigh le mo mhuintir go mbímse ar mo leabaigh.

Is ar do thuama sea a bhím sínte ó oíche go maidin.

Ag cur síos ar mo chruatan is ag cruaghol go daingean.

Sí mo chailín chiúin, stuama do ghluais liom ina leanbh.

Is tá na sagairt is na bráithre gach lá liomsa i bhfearg.

D'fhonn a bheith i ngrá leat a stórmhnaoi is tú marbh.

Dhéanfainn foithnín ón ngaoth duit, is díon díot ón bhfearthainn.

Agus brón ar mo chroíse tú a bheith thíos ins an talamh.

Is an gcuimhin leatsa an oíche úd a bhíosa agus tusa.

Fé bhun an chrann draighnigh, is bhí an oíche ag cur cuisne.

Céad moladh le hÍosa nár dheineamar an milleadh.

Is go bhfuil an choróin Mhaighdein mar chrann soilse inár gcoinne.

Is tabhair mo mhallacht dod' mháithrín is ní áirímse d'athair.

Is a maireann de do chairde gach lá faid a mhaireann.

Nár lig dom tú a phósadh is tú beo agam i do bheathaigh

Mar nach n-iarrfainn mar spré leat ach luí leat sa leabaigh.

Is tá brón ar mo chroíse atá líonta le grá dhuit.

Is an londubh taobh thíos dó atá chomh dubh leis na háirne.

Sara dtiocfaidh aon ní orm is go gcloífidh an bás mé

Ó béadsa i mo shí gaoithe romhat thíos ar na bántaibh.

 

{source}

 

Here is an English translation:

 

I am stretched on your grave
And I'll lie there forever
If your hands were in mine
I'd be sure they could not sever
My apple tree, my brightness
It's time we were together
For I smell of the earth
And am worn by the weather.

 

When my family thinks
That I'm safely in my bed
From morn until night
I am stretched out at your head
Calling out to the earth
With tears hot and wild
My grief for the girl
That I loved as a child.

 

Do you remember the night we were lost
In the shade of the blackthorn
And the chill of frost
And thanks be to Jesus
We did all that was right
And your maiden head still
Is your pillar of light.

 

The priests and the friars
They approach me in dread
Because I still love you
My love and you're dead
I still would be your shelter
Through rain and through storm
And with you in your cold grave
I cannot sleep warm.

 

So I am stretched on your grave
And will lie there forever
If your hands were in mine
I'd be sure they could not sever
My apple tree, my brightness
It's time we were together
For I smell of the earth
And am worn by the weather.

{source}

 

Here is a video of the Gaeilge version beautifully sung by Diarmuid Ó Súilleabháin:

 

Samhain Blessings

Oh, ye Dead! Oh, ye Dead! whom we know by the light you give
From your cold gleaming eyes,
Tho' you move like men who live,
Why leave you thus your graves,
in far off seas and waves,
Where the worm and the seabird only know your bed.

 

It is true, It is true, We are shadows cold and wan;
And the fair, and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone,
But still thus ev'n in death,
So sweet the living breath
Of the fields and the flow'rs in our youth we wander'd o'er,
That ere, condemn'd, we go,
To freeze 'mid Hecla's snow,
We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more!
 To haunt this spot, where all
Those eyes that wept your fall,
And the hearts that wailed you like your own, lie dead!

 

~Oh! Ye Dead by Thomas Moore

 

May you feel the breath and fill the steps of your Ancestors. Blessings to you all this Samhain!

 

Laurel

 

Merry Lughnasadh!

{royalty free photo}

 

Walk softly, O man, past an acre of wheat,
With awe in your heart and your face.
Walk humbly, O man, and with reverent feet,
For strength slumbers here - Can't you feel its heart beat?
And beauty's own couch is an acre of wheat,
And holiness dwells in this place.

 

Breathe gently, O breeze, on the grain-heavy ears,
That drank long and deep of spring rain.
O breeze, ripple gently the yellow-tipped spears.
Our little ones, caught in the rush of the years,
Need growth that is stored in the wheat's golden ears
All mother-ripe now with smooth grain.

 

~ from Ballad of an Irish Wheat Field

 

Many blessings to you all and may have many bounties to celebrate!

 

Sláinte!

 

Laurel

Honey Bees & the Gaels

royalty free photo

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

 

~ from The Lake Isle of Innisfree by WB Yeats

In many cultures the honey bee is a creature that plays an important role, and this is no different in Gaelic-speaking places. After doing a bit of digging, one could easily find that the Gaels had a close relationship with their honey bees, and this is reflected in song and poetry, folklore and traditions, and even laws. This post will just touch on some of those things.

 

The utilizing of honey for culinary and healing purposes does have a deep-rooted history in Ireland, which may have been gathered in the wild before people started keeping them domestically. How far back that history goes though I am note entirely sure.

According to A Smaller Social History of Ireland by P.W. Joyce {1906}:

"From the earliest times Ireland was noted for its abundance of honey...The management of bees was universally understood; and every comfortable householder kept hives in his garden. Wild bees, too, swarmed everywhere —much more plentifully than at present, on account of the extent of woodland."

One legend credits Saint Modomnoc  of bringing honey bees to Ireland from Wales in the sixth century. In the essay The Bee, its Keeper and Produce, in Irish and other Folk Traditions by Eimear Chaomhánach it is pointed out that:

"This date of arrival is substantiated by linguistic evidence of native Irish words existing at this time (the 5th and 6th centuries); such as beach (bee), mil (honey), and miodh (mead, i.e., fermented honey served as an alcoholic beverage)." {citation credited to Bechbretha: Old Irish Law-tract on Bee-keeping edited by Fergus Kelly & Thomas Charles-Edwards}

Mead was a prized drink of ancient Irish society, so much so that its main ingredient, honey was sometimes given as tribute to kings. If the feasting hall at Tara {tech midchuarta/mead hall} is any indication, this could push the date back even further {On the Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish by Eugene O'Curry}.

Prior to the settlement of the Gaels in Scotland, there is evidence of mead being made in the Bronze Age, found in a 1,000 BC burial in Fife. Fast forward a wee bit to the 15th century AD/CE and you find see a different kind of beekeeping in the lovely Rosslyn Chapel; workers renovating the chapel came across a 600 year old beehive that was in the roof. Apparently beehives were hidden up there so the honey would drip down onto the altar.

In Irish Brehon Law there was a tract An Bechbretha or Bee Judgements, a section of law dedicated to the affairs of beekeeping. The Bee Judgements were quite in-depth covering things such as property rights, injury, theft, and maintenance.

One of my favourite parts of the law is the sharing of honey with neighbours, since the bees would no doubt be gathering pollen from nearby gardens and fields that did not belong to the owner of the swarm. The attempt for equitable dispersal did not stop there though.

If someone had found an unclaimed swarm of bees on in someone else's meadow, they could get one quarter of the honey and the property owner would get the remaining amount; if found in a tree in the same circumstance, the finder and owner would get half each. If someone had found a swarm on communal land, they could keep both the bees and honey, giving a one ninth tribute to the tribe leader {A Smaller Social History of Ireland by P.W. Joyce}.

Should a person come by some bees or honey by more dishonest means, they would be penalized. In the case of beehives being raided, Ancient Laws and Institutes of Ireland Vol 1 says that the thief would have had to pay double the value or honour price.

No doubt bees were prized commodities, and not just for getting merry with mead. Besides their honey being used in various recipes and their wax used for moulds and candles, both were valued in healing.

Some examples from the Scottish Highlands of how beeswax and honey were applied in healing can be found in Healing Threads by Mary Beith. Beeswax was a favoured ingredient for making healing ointments and plasters, while honey would sometimes be infused or mixed with herbs for both internal and external use.

Dock roots were boiled and mixed with beeswax and butter to make a healing ointment, and one apparently popular plaster was a combination pine resin, pig fat and beeswax. Ox-eyed daisy infused honey was used for both coughs and wounds and honey-sweetened ground ivy tea was drank to treat coughs and consumption.



royalty free photo

I have come across quite a few sources that talk about the importance of telling the bees of any significant news going on within a family or household, including a birth, wedding, and especially a death. The point of this was apparently to keep bees from feeling offended, because should a household fail to inform the bees, they were said to abandon their hives. This is a tradition that seems to be rooted in both Ireland and Scotland.

 

From Ireland there is one account of a gentleman making sure his was washed, shaved and wearing his "Sunday best", as if he was heading on over to church before giving his bees the news that his mother had passed away. In Scotland some folks would "put the bees into mourning" by tying black ribbons on the hives after passing on the news of a death {Scottish Customs from Cradle to Grave by Margaret Bennett}.

 

In the Isle of Man children or their parents would make bumbee cages to catch bumblebees. The bees were thought to be wayward fairies or lost souls that the children should pray for. While the children slept, parents would release the bee and put a pebble in place of it. When the children rose in the morning they would see that the bee was no longer there and that their "prayers had been answered" or that the bumbee had "learned its lesson" and was turned back into a fairy, free in the world again.

 

To attract a swarm of bees into a hive, there is one recorded Irish method that I am aware of found in Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions of Ireland by Francesca Speranza Wilde:

"Gather foxglove, raspberry leaves, wild marjorum, mint, camomile, and valerian; mix them with butter made on May Day, and let the herbs also be gathered on May Day. Boil them all together with honey; then rub the vessel into which the bees should gather, both inside and out, with the mixture; place it in the middle of a tree, and the bees will soon come. Foxglove or "fairy fingers" is called "the great herb" from its wondrous properties."

 {In a previous post I have shared an augmented version of this that I use that can be found here.}

Once you have drawn in your bees and harvested your honey, you should give these lovely Irish Mead and Scottish Heather Ale recipes a try!

 

Sláinte!

Laurel

Bealtaine Blessings

 

Summer has come, healthy and free,

Whence the brown wood is aslope;

The slender nimble deer leap,

And the path of seals is smooth.

 

The cuckoo sings sweet music,

Whence there is smooth restful sleep;

Gentle birds leap upon the hill,

And swift grey stags.

 

Heat has laid hold of the rest of the deer—

The lovely cry of curly packs!

The white extent of the strand smiles,

There the swift sea is.

 

A sound of playful breezes in the tops

Of a black oakwood is Drum Daill,

The noble hornless herd runs,

To whom Cuan-wood is a shelter.

 

Green bursts out on every herb,

The top of the green oakwood is bushy,

Summer has come, winter has gone,

Twisted hollies wound the hound.

 

The blackbird sings a loud strain,

To him the live wood is a heritage,

The sad angry sea is fallen asleep,

The speckled salmon leaps.

 

The sun smiles over every land,—

A parting for me from the brood of cares:

Hounds bark, stags tryst,

Ravens flourish, summer has come!

~Summer Has Come, an early Irish poem translated by Kuno Meyer

I wish all of my readers a lovely Bealtaine {and a lovely Samhain for you folks in the Southern Hemisphere}!

Sláinte!

Laurel

Lady's Mantle {Alchemilla vulgaris}

 

{originally posted on the nefaeria blog}



Photo from Jina Lee

Our Lady's Mantle ! When I musing stray
In leafy June along the mossy sward,
No flower that blooms more fixes my regard
Than thy green leaf, though simple its array;
For thou to me art as some minstrel's lay,
Depicting manners of the olden time,
When on Inch Cailliach's isle the convent chime
Summoned to Vespers at the close of day.
Tis pleasant 'mid the never-ending strife
Of this too busy, mammon-loving age,
When Nature's gentler charms so few engage,
To muse at leisure on the quiet life
Of earlier days, when every humble flower
Was known to all, and cherished as a dower.

~To Our Lady's Mantle from Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems By James Inglis, 1853

Other Names: Common Lady's Mantle, Lion's Foot, Copan an Druichd, Bear's Foot, Falluing Mhuire,  Nine Hooks, Frauenmantle, Pied-de-lion.

Description: Lady's mantle is a lovely perennial that is a member of the rosaceae family. It can be found growing in the wild in England, Scotland, Canada, Greenland, and in much of Northern Europe and Asia.

It could be described as a demure plant, but as Ms Grieve said 'the rich form of its foliage and the beautiful shape of its clustering blossoms make it worthy of notice'.

From Wikimedia Commons

It is a low growing plant that doesn't grow to much more than 14 inches in height, and it has pretty yellowish-green flowers free of petals. It's prize feature is the wonderfully 'scalloped' leaves, which is said to resemble the Virgin Mary's cloak, from which it gets its name.

Warnings: As with all herbs, one should make sure to be thoroughly informed before ingesting them, and is best to do so under the guidance of a qualified healer.

Lady's mantle has reportedly been linked with liver damage in some cases, and many herbalists warn to women notify their health practitioner if they are pregnant or breastfeeding before ingesting the herb.

Cultivating: The natural habitat of lady's mantle is quite vast from meadows, sunny woodlands, by streams and other moist areas, as well as mountainous regions. It is a plant that does well in cooler climates and is generally thought to be suitable for hardiness zones 3 to 7.

Growing it from seed can be sometimes difficult, so it might be easier just to by seedlings or plants from a nursery. If you are going to grow it from seed, just keep in mind that it is quite slow to germinate.

Plant in the spring once there is no more chance of frost, in a spot that is anywhere from full sun to partial shade. It will do well in just about any type of soil, just make sure it is well-drained.

Mulching is a good idea, but lady's mantle is apparently quite drought-resistant. Also keep in mind that if it is doing well, it will drop plenty of seeds and spread, so you can always dead head the flowers if you want to have some control over this.

Some other plants that looks beautiful growing with lady's mantle are poppy, iris, fleabane, phlox, lily, and catmint.

Medicinal/Remedial Properties and Lore: Astringent, anti-inflammatory, diuretic, emmenagogue, febrifuge, sedative, styptic, tonic, vulnerary.

Lady's mantle has a long history of use for healing an assortment of ailments: from wounds and bruises, to vomiting and other stomach problems, as well as women's complaints.

One of the most interesting recommendations I found was from good old Culpeper who said, 'such women that have large breasts, causing them to grow less and hard, being both drank and outwordly applied'.

He also suggested its use for women who wished to conceive by drinking a tea, and claimed that it was great for wounds 'green, not suffering any corruption to remain behind, and cures all old sores, though fistulois and hollow'.

Onto Brother Aloysius, who recommended it for heavy bleeding, ulcerated lungs, dysentery, consumption, and ulcers. Like Culpeper, he also mentions in its helpfulness in the boob department, but this time for 'swollen' breasts.

Susun Weed proposes a tincture of fresh root as 'an excellent blood coagulant' and advocates its use for all types of 'female problems' {Wise Woman Herbal for the Childbearing Year}.

I can attest the helpfulness of lady's mantle when it comes to PMS and periods; I like making a tea with it paired with lemon balm {also great for these issues} because it does taste a little bitter and lemon balm has a more pleasant taste.



Photo from Aconcagua

Magical Properties and Lore:

The Latin name Alchemilla roughly translates 'small magical one', and was a plant of Alchemists who collected the dew found on the leaves for their workings.

In the book Folk-Lore of Women by Thomas Firminger Thiselton-Dyer (1906) it is said that lady's mantle 'was once in great repute with ladies; for, according to Hoffman, it had the power of restoring feminine beauty, however faded, to its early freshness'. Some women would collect dew found on the leaves on Bealtaine morning for this purpose.

Associated with the Virgin Mary, as the leaves are said to resemble her mantle, I also remember hearing a story when I was younger that the leaves were used as cloaks by the Good Folk.

 

Because of its use in women's health and healing, I have come to associate lady's mantle with the Goddesses Brigid {there is speculation by some folks that it is a herb historically tied to her} and Airmid.

 

According to some lady's mantle is connected to the planet and Goddess Venus, as well as other fertility, and Earth Goddesses. In some Swedish {and other Northern European traditions} it is placed under a woman's pillow if she wishes to dream of her future children; if worn in her hair during sex she would certainly become with child.

It was thought to ward off storms in Eastern Europe by burning it in a fire and letting the smoke go to the sky, or by hanging in windows and doors a farm would be kept safe from Nature's wrath.

In Polish-American Folklore by Deborah Anders Silverman she says that small wreaths of various types of herbs including lady's mantle are hung in homes to ward off evil spirits.

 

This is a herb that I like to use in tealeaf readings when the topic is one of love involving women {romantic, family, or platonic} and fertility of all types. I also think it is a splendid herb for love workings and for decorating on Bealtaine and Midsummer.

Other Uses: The young leaves of lady's mantle are edible and can be served up raw or cooked, and the roots are also edible cooked.

It can also be used in beauty treatments! Below are some links to a few nifty recipes for you to try:

Hand lotion, facial steam, and bath vinegar

Hand mask

Sláinte!

Laurel

The Rowan Tree

{royalty free photo}

O when the bonnie moon is fair,
An' clear the loch like siller spread,
An' heather-sweet the gloamin' air,
An' like a star thy flaxen head,
Why dost thou, Mary, make thy maen,
An' lean thy white brow on thy knee?
Why drop thy tears on heath an' stane,
Beneath the wavin' rowan tree?
There was a time when up the brae
Thy foot, licht as the roebuck's, sprang;
Thy bonnie een ne'er turned away,
Thy voice a gleesome welcome rang.
Thy lily hands why dost thou wring,
Nor turn to smile an' gaze on me,
When straight as lavrock's skyward wing
I seek the wavin' rowan tree?
There was a time thy leaf-soft cheek
Against the brown o' mine was laid;
From 'neath thy lily-lids did break
Sic love-licht looks, the mirky shade
O' nicht-fa', creepin' up the glen,
Did pause, as if 'twere fain to flee
Before some sudden sunrise, when
We trysted 'neath the rowan tree.
There was a time when, as I played
Wi' thy lang locks o' snooded gold,
Thy sma', saft fingers fondly stayed
Clasped on my plaidie's rugged fold;
There was, my Mary, once a day
Ilk hour--a honey-laden bee--
Slipped on the scented air away
From us beneath the rowan tree.
Now, Mary, when the moon is high,
Or when the gloamin's saft return,
I glide wi' thee the muirland by,
I seek wi' thee the glimmerin' burn;
I touch thy locks, thy lips I press,
Yet fast flow down thy tears for me,
E'en while thy white cheek I caress
Beneath the wavin' rowan tree.
An' is thy heart, my Mary, sair?
Tear-droukit a' thy locks o' gold?
An' paled thy roses red an' rare,
For me beneath the kirkyard mold?
O Mary, sair is heart o' mine,
For that thy blue een canna see
My spirit keep fond tryst wi' thine,
Beneath the wavin' rowan tree!
Oh, tears are saut an' love is long,
An' dear love's sorrow for the dead;
But love is true an' love is strong,
An' love's a flame forever fed!
Sae, Mary, while thy dear, pure tear
Rolls down sae swift for love o' me,
For love o' thee, unseen yet near,
I meet thee by the rowan tree.

~ The Rowan Tree  by Isabella Valancy Crawford

Imbolc Blessings

altered royalty free photo

Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white;

And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still;

No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill,

And willow stems grow daily red and bright.

These are days when ancients held a rite

Of expiation for the old year's ill,

And prayer to purify the new year's will.

~an excerpt of A Calendar of Sonnets: February by Helen Hunt Jackson

 

I hope that you all have a lovely Imbolc, Feast of Brigid, and Merry Lughnasadh & Lammas to you folks in the Southern half!

 

Sláinte!

 

Laurel

Welcoming 2013

January is here, with eyes that keenly glow,

A frost-mailed warrior striding a shadowy steed of snow.

~Edgar Fawcett

 

I hope that everyone enjoyed the holidays, however you may celebrate them, and may the new year bring many blessings to you & your loved ones!

 

Sláinte!

 

Laurel



Winter & Yuletide Blessings

photo by Justin Kern

And now the fire's the focus of the room

By winter made so. Like a gay salute

There crackles in the hearth

The holly's fusillade.

~ from Winter by Maurice Craig

 

May this season be full of love, merriment and comfort! Warm hearts & hearths to you and your loved ones, and many blessings in 2013!

 

Sláinte!

 

Laurel