Blog Post and Sketch by Mary Reddy
Ben Bulben in County Sligo, Ireland, rises approximately 1,700 feet above sea level. Its profile is dramatic—a long plateau of corrugated limestone surrounded by sloping skirts of heather, mosses, and grass. The mountain was the favorite hunting grounds of the Fianna, the mythic warrior bands of the Fenian Cycle. It figures in the legends of the love triangle of Gráinne, Diarmuid and Fionn. St. Columba is also associated with Ben Bulben. In a dispute with Abbott Finian over the ownership rights of a copied psalter, Columba raised an army and fought a great battle on the slopes of Ben Bulben. Many thousands of men died. In remorse, St. Columba vowed to convert to Christianity as many souls as had died on the battle field. He went on to establish a number of monasteries in Ireland and Scotland, including the renowned one on Iona.
But what drew us to Ben Bulben on a sunny, breezy autumn day was its association with the Sidhe (the Irish name for the People of Peace, humanity’s cousins). Two dozen of us had responded to an invitation from Soren Hauge and Jeremy Berg to tour Yeats country, connect with the land, and deepen our relationship with the Sidhe. Our route traced locations where the poet, W. B. Yeats and his artist friend, George AE William Russell had communed with the Sidhe a century before. Yeats wrote about Ben Bulben in his Mythologies:
“A little north of the town of Sligo, on the southern side of Ben Bulben, some hundreds of feet above the plain, is a small white square in the limestone. No mortal has ever touched it with his hand; no sheep or goat has ever browsed grass beside it. There is no more inaccessible place upon the earth, and to anxious consideration few more encircled by terror. It is the door of Faeryland. In the middle of night it swings open, and the unearthly troop rushes out."
We approached the mountain on the more accessible northeastern side and gathered in a circle to attune to the land and the Sidhe. I had heard that the veil is thin in Donegal but I was not prepared for how swiftly the world of the Sidhe opened up. I realized later the Irish Sidhe were waiting to welcome us. The land I stood on felt like it was growing thin. I could see through it to a realm within. I began to sink into the interior. But I yanked myself back—I did not like the passivity of the movement. Dissolving into subtle worlds has been all too easy for me in the past but I frequently felt a loss of identity in the process. I wanted to meet the Sidhe confidently, not passively. So I waited until we dispersed from our circle, each of us moving across the land to wherever we wanted to commune. I walked carefully, navigating across stiff clumps of grass to avoid the boggy spots, until I reached an area covered with small wild rhododendron clinging to the edge of a short cliff overlooking a rushing mountain stream.
I sat on a rock and quickly but conscientiously touched into my sovereignty and self light. Once fortified with a sense of self and agency, I presented myself to the Sidhe as a joyous and shiny human. The opening was just as swift as before. I can only describe some of the experience in words. Communication with the Sidhe takes place telepathically for me. It flows in images and emotions and sometimes I feel that what I remember afterward is less than actually took place. Here is what I can put into words. I sank into the mountain. A number of Sidhe greeted me. I sensed I was inside a dwelling with tall elegant cathedral-like arches. I had an impression of lovely colors and light. True to my wish to avoid passivity, I began to describe to the Sidhe what it’s like to be human on our side, so immersed are we in matter. I wanted to convey how difficult our lives can be, how hard I’ve worked during my life to rise out of trauma and pain. How precious to me are the strengths, insights, and compassionate love that have emerged in me from this struggle.
When I was finished with my description, I handed them a rolled-up sheaf of parchment papers. And I told them “These are maps of the human hearts of all of us who have come to visit you today.” I wanted them to know us better. In return, they asked me to hold my hands out. They placed in my right hand a golden apple and in the left, a silver apple. I recognized these from a Yeats poem, “The Song of Wandering Aengus,” where an old man seeks out his youthful vision of a “glimmering girl” and imagines walking with her in long dappled grass, plucking “… till time and times are done, the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun.”
Satisfied with this communication, I left the rock, drawn by the musical sound of the water below, weaving and splashing its way around curving banks and great midstream rocks. Down to Luke’s Bridge, over to the other side, then carefully again across boggy ground, I came to another rock seat at the very edge of the stream. I took off my hiking boots and thick socks and plunged my feet into the cold water. Then the Sidhe and I resumed our conversation. I was not surprised to learn they worked closely with the spirits of the water, the rocks, and plants. After enjoying the activity for some time, I asked them “What is your concern here? What is your science?” In response, they showed me a fish that looked like a large salmon. It rose halfway out of the water, its mouth gaping open. I realized with shock that it was dead. As my rational mind began to race over thoughts of poisoned waters and species extinction, the Sidhe pulled me back. They immediately flooded my being with joy, the utter beauty of the water dancing over the rocks, the richness of the different shades of green across the land, the brightness of the blue sky and white clouds, the wind drying my wet feet. My worries ceased, my heart lifted.
This felt important to me—my return to joy, their abiding in joy. All of the images and impressions I receive from the Sidhe contain a mystery. I focus more on how the communication makes me feel in my body than on how to interpret it in words. But this last message that day on Ben Bulben carries a weight that I can tentatively verbalize, as though we humans have a magic power in our ability to return to joy. It does not mean we ignore the pain, loss, and dangers in our world. But perhaps we lessen their impact or alchemically alter the course of events by returning to joy. It’s magic. Abide in joy.