Lugh, The Striker, and The Sun

This coin is one of a commemorative collection that all portray a scene from popular Irish myths. I might talk later about the other coins in the series, but this is the one that resonates with me the most.

 

This coin shows an image of Lugh charging down the hosts of the Chthonic beings known as Fomorians, or Fomoraigh in Irish.

 

The Fomoraigh were a race of mythical beings who settled in Ireland before the coming of the race of Gods (called Tuatha De Danann) and the race of the current Irish population (called Milesians). Direct comparisons are tricky when it comes to Irish myth, but it’s reasonable to compare them to Jotnar or Titans. The Fomorians were sea pirates who regularly landed in Ireland to plunder and enslave its other inhabitants. Their portrayal in myth is heavily influenced by the actions of the Viking raiders around the time Christian monks and traveling poets were writing these stories down.

 

The Fomorians were primarily opposed to the Tuatha De Danann, the People of the Goddess Danu.

 

Lugh was a young warrior who was half Fomorian and half Tuatha De. He was raised in secret fosterage away from his people until he was grown to manhood, at which point he entered into the King’s hall and introduced himself as a warrior and a master of every conceivable skill and art. Because of his considerable talents, youthful vigor, and eagerness to fight, the old King Nuada hands over authority to Lugh. This was probably intended to be a temporary arrangement, but things turned out otherwise in the end.

 

A common trope you’ll see these days claims that Lugh was a solar God for the pre-Christian Irish. This isn’t true, but rather it’s an invention of the Victorian era, which probably stems from an incorrect translation of Lugh’s name to mean “light.” The only surviving manuscript which hints at a solar connection dates from the 16th century, and even that manuscript says that Lugh actually isn’t the sun.

 

“Bres rose up and said: “Isn’t it a wonder to see the sun rising in the west today.”

“It might be better if it were the sun,” said the Druids.

“What else is it?” said he.

“It’s the shining of the face of Lugh.”

– From Oidheadh Chloinne Tuireann

 

So the Druids confirm that it isn’t the sun approaching, just the bright face of Lugh. In other words, Lugh and the sun are not the same thing.

 

On the back of this coin is a knotwork of fairly common Irish design, which has become so prevalent in all things Celtic since the Celtic Revival in the 19th century. This side contains a great deal of detail, including animal motifs hidden inside the intricate flowing knots.

 

Although Lugh is shown on one side with the sun flashing at his back as he charges down a host of enemies, this image doesn’t resonate with me on any solar level. I just can’t make the mental leap necessary to proclaim Lugh as a solar God despite the evidence to the contrary.

 

But he does fall into the Striker category reasonably neatly when examined through the structure Jack Donovan lays out in his book, Fire In The Dark.

 

Lugh comes to the aid of his people, who are beset on all sides by chaos, greed, and resentment. The Fomoraigh have basically enslaved the Tuatha De Danann, who haven’t been able to resist. Then Lugh arrives, and when he’s asked what he is and what he can do, he says that he can be whatever he needs to be to get the job done.

 

Lugh unites the forces of Order and drives out the Chthonic Fomorians using his spear and his magic. He inspires others to stand up for themselves and assert their will and independence. He kills a fierce being of malice and destruction when he strikes out the magic eye of Balor (which inflicts paralysis) using his sling stone.

 

He lacks some of the symbolism of The Striker which is common in other traditions. His weapon is a spear, not a club or hammer. He isn’t related to the lightning or the oak in the myths, although there is an aspect of storm symbolism in some folklore sources. Also, two of his names are Lonnbemnech (pronounced long-BEV-neck) which means “fierce striker,” and also Rindagach, which means something like “eager to fight with a spear.” The word lonn is also used to describe lightning. Lasrach lonn is an Irish phrase for lightning, and it means something like “fierce flames or lights.” His relation to the spear is evident, that’s just what he fights with, but you could argue that lightning is probably more spearlike than clublike.

 

So although the idea of Lugh having a solar aspect doesn’t hold up to scrutiny, the tangle of knots on the back of this gold-plated coin reminds me of a solar eye, or perhaps a solar engine of motion, dynamism, and light. The playful dance of light across the knots on the back reminds me of the bright eye of The Father watching me in silent judgment, while the image of Lugh charging down a host of foes fills me with Striker energy.

 

These are just some of the thoughts which have occurred to me while using this coin as a focus for meditation. I usually carry this coin everywhere I go in my pocket, separate from my other coins, which are mere currency. In times of doubt, I flip the coin and trust to its decision.

 

Little artifacts like this can often prove invaluable when imbued with the right intent. They can serve as a totem for focus, a source of inspiration, a cure for indecision, or a trigger for different modes of thought. If that’s not magic, then I don’t know what is.

 


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The Striker and How The Dagda Got His Staff

“I am Aed Abaid of Es Ruad, also called Ruad Rofhessa and Eochaid Ollathair. These are my names. I am the Good God, a druid of the Tuatha Dé Danann. An Dagda.”

 

And there he was, An Dagda, with Cermait Milbél, one of his sons, on his back. Cermait had fallen in combat to the frenzy of Lugh, High King of the Tuatha Dé, for the sake of a woman’s embrace. The woman was Buach, the wife of Lugh. As it often happens with the wives of great men, she endured much loneliness and often turned in the dark hours to her husband’s pillow, only to find it cold and bare.

 

So Cermait, the Dagda’s son, lay with her, because of which Cermait was slain by Lugh. The Dagda considered his vast horde of mystical knowledge, then he surrounded Cermait’s body with herbs and began chanting such spells as he knew.

 

This done, he lifted Cermait and, bearing the lifeless body of his son upon his back, he searched the world until he came to the far eastern realms of the Earth.
 In that strange and distant land, he met three men going along the road carrying three treasures. The Dagda conversed with them, and they said;

 

“We three are the sons of one father and mother, and we are sharing our father’s treasures, as is right for sons to do.”

 


”What treasures have ye?” asked the Dagda.


 

“A great shirt and a staff and a cloak,” said they.


 

“What virtues have these to be considered treasures?” said the Dagda.


 

“This great staff here,” said the eldest of them, “has a smooth end and a rough end. The rough slays the living, and the smooth revives the dead.”


 

“What of the shirt and the cloak?” said the Dagda, “What are their virtues?”


 

“He who wears the cloak may take on any shape, form, figure, or color that he chooses. As for the one who wears the shirt, grief or sickness could never touch the skin that it covers.”


 

“Truly?” said he.


 

“Very truly,” said they.


 

“Put the staff in my hand,” said the Dagda.

 

Then the youngest of them lent him the staff, for the Dagda had been good company as he almost always was. Then, with great speed, he put the rough end upon them thrice, and they fell dead in the road.

 

After this, he pressed the smooth end upon his son’s breast, and the lad arose in the fullness of his strength and health. Cermait put his hands on his face like one waking early from a dream, then rose and looked at the three dead men that lay before him.


 

“Who are these three dead men in our path?” said Cermait to his father.


 

“Three men that I met,” said the Dagda, “sharing their father’s treasures. They lent me this staff. I slew them with one end and brought yourself to life with the other end.”


 

“It would be a sad story to tell at a feast,” said Cermait, “if they should not be given back their lives by that which caused me to live.”

 


The Dagda agreed and put the smooth end of the staff upon them, and the three brothers arose in the fullness of their health and strength.


 

“Do ye know that ye had been slain,” said the Dagda, “with your father’s staff?”


 

“We know it,” said they, “and you have taken an unfair advantage of us.”


 

“I have knowledge of your staff and its virtues,” said the Dagda, “and I have given you your three lives when I might have kept them. Now lend me the staff to take to my home far to the west of this land.”


 

“What bond have we that our father’s staff will ever come back to us?”


 

“The sun and moon, land and sea, provided that I might slay foes and give life to friends with its magic.”


 

Under that condition, a loan of the staff was given to him.


 

“How shall we share the treasures we have?” said they. “For we are three sons, but only two treasures remain to us.”


 

“Two of you must bear the treasures and one without any until his turn come round at some predetermined interval until the staff is returned to you.”

 


Then he brought that staff away and went home with his son. With it, he gave death to his foes and life to his friends.

 

In time, he took the kingship of his people by means of that staff.

 

However, the days of the Dagda’s kingship were numbered, as are the days of all things, and the time would come where the Dagda’s kingship would be ended and new kings would take his place.

 

Indeed time has been so cruel to the Dagda and his sons and all of that fair Tribe that those of us now living would hardly ever know that they lived at all were it not for the old tales that we tell.


 

I originally posted this little tale to my old blog, Unchaining The Titan, while it was still active.

 

This is my interpretation of an obscure story titled “How The Dagda Got His Staff” from the Yellow Book Of Lecan manuscript. It was written in Old Irish, and like all Old Irish literature, it rarely gets much attention.

 

But something in it spoke to people.

 

It was very well received, and people told me how much they enjoyed reading it, even though many of them had no prior knowledge of Irish myth and some had never heard of An Dagda or his son Cermait.

 

I’ve always been fascinated by the character of Dagda because of his many parallels to the Indo-European figure of The Striker.

 

The Striker is a character who appears in many Indo-European mythologies and usually bears similar characteristics.

 

The Striker wields a fiersome club or hammer with the power of life and death and upon which oaths are sworn. He also goes out beyond the borders of his people and slays his enemies. One of his primary foes is often a great sea beast like a dragon or sea-snake or, in Dagda’s case, a kind of octopus. In the Indo-European worldview, The Striker is typically either a son or an ally of the Sky Father character.

 

The Striker, in his many aspects, has always appealed to me for obvious reasons.

 

Linguists have reconstructed the Proto-Indo-European root word per-, which means “to strike,” and also perkus, which means “the oak tree.” Many Striker figures in Western Indo-European cultures have names that contain versions of this root word per-, such as the Slavic God Perun, Belarusian Piarun, Lithuanian Perkunas, Norse Fjorgyn, who was the mother of Thor, and possibly Erc Mac Cairpri in Irish (though this last connection is tenuous).

 

However, the most well-known personification of The Striker in modern culture is Thor, the Norse God who was a son of Odin. Thor wielded a hammer with which he slew his people’s enemies and which also had the power to bring the dead back to life, as he did with his own goats. The hammer was used to bless marriages and funerals and possibly to seal oaths and agreements. With his hammer, Thor fought and eventually slew the great sea-serpent Jormungand. All of this is a clear parallel to other Striker figures from different cultures.

 

Strikers are usually associated with lightning and mountains and sometimes oak trees, for obvious reasons. Lightning strikes mountaintops and tall oak trees more often, and so these can be said to be the domain of The Striker.

 

So the root words per and perkus gave rise to various European deities whose names were probably derived from some pre-existing Striker, and so too is the name of the Dagda. One of his names is Cercce. Old Irish had no letter P, so the word was likely adapted into a local variant with a C instead of a P. But even despite these many apparent connections to The Striker, there’s more to old Dagda than meets the eye.

 

You see, the Dagda is also a parallel for the Indo-European Sky Father as well as his son, The Striker. Dagda’s name means both Good God and Shining or Bright God. The Indo-European Sky Father figure is always associated with the bright daylight sky. His name has been reconstructed by linguists as Dyaus Phter, meaning “Father God of The Daylight Sky.”

 

Another of Dagda’s names is Ollathair, which means Great Father and is cognate with the Norse God Odin’s name of Allfather. There are other tales that better illustrate Dagda in his role of father, king, and leader of his people than the story of how he got his staff, but it’s still fascinating that this one figure can have so many connections to prehistoric deities.

 

It’s important to note that we don’t know much for sure about the Proto-Indo-European peoples. They wrote nothing down, left little archaeological evidence, and weren’t written about by any contemporaries. But yet we know from linguistic and genetic evidence that their culture spread out from the Eastern steppes into Europe and down into Iran and India. Wherever they went, they carried their culture and established themselves as the dominant people across a vast territory, which stills carries on evolved forms of their legacy to this day. Just as the Indo-Europeans can be easily recognized in Indian culture, they can also be identified in Irish culture and myth.

 

So in this jovial character called Dagda by the Irish, we have two men, one young and one old.

 

A Striker and a Father.

 

The Striker is a young man, a warrior with explosive and expansive energy. He goes out beyond the boundaries of the known world into unfamiliar and hostile territory, risks his neck, slays foes and monsters, and he returns with great treasures that are a blessing to his people.

 

The Sky Father is an older man, wise and stern and judgmental. He is harsh and holds his people to high standards as he looks down from heaven. He rules over and establishes order in his domain so that his people are protected from chaos. When necessary, he sends his sons out to confront that chaos before it takes root in his kingdom.

 

These ancient and ethereal archetypes are embodied, however imperfectly, in the Irish Dagda. It’s unclear to what extent the pre-Christian Irish knew about or revered the Dagda or if they even worshipped him at all.

 

But there has to be something to these stories. They can’t be complete fabrications of Christian scribes and secular poets. There are too many parallels, too many connections to stories from across the European mythosphere, which carry echoes of older tales and older gods.

 

Upon these stories lie the fingerprints of our ancestors, our great fathers and mothers who preceded us by many thousands of years. We can never know what they thought or who they worshipped and how, but we can find traces. Those remnants of their identity and their worldview can shine a light upon who we are today.

 

Who are we, those of us who have inherited the cultures passed down from our Indo-European forefathers from out of time immemorial?

 

We are Strikers and Fathers.

 

We are the ones who go out beyond the borders of safety to confront chaos at its source. We protect what is ours, and we establish order for the ones we love while also nurturing a new generation of Strikers and Fathers.

 

That is the ideal we have to live up to. It isn’t easy, but it’s a noble goal.

 

How can we embody The Striker and The Sky Father in our daily lives?

 

Seek out the chaos in your life and impose order upon it, then maintain that order so that future generations can grow and prosper. Teach your children to be strong and wise and kind. Destroy anything that threatens the security of your ordered domain. Seek out monsters and demons and foes to crush, not because you hate them, but because your job is to protect what is yours.

 

That all sounds great on paper, of course, but how are we modern men who live soft lives of comfort to live up to this brutal and, perhaps, archaic ideal?

 

Well, chaos embodies itself in many forms, not just in monsters and sea demons. We’ve all got a little chaos in our lives, a little doubt and stress and vulnerability. Identify where the cracks are in your life. Is your marriage secure? Are your children protected? Will they grow up to be strong and wise? 

 

Are you financially stable? Are you fat or sick? Do you need more training or experience?

 

Small daily acts which promote order and reduce the chaos in your life can add up over time to great things. Even little things like fixing that leaky pipe in your house before it becomes a major problem is an act of establishing order. That leak could become, in time, a flood that destroys your home and puts your family on the street in the night, where more sinister monsters lurk.

 

So look for the chaos, the uncertainty in your life. Wrestle with that chaos and impose your will upon it. Then nurture your people and family so that they too will grow to grapple with chaos.

 

Learn to love the struggle and hardship of daily life because in those struggles lie the opportunity to embody Striker and Father energy which will be a blessing on you and those you love.

 

This is the legacy you have inherited from your Indo-European forefathers and foremothers, and this is just one of the many lessons we can learn from studying old myths like the seemingly innocuous story of how The Dagda got his staff.

The Boats Go Down To The Hungry Sea

The boats go down to the hungry sea
And I, aloft on some high hill, cry out,
But soft, so as not to wake the thrushes.
For in the meadows and the bushes 
I’ve sung out and I’ve roared,
As the boats go down to the hungry sea
And the men cast out from shore,
While the women drive them onward 
With their hankies and their jests
And the children question softly
As the sun sinks in the west.
Then I call, but oh so softly  
So as not to wake the thrushes.
For the God I’ve followed blindly 
Is asleep beneath the bushes.
And the dead sun will return 
Some other violet day, 
But the boats have gone to the hungry sea 
And the men have gone astray.
And whatever follows after,
Whether victory or woe,
Will be just another chapter
In a story long since told.
But the men who braved the seas 
Will no more play a part,
And the only ones remaining,
The ones who wouldn’t start. 
Then I, upon my hilltop,
Will cry aloud no more,
And the crabs will claim the flotsam 
That bobs against the shore.
White tides will keep on rolling.
New suns will fly above.
‘Til the seas once more grow hungry 
For boats and men and blood. 

 

I’ve been thinking recently about the theme of sacrifice.

 

When things are good, when we feel comfortable, we rarely have to think about willingly giving up the things we care about.

 

But in times of hardship, we must give up what we care about now in exchange for the things we’ll care about in future. Mankind is a genius in that respect. We know that the future exists, and we know that what we do right now has the power to affect that future. Other animals haven’t figured that out just yet. This gives us a significant advantage over other animals when it comes to times of crisis.

 

In a crisis, you’ll know the right thing to do because it will be the thing you least want to do, or the thing you must sacrifice will be the thing you most want to keep. This is our animal instinct speaking up and telling us to take care of right now, to think about our immediate desires and gratify our impulses immediately.

 

But we possess a higher instinct that tells us to weigh up our options and consider if we might be better off delaying gratification in the present to potentially receive a greater reward in the future.

 

This is the nature of sacrifice, and it rarely makes us happy. But despite our aversion to sacrifice, it is entirely essential to human survival and progress. In war, we send our sons to the slaughter. They may not return, and if they do return, they return changed, possibly unrecognizable. At home, parents must sacrifice their selfish desires and ambitions, and all their spare time and resources too, for the sake of their children’s potential prosperity. And they must do this with no expectation of their children appreciating or repaying their devotion. During times of mental despair and doubt, we must send what is best, strongest, and most capable in us down into the depths to battle our demons. Frequently the agents we send on these missions do not return, or they return utterly changed. This is the risk we take whenever we interact with the world. We must gamble at high stakes for the chance to create a better future.

 

Many have remarked upon this fact of life and found it to be sad. But not me.

 

I think there’s great glory in going out into death and danger for the sake of the ones we care about. I think those called to make great sacrifices in times of trial are blessed by the Fates with an opportunity to show real courage and fortitude, though I’m sure they don’t feel that way themselves at the time.

 

I often put myself into their shoes and wonder how I would react. How would I rationalize my way out of it? How would I justify cowardice? What would it take to make me leave everything I care about and give myself over to some noble cause? How much, exactly, am I prepared to give up? As a father with dependants who count on me, how much do I have a right to give up?

 

I don’t have the answers to all those questions, and the few answers I do have I ain’t sharing.

 

But I think it’s essential that we ask these questions of ourselves so that we’ve got some of the groundwork done before we’re ever faced with the decision to sacrifice our selfish desires in service to others.

 

When we sacrifice, we serve some greater purpose than our ego and urges. To be of service is a high and noble calling. To serve our families, our communities, our people, our nation. There are all kinds of ways we can make ourselves of service to a great and worthy cause. But to be of service, we must first be fit for service. We must first make sacrifices for our own sake to become the type of person who could be useful to others at need.

 

This is why I always say that the right thing to do is improve yourself, then improve your family, then your people, then the world.

 

But always start with yourself.

 

These are the thoughts that went through my mind when I wrote this poem. It came to me over the course of about 20 minutes while I was driving. It sprung up as I thought of a verse from Havamal that begins: “The eagle comes to the ancient sea.”

 

It was the rhythm of that line that inspired the first line of this poem, and from there, connections were made and images appeared which gave birth to the poem you see here. While I drove, I composed it in my head and recorded it into my phone. It came in one flow, and I didn’t change a word after I recorded it.

 

It ain’t the world’s best poem, but something in it speaks to me.

 

I don’t know what it all means. Much of it is a mystery to me. But that’s because it isn’t really mine. It came through me from somewhere else, someplace no man has traveled.

 

That’s what it’s like to be a writer, sometimes. You think you’re creating something clever and vital, but it isn’t really you. It comes from somewhere else entirely, through you. You could call it divine inspiration, and indeed many writers have done so for thousands of years.

 

But you’ve got to give these things up. They don’t belong to you.

 

Once you’ve created something, you give it to the world and let the world do as it will with it. It’s the same for your poems, your stories, your children, your work, your health, your mind, and your identity. Everything you have will be taken from you in time, so make the best use of what you’ve got while you can.

 

Because one day, you’ll have to give it all back to the world. So you’d probably be better off giving things back right now, while you’ve got a choice in the matter.

 

Ask yourself what vision you’d wish to make manifest in the future, what would you change about the world if you had the power to do so. Then ask yourself what you need to do to make it happen. Then give up everything that doesn’t serve your purpose.

 

You can start small with this process before making any dramatic changes to your life. You could start by giving up social media, or coffee, or beer, or pointless relationships. A small sacrifice, not very dramatic in the grand scheme of things, but an excellent place to start.

 

Why don’t you start letting go of little things today and see what you can do without them?

 

Exercise your capacity to sacrifice for the greater good so that you can make those grand selfless offerings to the future when you get the call.

Sailing To Érin : Mythic Migration from the Irish Perspective

 

None know for certain from whence the island of Èrin was sprung, though I like the symbolism of Frank Mill’s modern account which says she was birthed from a song which the winds sung to the seas. Regardless, she was born and eventually she sprouted life. Great murky forests of oak and ash and birch and rowan covered the island, interspersed with wide open grassy plains on which horses rode like traveling kings, and dank misty bogs of ancient peat which would swallow up any careless creature who wandered too deep into its mire. Back then there were giants on these lands; literal Giants like the Irish Elk with his murderous horns spread out from horizon to horizon. This is how it was for a long time in Èrin, longer than any human mind could fathom, and for all this time the island was devoid of human life. But eventually that changed and the history of Èrin as we know it was begun.

 

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Mogh Roth: The Techno-God.

Smartphone Addiction sounds absurd when you say the words. What normal human being would possibly allow themselves to become dependent on the dim blue light of a computer screen, right? But as absurd as it may sound, smartphone addiction is a real problem, and it’s a problem that we are probably all affected by. That seemingly innocent but slightly reassuring blue light from the screen of your phone, a window into the unlimited realms of knowledge available online, wields more power over your subconscious mind than you might realize. On a very basic level, we find the blue and white light of the screen to be immediately satisfying because of its resemblance to a clear sky. Prolonged exposure to the light of a smartphone screen fools your brain into releasing the same hormones that it releases on a beautiful clear day. The kind of day that we can no longer truly appreciate because we are too busy Instagramming about it.

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Crom Cruach: The Dark God of the Burial Mound.

the ancient pagan Irish once worshipped a sinister and mysterious deity, commonly known as Crom Cruach. However, we are told that he was saluted by other names too. Crom Dubh, Crom Croich, and Cenn Cruach. The meaning of the name of this enigmatic spirit is as mysterious as his history. Crom means “crooked”, Cenn means “head” or “chieftain”, Dubh means “dark” or “black”, Croich means “gallows”, and Cruach means either “bloody” or “mound”. I would not argue that etymology alone should be the means by which we build an understanding of our unknown history, but it is certainly a significant indicator of intent. Taking these things into account we could loosely translate the many titles of Crom as meaning:

“The Dark Crooked Lord of the Bloody Mound.”

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WOODKERN

woodkern artwork

The word Kern is an anglicized version of the Gaelic word “Ceithern” which translates roughly as “a warlike group”. Woodkern can thus be described as “bands of warlike men who dwell in the woods”. Though the phrase Woodkern refers to men who lived during a specific period of time, they belonged to a very old tradition that dates back throughout the ages of recorded history into times of legend and myth. These men were often described as outcast or outlaws, but in reality they were usually men of good social standing and wealth. They would have needed the funds to supply their own arms and equipment and they would also have needed more skill in the arts of warfare than the average peasant or farmer would have had. Warbands such as these were common throughout history and those who operated in this manner have been known by many names at different periods of time.

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