Myth & Meaning
Celtic Myth
The Morrigan's Second Prophecy
At the end of the Second Battle of Moytura, Two of the battle goddesses known as The Morrigan speak prophecies. The first foretells a glorious time, but the second is a dire warning. It hit me like a gut punch. So like our decayed modern world. Truly a prophecy.
I shall not see a world that will be dear to me.
Summer without flowers, cows without milk,
Women without conscience, men not brave,
Conquests without a king,
Woods without fruit, fishless seas,
Bad judgements by old men,
False precedents of the lawgivers.
Every man a betrayer, each son a robber,
The son will enter the father’s bed
The father also in the bed of the son,
A brother becomes his own brother in law.
None will look for a woman outside his own house.
Oh evil time, son will deceive father, daughter will deceive mother.
The First Satire
“When a bard puts a satire upon you, that’ll destroy you in the eyes of your friends, in the eyes of your family, potentially in your own eyes, and if its a good enough satire, if it is finely worded enough, then even two or three hundred years after you’re dead people might still be laughing at you and your absurdity; that was why satires were feared.” - Alan Moore, BBC Maestro
The poet Coirpre delivered the first satire in Ireland against the half-Tuatha, half-Fomorian tyrannical king Breas. In Cath Magh Tuireadh (Battle of Moytura) Breas provided the lauded poet with a "narrow, black, dark little house, and three dry cakes to eat. The next day Coirpre casts this satire on Breas:
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"Without food quickly on a dish, Without cow’s milk on which a calf grows, Without a man’s habitation after darkness remains, Without paying a company of storytellers—let that be Breas’s condition".
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Breas immediately broke out into blisters. Because it was the case that no moan with a blemish or deformity could be king, his reign ended in disaster soon afterward.
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While we may not live in some magical past, a good satire is still feared by the powerful. Our modern "kings" portray a sense of moral authority or strength. Satire threatens to undermine that default frame once it catches and sticks like a new brand. A leader is re-labled a laughingstock. A modern example is Georgia State Rep Jason Spencer in 2018 resigned following the backlash stemming from Sacha Baron Cohen easily coached him to perform obscene and racist acts on his show Who Is America. This moment functioned like an analog of Coirpre's satire in mythic Ireland.
Modern Myths
Poetry
Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.
- Percy Bysshe Shelley
I will never cease wondering why it is that we allow ourselves to be lorded over and abused by oligarchs when it is we who create and build everything. Without us they have no workers, no customers. They are nothing. Yet we so easily remain under their thumb when we are legion. If we just all collectively sat down and said 'no' they would fold in a day.
The Guest House
This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.
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Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they're a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.
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Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond. - Rumi
This is one of the few poems I know by heart. Not only because it has been a great teacher to me personally (lessons I am far from perfect at), but because I used it extensively in therapy groups.
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People with substance use issues too often have great difficulty loving, even accepting what is. From the outside they can seem out of control, but really they are effective micromanagers of emotion. They tend NOT to welcome them, and to self-medicate away any they fear or dislike.
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Oh the eye rolls when I'd tell them 'today we're going to start with a poem'. I'd read it once. Twice. Then ask them to close their eyes and I'd read it a third and fourth time. Then ask them to simply sit with it for a moment.
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Then I invited discussions of what they feel the poem meant to them. And invite them to share about 'house guests' they welcomed, and those they wished to eject.
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After that, inevitably, I no longer needed to guide very much. Rumi had done his work, and the discussions were rich. Very often patients asked me for a copy of the poem to keep.
Folk Tales
Good Luck Or Bad Luck (source unknown, rewritten by me)
There was once an old man who lived at the edge of a village with his son and a horse.
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One morning he woke to find the paddock gate swinging open. His horse had broken free in the night and vanished into the hills. By midday, every neighbor had come by to offer their sympathies. "What terrible luck," they said. "To lose your only horse."
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The old man looked out at the empty paddock. "Who is to say whether it is bad luck?"
His neighbors went home shaking their heads, certain grief and stress had addled his mind.
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That very next night, the horse returned. And he didn't come alone. He led twelve wild horses through the gate, and the old man's son was quick enough to close it behind them. Where there had been one horse, now thirteen nickered and stamped their glossy hooves. The neighbors were back at the fence the next morning. "What extraordinary good luck," they said.
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"Who is to say whether it is good luck?" the old man replied.
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Some days later, the son climbed onto one of those wild horses to train him. The stallion had never known a rider. The horse threw him. The boy fell hard, and his leg was broken in two and had to be splinted. The neighbors gathered again. "What terrible bad luck, your only son."
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"Who is to say whether it is good luck or bad luck?" said the old man.
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The next day the militia came through the valley, conscripting every able-bodied young man to fight in a war many would not survive. They trudged through the village and took every son they could find. When they reached the old man's home and saw his boy lying in bed with a splinted leg, they moved on. "How lucky you are," the neighbors said.
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And the old man smiled.