The Grey Blue Ocean Melted Into the Horizon

The sculpted green coastline of western Ireland acts as a chalice rim for the grey blue ocean that has melted into the horizon of soft clouds. A gentle sea cooled breeze calmly refreshes the morning grasses. Two mares, one roan, the other speckled grey, nurse their colts as the seagulls awaken to fish for breakfast. The village is quiet, the work has not yet begun for those who will labor this day. And I am at peace with myself and in love with the one whom I share the bed in which she sleeps. If life where to end in this moment, with this vision of Mother Earth in my soul, I could know that, indeed, all is well and I will rest at ease for all eternity.

Strandhill is just a few minutes up the coast from Sligo, home of all things WB Yeats. This sacred ground has been the home to the those who most likely migrated from France more than 6,000 years ago. The remains of those ancient peoples still rest in mounds of earth and stone tombs giving testament to their astronomical genius. They built their monuments and stone circles over 3400 years before the Christians adjusted their calendar to match the mystical magistery of those who knew the divine intimately in all of creation. Here, atop the flat topped mountain Knockarea, Queen Maeve is buried standing in her armor, still protecting and providing spiritual guidance for all who walk in her realm.

To ensure such spiritual energy has eternal grace across all of Ireland, the Queen’s tomb, built 500 years before the more well known burial tomb of Newgrange, lies on the same meridian as the tombs of Howth and Tara (all a part of the Newgrange Triangle). These ancient tombs were built within concentric circles connected in triangles across the isle. Their builders understood the power of astronomy, mathematics and philosophy thousands of years before Pythagoras and Hermès Trismegistus penned their wisdom. Reality is knowledge and has always been magus for those who have ears to hear and eyes to see.

Here, in this isolated place, in this tiny village on the northwestern coast of Ireland, modern man has learned to walk lightly on the earth. The Irish do not feel ownership of this land, but instead, the responsibility of the stewardship of the gift they have inherited. These people are like the young colts lying in the pasture below; resting peacefully, mother nearby. The giver of life who needs the verdant countryside in order to nourish her baby. These two colts are the microcosm of the microcosm that cares for them—all a significant part of the Great One. No matter how small, the weak colts need the Mother One as much as the One needs them to continue to bring life to the field through their unbridled love.

The ravens overhead are reminding me that pilgrimage is in the present moment, for there is none other. The past’s currency is in the anamnesis, memory that transmutes. For I am changed by the present, knowing that such existence is all there is, all there will be. I too, as a weak colt, will gather up my strength and begin another walk of the Wicklow with fellow pilgrims. Living fully in the present, breathing in the mystery, the magic, and the knowledge that the Great One will share with us along the Way—I will live as if I have been buried alongside Queen Maeve; committed to the spiritual guidance of those who walk in the energy of the now.