"To Brighid of despair” by Jenne Micale

 

To Brighid of despair 

 

She is there for you, beloved, in the warmth

of fire, in the strong walls warding off the chill,

in the softness of bread against your lips.

It doesn’t matter if you believe, if

you can feel her hand against your back.

The candle drives back the shadow: belief

is not required, only wax and a spark.

You press palms against your eyes and look for signs

You press palms against your ears and listen

for a word and nothing trickles through the shell

that encases you, an accretion of grief.

You say there are no signs, there are no words

and nothing shining that can possibly

touch you, and those conversations you once

delighted in the false lake that appears

in the sand on parched days, that guiding hand

only the cruel illusion offered to

the lonely staggering in the desert

that only the senses can measure truth,

and the truth they measure only despair.

She knows this story, she remembers when

Ruadán lay crumpled at her feet, a spear

cast through, her head thrown back and a wailing

that cracked even the hardest stone. Eyes closed

and ears deafened to everything but the hole

gobbling the very dimensions of his

familiar shape, only a silence there

that swallowed every prayer. And so she knows

you can’t hear her now, feel her hand in your hair,

that your eyes cannot see the signs she sends:

yellow asters burning by the highway,

the dawn wind subtly humming your gold name.

So friend, don’t look for her there, not quite yet.

She is the fire and the furnace, the light

dancing in the bulb, the warmth of your flesh.

Start with light and heat: those others will come

for every swan must first peck through that shell

driven by the warmth of their mother’s long

sitting, every seed must first break

after weathering by winter and wind

until the light sparks that very first leaf

and once again you feel her rushing in

Image: "Despair 1" painting by Lette Valeska, 1954. Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.

"At the Holy Well” by Mael Brigde

At the Holy Well

Hill of Tara, 2 May 2023

at the holy well

I brushed my fingers

across soft

stinging hairs of nettle

in my eagerness to meet

cows who gathered there

this well shared on

either side of a wooden fence

blessing cattle

blessing us

what a rare   still

joyous moment

to reach inside the

stoney spring mouth

ferns blossoming from shadowed rock 

petals scattered on the pool

for Bealtaine

to cup the cool water

in my palm

to pour in yours

these few small drops

of divine compassion

to anoint myself

forehead   throat  belly

to move through hill and pathway

in this silent place

Image: Cattle drinking from a small stone trough above a stream. Second photo shows the holy well connected to this trough. 

Orthodox Hymns to St Brigit of Kildare

 In my reading today I have stumbled across Orthodox Wiki and its entry on "Our venerable Mother Brigid of Kildare or Brigid of Ireland.” Included are four hymns to St. Brigit, which I include below.

Troparion (Tone 1) [1]

O holy Brigid, you became sublime through your humility,

and flew on the wings of your longing for God.

When you arrived in the eternal City and appeared before your Divine Spouse,

wearing the crown of virginity,

you kept your promise

to remember those who have recourse to you.

You shower grace upon the world, and multiply miracles.

Intercede with Christ our God that He may save our souls.

Kontakion (Tone 4) [2]

The holy virgin Brigid full of divine wisdom,

went with joy along the way of evangelical childhood,

and with the grace of God/ attained in this way the summit of virtue.

She now bestows blessings upon those who come to her with faith.

O holy Virgin, intercede with Christ our God

that He may have mercy on our souls.

Apolytikion (Tone 4) [3]

Having learned of things divine by the words of Patrick,

thou hast proclaimed in the West the good tidings of Christ.

Wherefore, we venerate thee, O Brigid,

and entreat thee to intercede with God that our souls be saved.

Kontakion (Tone 3) [4]

At the Church of the Oak, thou didst establish thy sacred monasteries

for those that took up the Tree of life,

even the Precious Cross, upon their shoulders.

And by thy grace-filled life and love of learning,

thou didst bear fruit a hundredfold and didst thereby nourish the faithful.

O righteous Mother Brigid, intercede with Christ, the True Vine, that He save our souls.

Image: St. Brigid icon written by Bulgarian iconographer Georgi Chimev.

"St. Brigid’s Eve” by Franciscan Richard Hendrick

 

St. Brigid’s Eve 

This night, 

they would hang the cloths 

for birthing and healing

over the thorn branches 

for her blessing,

that as she walked the land 

the divine dew, twice sanctified 

by the dawn and the day both, 

might soak them sacred again 

and enrich them with this vigil’s virtue

for the passing of all pain.

This night,

they would sweep the hearth and house 

and bless the barn and the beasts,

settling the kine as Queens

in the golden hay of gratitude 

for their animal alchemy.

This night, 

they would leave out 

the old gifts of grace, 

the milk and the salt and the bread,

and light the lamp in the window 

with love for her,

their princess, passing in peace.

This night, 

the stranger that knocked 

would be welcomed and warmed,

invited to stretch their feet 

before the fire 

and offer a story to the circle.

This night, 

as the Moon rose over the mountains 

the old songs were sung,

and the women watched and waited

plaiting the rushes and the reeds

into ancient patterns of power.

This night,

as all surrender to sleep

she walks the land lightly,

breathing blessing, 

over barn and beast and babe,

she who fears no dark,

goddess named and God re-born,

by water and fire and blood,

in the Three who are One.

This night,

our ancient Abbess 

and lady of the Light,

of Kildare’s 

Oaken cell,

she whose cloak enfolds

the land she loves

comes by.

For this night,

is Brigid’s

night.

Source: Brother Richard's blog: mindful mystical musings.

Image: Dew on oak leaf in Toronto, Canada. Photo by Kyle Hinkson on Unsplash.