#7--EQUINOX AT LOUGHCREW
Last month our travelers enjoyed being "Irish For A Day," and now
looked forward to the primary purpose of the trip--a visit to the Loughcrew
Cairns.
* * * *
Four years ago, Michele and Bob visited stone circles and passage
tombs throughout Ireland. At the Loughcrew Cairns in the Irish Midlands
Michele had discovered some fascinating energy manifestations that she
wanted to investigate further. At that time she had also learned that,
just as the passage at Newgrange is penetrated by the sun on Winter
Solstice, Cairn T at Loughcrew is penetrated by the sun on the Autumn
Equinox. The primary purpose of this year's dowsing tour was to discover
just what happens when the sun enters the passage and strikes the carved
symbols on the cave walls.
Loughcrew is a fascinating complex of over forty sites located on
three hills in County Meath. The highest of these hills--Cairnbane
East--is also known as Sliabh na Caillighe--or Mountain of the Hag--and
Cairn T, the site of the Equinox phenomenon, is also the site of "The Hag's
Chair," a large stone "seat" just north of the passage. Our trip was
planned so that we would be at Cairn T on the Equinox. But what if cloudy
skies prevented the sun from appearing? Would we have come all this way
for nothing? Rain is always more likely than sunshine in Ireland, but we
did have a three-day window. The sun's rays enter the passage the day
before the Equinox, on the Equinox itself, and on the day after. We
arrived two days early to orient ourselves before the actual event.
* * * *
We park at the base of Cairnbane East and don hiking boots. I look
at the Cairn, the top of which is hidden by mists. Concrete steps and a
skinny metal gate mark the beginning of the path. Can I climb this
hill--much higher and steeper than Newgrange or Knowth? I don't know but
start trudging up ahead of the others.
Rain silvers the valley below and muddies the slope already
slippery from the feet of hundreds of other pilgrims. A few early risers
are already coming down. "What did you find?" I ask, and they eagerly pull
out their maps to show me their energy discoveries.
I continue up the path, and now there are no other hikers. I walk
alone. I walk and walk--but the top is nowhere in sight. I think I should
be there by now, but as long as I'm following a well-trod path, I must be
on the right track. It's just me and the mountain and the mists--onward,
upward, through the slippery mud and grass--until suddenly I hear a
voice--"Up here!" I can barely make out Bob standing above me like a ghost
in the mists. I'm disoriented. He started walking after I did. How could
he be above me without having passed me? He is wondering the same thing,
and we discover that I've been following a cow path around the Cairn
instead of the people path straight to the top. How many times would I
have spiraled around the hill if the group hadn't wondered where I was? I
slog up the slippery slope. When I reach the rest of the party, I sing a
line from Amazing Grace--"I once was lost, but now I'm found...."
The top of the hill is an alien world--separated from the rest of
the Universe by mists below and clouds above. We are suspended out of time
in this strange realm--joined by other pilgrims who wander about the
bizarre landscape exploring cairns and circles and passages and pits.
Just how many separate features are there in this complex known as The
Loughcrew Cairns? They are identified alphabetically and on top of this
hill alone are Features R1, R2, S, T, U, V, and W. A through L are
located on Cairnbane West which we will explore another day.
A locked gate prevents access to the Cairn T Passage, but Bob has
obtained the key. We enter and are surprisingly alone inside the dark
passage. Armed with flashlights and dowsing rods, we are astounded by the
myriad symbols covering the walls. And each seems to have a distinctive
energy--some produce dizziness, others a sense of wellbeing. When we leave
the passage, perhaps an hour later, we feel attuned--to each other and to
the place itself.
The trip down the slippery hill is worse than the hike
up--especially dangerous for a recent hip replacement survivor who dares
not chance falling. But we reach the bottom and leave the mysteries of
Cairn T behind while we engage in the Irish-For-A-Day experience described
in last month's newsletter.
* * * *
As mentioned at the end of the Irish-For-A-Day piece, we slept well
that night after the many activities on the Murtagh Family Farm. One of
the trip's rituals as we gathered for breakfast each morning was to report
and discuss our previous night's dreams. Michele would determine the
nature of the dreams--whether prophetic or the result of "energetic
attachments"--and we would either "clear the energy" or discuss the dream's
relevance to the purpose of our trip. On this particular morning I
reported having dreamed of Charles, the American student who, with his
parents, had participated in the Irish-For-A-Day activities. I had noticed
him, not only because he was an American, but because he was a skilled
bodhran player and had sung Amazing Grace at the Ceilidh. In my dream,
however, he did nothing--merely sat in a chair.
"He had something to say to you," announced Michele. "Did you talk
to him after the Ceilidh?"
"No, not really, I just said 'good-bye.'"
"You should have talked to him, he had something to tell you."
"Well, I didn't know that, and I guess it's too late now," I said,
feeling somehow remiss and regretting that I had even brought it up. The
conversation went to other topics and we prepared for our second journey up
the hill. This was the day before the Equinox, but the sun was completely
hidden by clouds.
Still we slogged up the hill, making sure that I followed the
correct path. Once at the top, there was no point in going into the
passage since there was no hope of seeing any sun rays, but Michele had
planned other activities. She sent one person following the energy from
Cairn T to the east. She sent another to look for missing stones.
"And what should I do?" I asked.
"Ask where it is most advantageous to be at this particular moment."
I did and moved to where I was guided. "Now what?"
"Ask what you should be paying attention to."
As I did that, the rods zipped around to point at a figure in the
mist. I strained to see who it was. "It's Charles!" I said in surprise,
"Charles and his parents!."
Michele nodded and went off to pursue her own inquiries. I
approached Charles and asked what they were doing up here.
His father answered, "We were interested in what you said about
this place yesterday. We came to see what it is you people do."
I laughed, made small talk, and could think of no way to ask
Charles what he was supposed to tell me. Soon we all left the hill, and on
the way down I found myself once again with Charles and his parents.
Desperate to fulfill my dowsing duty, whatever it was, I blurted out to
Charles, "I dreamed about you last night."
"I'm not surprised," he responded. "That happens all the time.
That's probably why I'm up here now."
We walked in silence, and I could think of nothing to ask. At the
bottom we parted company, our party settling at the small cafe for coffee
and food. Once again we recounted our experiences. I related my
experience with Charles, and was again asked, "And what did he tell you?"
"Nothing. I didn't know what to ask."
"You should have learned something."
Once again I felt remiss, but looked up at the door in surprise and
announced, "Well, there he is now!"
Heather called him to our table, announced that one of our party
had dreamed about him, and said that we were attempting to discover the
meaning of the "James Redfield Celestine moment." She then began firing
questions.
"What are you doing in Ireland?"
"I'm a student at Trinity University."
"What are you taking?"
"Physics."
"What classes did you take last semester?"
He enumerated his classes, and Heather, well-read in the area of
physics, grilled him for details of what he'd studied. Finally she asked,
"What are you taking next semester?"
He gave a class number.
"What's the subject?"
"Teleportation,"
We all stared at him astounded, until he, uncomfortable under our
gaze, said "We have to go," and rushed out of the restaurant.
Someone turned to me and said, "Now you know what your part in all
this was."
"Ummm, yeah...."
We were left to ponder the news that "Teleportation" is no longer
confined to the Woo Woo realms of Science Fiction but is an accepted branch
of study in the physics department of a highly respected Irish university.
So what did all this have to do with the purpose of our study of the
Equinox phenomenon at Cairn T? We didn't know, but it certainly turned our
attention to new possibilities.
On the Equinox itself--September 22--we rose early and skipped
breakfast to be on the hill by sunrise. And we were not alone. We had
been told that people from around the world gather at Cairn T on the
Equinox, and with each trek to the top, we were joined by greater numbers
of people. One group consisted of four German women who didn't speak to
anyone but sat in the various cairns and circles meditating or writing.
On this day, even though there was no sun, there was a growing
excitement among the 30-35 people gathered on the top. Children ran
about, climbing over the cairn, trying out the "Hag's Chair." One young
woman in her twenties sat with no jacket on this chilly morning, meditating
with a stick of incense in front of Cairn T. She had a small dog on a
leash, and the dog yapped incessantly when anyone approached, at which
point the woman would open her eyes and proclaim that she was an Irish
witch. Once again I couldn't think of anything to ask.
Several meditators were drawn to the stones of Cairn W directly
east of Cairn T. These stones seemed to hold heat and I found that I could
stay pleasantly warm sitting on the ground and leaning against one of them.
Since there was no sun, we descended the hill and once again
entered the small cafe for breakfast. In the afternoon, we made yet
another trip to the top of the Cairn. On this trip we met Matt and a few
others from the Irish-For-A-Day family. They too had been enticed by our
accounts of the Equinox energy and were eager for a crash course in
dowsing. I loaned them my rods, taught them what I knew, and they
proceeded to a more advanced lesson with Bob and Heather. Matt, at least,
was very successful with the rods, but I never learned their impressions of
their guests' strange proclivities. The mysterious German women were again
silently wandering among the cairns.
The Irish tradition of rain had persisted for three days. We had
one more chance--September 23, the day following the Equinox. We awoke
early and discovered that there wasn't a cloud in the sky! We again set to
climbing the hill before breakfast, but my physical problems suddenly came
to the fore. I had been up and down the hill four times but knew that now,
at this critical visit to Cairn T, I could not do it a fifth time. I
stayed at the bottom and therefore must rely on what the others reported.
When they reached the top, before sunrise, they were glared at by
the German women who demanded "What are you doing here?"
"The same as you. We're here to see the sun enter the passage."
"You can't. We've paid for exclusive rights to it"
"This is a public monument. No one has exclusive rights."
"You'll see. The Heritage Society guide will be here with the key
and tell you that you have to leave."
"I have the key," said Bob, showing it to them.
Grumbling in German, they acquiesced to the reality that they would
have to share the morning's experience.
All eagerly awaited the first rays of sun that peaked over the
eastern horizon, crept along the passage, and illuminated the spiral on the
left side of the back wall. The minute this happened all again felt dizzy
and nauseated. One of our party had to leave the cairn. The others
located the petroglyph that produced the sense of wellbeing and so could
remain inside during the 17 minutes that sunlight was in the passage. The
light crept along the back wall until, just before exiting, it illuminated
another spiral on the right side of the wall.
Frustrated at not being with the others, I picked up trash in the
parking lot and tried to imagine what was happening on top. The German
women were the first to descend. They looked at me curiously and, for the
first time, responded to my greeting, but they left quickly, and I could
tell they were not happy. I expected our group to be exuberant when they
came down, having finally seen what we came to see, but they seemed subdued
as they attempted to analyze the phenomenon.
I listened, trying to learn what had happened in the cairn at
sunrise. It seemed, they reported, as if a switch had been turned "on"
when the first spiral was illuminated--and "off" when the second was--as if
a great machine had been switched on, then off. Drawing on their knowledge
of physics, they determined that photons had activated something in the
rocks. Not far from our awareness was the idea of "teleportation," but we
would visit this idea again in the future. It was a pensive group that
returned to the hotel, and prepared for our next journey to the Cairns and
dolmens of County Sligo.
To be continued
Martha Shideler
TO HAVE & HAVE NOT
Moving forward to a discussion of what characterizes the Modern
Celtic Languages, one of the salient features is that none of them have a
simple verb "to have." For this and forthcoming discussions, I will limit
my use of phonetics, and I will draw my examples chiefly from Irish and
Welsh. The reason for this is that these two typify the Gaelic and British
languages in general. I will point out, however, when Scottish differs
radically from Irish, and I may make passing comments on Manx, Cornish, and
Breton.
The typical modern Celtic construction for "I have" is to say
"There is at/with/to me."
Irish: Ta carr agam.
Welsh: Mae gen I gar.
Breton: Gwetur am-eus.
"I have a car."
The Breton example seems distinctive, but it can be analyzed as
coming originally from "To-me there-is."
What distinguishes these languages from the others of Europe is the
total absence of a basic verb "to have." Similar constructions can be
found in Classical Latin, and also in Russian, but both these languages
also have verbs meaning "to have." In the case of Russian, use of this
verb is very limited, but Russian is unique among the Slavic languages in
this respect. Even closely related Ukranian uses this verb regularly.
The Celtic languages have another distinctive feature in regard to
possession. This is the so-called "construct pattern." As described last
time, all of the Modern Celtic languages have definite articles, while they
are generally without indefinite ones. But another characteristic of these
languages is that said articles are only used once in a series of items in
a possessive relationship. In other words, if you wish to say "the door of
the house," you only use the article before the last item:
Irish: doras an ti
Welsh: drws y ty
This rule can become even more complicated. First of all, you
could have a whole string of nouns, and only the last one will take the
article: "the color of the paint of the door of the house."
Irish: dath peint doras an ti
Welsh: lliw paent drws y ty
And if the last item in the series is a proper noun, even that will
not take the article: "the door of John's house."
Irish: doras teach Sheain
Welsh: drws ty Sion
Note that, when using a proper noun, we really say "the house of
John." Note also that the Gaelic and British languages part company in the
way they express possession, in that the former have an inflected genitive
case, while the latter use only word order to show the relationship between
the nouns. I will elaborate on this in a later article.
But let me close this one with some news and a mystery. The news
is that I am retiring from my State job at the end of March, though I will
continue to work as a part-time language teacher, and as the Irish language
examiner at the University of Arizona in Tucson. This will give me more
time to travel, though, and my trips to Arizona will not be as rushed.
Which means I may get to spend more time in the Flagstaff area.
And now for the mystery. Both of the features of the modern Celtic
languages described in this month's and last month's articles (the presence
of only a definite article, and the use of this article only before the
last item in a possessive construction) are unique among the languages of
Europe. And yet both these features are very characteristic of the Semitic
languages. More on this next month.
Walter Stock
WATERLOGGED
Another Spring has come. The buzzards have returned promptly on
the first day of the season, lumbering up from the lowlands, and they
circle and swoop with Sophie barking and nipping at their tail feathers.
The Bňgus Mór Eclectic Electric Quasi-Celtic ensemble has been playing
little gigs all around the area including the little towns of Congress and
Bagdad. Now we tell people that we have played in Congress and in Bagdad
(ha ha) when we send out our resumé.
Some of us brought a love of snorkeling back from our jaunt to
Mexico last month. The closest site for snorkeling happens to be Oswald's
catfish breeding pond down behind Darby McGraw's Pub. The temperature had
been getting close to eighty degrees so Oswald and I decided to give it a
try with The Evil Dr. Beth Sue standing by for moral and medical support
and to replenish our beers.
The pond is rather large and it is about 15 feet deep. The water
is kept clear by the use of a clever filtration system using a solar
powered pump. During warm weather, the water is pumped to the top of a
tall canvas tower where it is allowed to run down the sides. The resulting
evaporation causes cooling and a downdraft which is carried through
ductworks into the pub and to the Culpepper dwelling above.
We donned our snorkels and lowered ourselves into the chilly water.
It was kind of relaxing floating above the dormant catfish. Occasionally
one of the large fish would stir, causing a commotion that spread across
the bottom of the pond like ripples on the surface. Then Virginia showed
up and tossed in a bucket of catfish chow. The resulting maelstrom was
amazing. The beasts rose in a frenzy and swirled all about us. We watched
in wonder, once our fear subsided, as the catfish glided through the water.
We stayed a long time, mesmerized.
Rehearsal that night was fun. Vlad tried out some Russian folk
songs which went well with our group and the small audience. Afterwards we
sat and discussed the nature of fish and eels over too many pints.
"I'll bet them eels is good eatin'!"
"Once you get them off the damned hook!"
"Russian eel pie is delicious!"
"Yuh know, I heard them varmints communicates using electricity."
"You mean 'eel-ectricity. Har! har! har!"
Oswald became silent. You knew he was pondering something to do
with eels or catfish or chickens. We left him and continued with our
inebriated banter.
A few days later he showed up at the pond with a laptop computer,
some pvc pipes, and long wires. The wires were wrapped around the pipes
which were then suspended over the pond. Oswald rotated the pipes so that
the wires unwrapped themselves and slipped below the water's surface. He
connected the wires to a hub which connected to the laptop. He explained
as he tapped at the keys.
"Beth Sue and I have both done some graduate work on electric
fishes. They seem to prefer tropical climates, but we became curious about
these guys after watching them swim after their food. They seem to swarm
but never run into each other. They must use some kind of location system
other than just their eyes."
The Evil Dr. Beth Sue tossed some catfish chow into the water and
we all watched the glowing screen. Some meaningless numbers flashed by as
we stared stuporously. In the meantime, Virginia came down from the pub in
a two piece swim suit with a cigar, glass of bourbon, towel, soap, and
shampoo. She set everything on the bank except for the cigar and she
popped into the water. She laid the cigar carefully on the bank and went
under. She surfaced, sipped her bourbon, put the cigar back in her mouth,
and proceeded to shampoo her wild gray hair. She then gulped the rest of
the bourbon, flicked the cigar into the middle of the pond, and swam a lap,
rinsing her hair at the same time. We watched with the same morbid
fascination that one would view an accident scene. Oswald popped a CD disk
out of the laptop and started back towards the pub.
We all grabbed a pint and followed upstairs where Oswald popped the
CD into his big computer and started some programs. The Evil Dr. Beth Sue
seemed to understand what was going on and she interpreted for us.
"Right now Ozzie is searching the data for signs of EOD's." Ozzie
is her pet name for Oswald. "EOD's are short for electric organ discharges.
"Bingo!" said Oswald.
"He's found the discharges. That's significant because these
catfish aren't supposed to be able to generate electricity. They're only
supposed to be able to sense it. We might be able to write a paper
together." She seemed thrilled as she smiled at her Ozzie with admiration.
"Now we have to find out if the EOD's are in the form of pulses like
electric eels or in continuous wave forms. Normally, fast water fish make
the waves, except in the Sudan."
"Fantastic!" shouted Oswald. The Evil Dr. Beth Sue glowed.
"Wave generating fishes use electrical waves to communicate their
positions to each other. Each fish has its own frequency and harmonics.
They're like distinct musical instruments. I think Ozzie is going to
amplify the sound so we can hear." She was bursting with excitement.
Oswald clicked a key and the room was suddenly filled with glorious
sound. It was like being surrounded by a giant pipe organ. Notes were
coming in and out, growing and fading like some vast Wagnerian soundscape.
The harmonies were rich and full and there seemed to almost be a pulsating
rhythm. We listened for only a few moments, but our sense of the time was
suspended until a single note shattered the celestial sounds. It was a
single note that did not blend with anything else. It was like the
shattering of a crystal vase.
Just then Virginia, hair still wet from her swim, walked in.
"What the hell was that noise?"
Oswald explained in simple terms. He also explained the
significance of the finding in the academic world. Both he and The Evil
Dr. Beth Sue were ecstatic.
I looked at Virginia and stared hard at her wild mane of hair and
thought of Argyle Dick's famous bag seasoning, polar bear nutritional
supplement, genetic armageddon, and hair tonic.
"What's in your shampoo?" I asked Oswald.
His smile melted as he turned to look at Virginia, wet from her dip
in the pond, hair standing out as if she had been electrocuted.
The catfish had evidently evolved electrical organs as a result of
Virginia bathing (apparently all winter) in the pond. Virginia had also
developed the capacity for EOD's. Hers did not harmonize with the catfish.
Oswald and The Evil Dr. Beth Sue were shattered. After the disastrous
experiments with chickens and catfish a few years back, Oswald was
forbidden to make the stuff. Any research would have to be secret.
Myself, I was inspired. I asked to hear the catfish songs again.
They were haunting, ethereal, heavenly.
"Can you put that on an audio CD? Up to the point where Virginia
jumps in the water. And loop it."
"Sure."
I dragged the rest of the group downstairs where we set up the
sound equipment for the band. Oswald brought the CD down and loaded it
into the player. Soon we were playing Swallowtail and Rakes of Kildare to
the background of singing catfish. We had found a new sound!
* * * *
Meanwhile, up in Bearpit, Saskatchewan, Argyle had plans. He was
going to build the biggest hot tub he could. He was out in back of The
Tartan Bear digging away at the partially frozen ground with a pick ax and
shovel, cussing up a storm. Alexander MacTaggart walked out of the pub
with a pint, followed by Ruby the Bagpipe Tuning Dog. Ruby had a duck on
her back.
The ducks, incidentally, were still living in the pub, drinking
beer, and generally being nuisances. They did provide an element of
primitive amusement, though, somewhat like the Three Stooges.
Al shook his head and told poor Argyle to stop a while. Al left
and came back an hour later with a sack full of dynamite.
"I used to be an expert with the stuff." Everyone wondered but no
one asked where he got the "stuff." "Now, do you want the ground softened
up so you can dig it or do you want me to just blast it out of there?"
Argyle, being an adolescent at heart, wanted it blasted out.
Al proceeded to drill holes with his augur and drop the sticks in
one by one. He tamped them all down and connected the wires to an old
plunger style detonator. Everyone moved back and covered their beers with
their hands. The plunger went down and the dirt went up and out, showering
everyone. What was left was a perfectly rectangular crater six feet wide
and twenty feet long, five feet deep. Everyone cheered.
Argyle got right to work installing the plumbing, placing forms,
and pouring concrete. The ducks lined up at the edge of the hole, watching
and chuckling. It took Argyle a week of hard labor to finish the tub and
paint it a deep blue. Mary Elizabeth, his lovely wife, painted smiling
golden suns and lovely mermaids around the edge. It took an entire day to
fill the tub from the garden hose. Once filled, it took a few hours to
heat up. The entire band brought swim suits in anticipation. When the
water was ready, they changed and headed out into the chilly air armed with
towels and several beers each.
The night was spent talking about the upcoming competition season
and the mental capabilities of pipers versus drummers, drum majors, and
pipe majors. The ducks enjoyed themselves, waddling around, sucking up
beer, and quacking. After a long while, everyone grew silent. They put
their heads on the edge and stared into the night sky. The ducks jumped
into the water and fell asleep with their heads under their wings.
Shooting stars flashed by in the clear night sky.
The ducks, tired of bumping into each other, found that they could
nestle under the chin of their favorite human. Many awoke that morning
with duck feathers in their mouths and the smell of duck in their nostrils.
The hot tub was a success!
Everyone got out carefully without waking the ducks. They dried
off and went inside to change and to sip hot chocolate supplied by Argyle.
©2003, Mike McKee
