Brigit Has Her Say

Brigit is said to have been born at the exact moment of day break, she rose with the sun, her head radiant with rays of luminous light, associating her with ascended awareness, enlightenment, new beginnings, sun beams and warmth. She is celebrated on Imbolc, falling on February 1 or 2, celebrating the return of the light and the coming of the spring.  Thus her solar aspects may also represent Brigit as the Promise of Spring, the Bringer of Light after the dark months of winter. This energy brings with it HOPE, renewed enthusiasm, renewal, and new beginnings.

Brigit is considered a Triple Goddess, yet many references distinguish Brigit differently than the traditional Triple Goddess aspects of Maiden, Mother and Crone.  Rather Brigit is frequently referenced having three sister selves with three distinct roles, Lady of Healing Waters, Goddess of the Sacred Flame and Goddess of the Fertile Earth.  These roles are then multiplied through Brigit’s vast and varied responsibilities . . .

Who is Goddess Brigit

             Today began on an ascending note.  One second there was come quiet grayness: I did not know who I was or what I felt for the future.  I was in a pre-dawn limbo, clinging to the dreams of the night before, shying from the nightmares.  

             My mother and I were both pulled to convene, but I'm not sure we knew about what or why. It felt like a ritual we had not meant to take part in, but that may be just the retrospective knowledge that a Goddess had arisen to claim her Authority and Bless us with her healing.

            Our communion began with an ironic discussion on the subject of communication. It didn't go well, and "we are NOT communicating" became the pat phrase to explain why we were getting heated as we tried to analyze how better to communicate, especially vis a vis disagreements had in front of the Little One and especially those that are about her.  I would have thought all this pathetic and never dared to mention it, except somehow during it, something happened.  The sun rose and so did Vannesa, and the exchange shifted to one of personal revelation.  "I am afraid," I blurted through unexpected tears, "that no one will allow me to express negative emotion."  I had become so raw seeing how the slightest scolding from me would shut Vannesa down into a frighted, trapped, broken animal-whereas the same. exact. words, from my mother would inspire an assertive, receptive, good-natured response.  And there was that same look...in my mother's eyes and body, during what I believed to be a simple, mildly uncomfortable exchange.  "I don't know how to be heard" I groaned, "without having to make a big deal of it."

        The way it goes, the way it's always gone, no matter the form-letters, jokes, broken dishes-I use to express negative emotions, is that people scrunch up and pull away.  And that is, in and of itself, So. Very...lonesome; but it gets traumatically worse that the very same people, the very same ones, yearn, demand, and nurture all that is healing and nurturing in me, never understanding, never accepting that the latter comes from the same source as the former.  I am one being, yin/yang, positive and negative. And my passionate expression of one  is the very same flame I use to fuel the other.  That is the conflict I bare; my confession to share.  I am revered and rebuked, nurtured and negated for things that come from the very same place deep within me.  The conflict is in the reception (expression); I feel faithful in the belief that the source is one whole...holistic being.  

      My confession left a feeling quite different from resolution, there was none of that. There was a gentle meditation on the Truth behind my revelation.  It was sacred, even if we didn't know we knew it.

     Somehow this bright sunshine day led us to take charge, the Little One was strangely drawn to me-well strange as there is usually a balance or her affection slightly favors Mukaka when Mukaka is around (but this isn't so terrible: I'm understandably more childish around my mother, and anyhow they hardly get to see each other, and lastly I would do the same if my grandmother were around).  But today her beaming eyes shined directly on me, like I was...well...a Goddess; and she was beautiful for her attention, though it frightened me to think how I would...manage such fierce light for the next 9 hours or so...

            We went back to the school that has given us our last hope for getting her placed; we went determined to communicate our position: "yes, you do want her, forget what the papers say, she is a light and we need a fireplace to nurture her; here, she. will. thrive". Brigit had spoken for us, it had already been decided, "yes, we do want her, we know she can thrive; we just may have to wait..."  It was good, it was very good.

           Today was a day were the sunshine seemed to burn our fears up, then bathe us in healing light of faith and inspiration.  I gave Vannesa "work" to do, "we all have to work don't we?"  and so forth, she tried to shrink in; she tried to not believe in herself-but the light was too strong for her to hide.  When she was finished she sighhhed, "I could have never believed I could do so much, Ahhh God."  I laughed, "I always knew it," I replied, "Ehhh? Since you met me?" she questioned. "Since I've gotten to know you, more and more I think, look how much she can do when she just tries!"...

             The Malaria kicked in around 5, I had to give in and lay down.  When my mother came I hadn't started dinner, she went right to it, and it was only hours later that she realized I was ill.  She had a huge report she swore she would do, and she never even mentioned it once.  The flow by evening was as if we were all one; there was no longer a need to speak. 

            Three Goddesses are we still searching for the right, the authority, to be in our power, but today we were Brigit in her 3 potent Selves; she didn't ask us to be bright, or cool, or nurturing, she just rose with the sun and in her light, we thrived.

Once Upon a Time...Time, Time, Time.

          This is where I have to introduce myself- I think that’s been the hardest part of starting this whole thing.  As evidenced by my blog name passions which define me are diverse and inexplicably linked- in me.  And anyhow I don’t even know yet which version of me will emerge on this platform.  I suppose I just want to tell a story a two, no explicit catagorization, just some stories that I know-truth or fiction in this case, would be best left as a question of semantics.  Is what I believe the same as what I’ve experienced? And how exactly do I recognize what I know?  Ahhh yes, the truth of this quest is emerging; it is a quest for Truth itself, as is such for all the best people I know…

            8 year old Vanessa says, in Uganda you don’t simply begin a tale with “Once upon a time”, but it is a call and response. The storyteller begins “Once upon a time…” and the listeners respond in chorus “time, time, time”, only then can the story proceed.  It’s quite lyrical actually, especially in the angelic sound of an eight year olds disciplined and earnest chant. It also does wonders for evoking that archetypical image of indigenous ritual, where our ancestors would gather by the fire at night and sing songs to tell stories, and use those stories to pass on messages, messages of Truth.

            Everything about Vanessa is lyrical, not just her voice; her life in the 6 months I’ve known her is the stuff country songstresses dream of.  I am only learning of the 7 ½ years before, in small stories that always begin…but wait! I’m supposed to be introducing myself, hers can wait. And so:

                                    “Once upon a Time…time, time, time…”

            There was a young girl who believed herself a writer, but having comprehended little if anything of the context of her existence, her stories were borrowed fantasies that were high in drama, but went nowhere, and told nothing.  So she fell in line with the chorus and headed to academia. Choosing to embedded herself in the social sciences, she believed , “this is what I need; with this training I am bound to write something important”. She became inevitably disillusioned most assuredly by her own single minded and fantastical ambition.  She threw aside her pen and went back to her motherland- a country she’d never even been born in, but one she aspired to call home. With joy and rapture she proceeded to get her hands dirty, believing it was simply a misallocating of duty, and misuse of weapons, that had early thwarted her still fantastical ambition.  She decided to develop a product using all the rich agriculture bounty that was often neglected, wasted, and overlooked by her contrived countrymen.  This product was not just supposed to be an inspiration for the infinite ways the agribusiness could improve in Uganda, but was also supposed to demonstrate the potential success of a Synergistic, and thus Sustainable, business model: “I will do something important” she proclaimed.  And thus her juice beverage was born…then shelved.  This young girl, turned entrepreneurial woman, found herself to be nothing but a Little Red Hen: “who will make this juice with me?” she naively quipped again and again, and the story never went so far beyond the response “not I, not I, not I…” (though time and again this response was always coupled with the sincere declaration that the Little Red Hen would be very, very rich one day, feasting on such delicious bread).

            I find myself a woman with nothing much beyond the potential I had to begin with, my juice formulas, like all ideas left idle, will surely return to the Matrix from where they came.  But it is true I also have a few more stories than I did before, and this time they are very much embedded in the context of my existence.  And so I raise my pen both the weapon and shield of the Philosopher.  I write now, to remind myself that it was I who came with this Light I eagerly sought to share; the light has dimmed now, but I can find it again; I have a secret compass.

            The trick is to get it all out in words-to get the stories written plainly-poetically or not-and thoroughly.  Because all of that, all of those stories are simply what happened, but in between- if I write it right- in between I may find the meaning-the message still reverberating from the ancestral fire circle and I will know something important.

            So I begin “Once upon a time…”, and hope that there is an answer back, “time, time, time” so that I may proceed with this song of Truth.