I think each person has a particular feature that they really see as symbolic of self.  For some people it’s a feature they love, for some it’s one they dislike.  Mine is something I like, and something I also attach a lot of meaning to–particularly relating to how other people react to it. I have a large brown nevus in my otherwise-blue right eye.  I display sectoral heterochromia along with a lot of other oddities of melanin. 

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been reminded time and time again that my unusual eyes are excuse enough for some folks to assume a whole lot about me.  And, having listened to some magic number of strange comments and declarations about my eyes–some positive and some negative–I decided to engage in the game myself, and judge those who were holding forth about one particular freckle among thousands with as much care and sensitivity as they granted me. 

I can’t count the number of times someone has assumed they should make some ridiculous joke about my eyes–the loathsome playground “what’s that in your eye?” game, complete with clumsy pokes towards my face, is the source of my ocular squeamishness. I’ve been told time and time again that, had I been born in the dark ages, I’d have been burned as a witch.  Such commenters often also want to look at my pinkies to see if they’re straight (not quite) and a few have felt comfortable asking if do spells on command.  Some have suggested I take to wearing color contacts to “fix” it, or asked if I was wearing contacts that just happened to be unusual, or–my favorite–if I’d be willing to go with the requester to their optician so they could try to order contacts based on my eye (“why would I do that, my eyes are lovely”, “no I’m not,” and “holy crap, I don’t even know you. Why would I go to the doctor with you?” are the answers, in case you’re wondering) .  My eyes have been compared to dogs’ eyes, favorably and un-.

Of course, some people pay no attention to eyes at all, or only notice ages after we meet.   A boyfriend
years ago noted it with surprise after a few months of dating–that was our last date. I mean, really. Way to telegraph your abiding interest in my mind and feelings, jackass . . .

Thankfully, for every negative comment, there are several compliments.  A small percentage of people think they’re the first to have noticed, and I should be so flattered by their attention that I’ll immediately give them anything they want.  They don’t get their way of course–I’m too contrary for that scheme to work, and too prickly to accept compliments paired with come-ons.  At the root, I’m too happy with the folks who already fill my eyes when I want comfort and companionship to turn my gaze towards the first vapid compliment of the week. 

Other people who notice my eyes on meeting and react favorably assume I’m more of an artist or empath or friend or genius than I think I could ever be for them, and I just try to measure up.  One friend in particular comments on my eyes and way of seeing nearly every time I see her, and I wonder what she’s figured out about me that I’ve just never been able to see in myself. 

And that, really, is the heart of it.  A disarming feature often reveals much bigger truths about the people who react to it than about the person who has it.  For me, my eye is a neat accident of genetics, a reminder that I should heed nature’s color theory and wear blue with brown.  It’s something both unusual and lovely that feels like an inborn sigil.  It’s a trait I share with a couple of dear friends and many, many strangers.  It’s the kind of feature that will always be whole-heartedly loved by the people who truly love me, and has helped me recognize people with the wrong sort of intentions.

One could say, with some accuracy, that I have a tendency to take on new projects when I’m already burning the candle at both ends. One could say that.

So, because I hate to make liars of my friends and because I love tradition in many forms . . . in addition to planning Celtic Summer Camp for my tribe while simultaneously sewing enough to clothe them, and still going to work and writing some stuff and occasionally eating and sleeping . . .

An idea Scott and I had a while back has finally been realized, with the help of my artistic friend Aubrey.  I give you Monkeyshimes: smart-ass political humor for people who like Monkeys and don’t like, well, politicians.  The product range should be expanding quickly over the next few weeks, so stay tuned. 

I finished my Spring Forward socks, and I think they’re pretty darn cool.  The pattern was great to knit and the socks fit well, but I’m not so wild about the yarn.  I’d like it to be a bit softer–I think I am officially and permanently spoiled by fancy-schmancy sock yarns, sans nylon and preferably containing merino or some other luscious breed. Since I have that darn commute requiring job and essentially no vices, I embrace my yarn-snobbery.

After some remodel-induced procrastination, I suddenly lucked into a ridiculous linen sale and bought upwards of 40 yards of fabric to make into clothes for the Celts. I have a lot of washing and ironing to do before I can even start cutting and, well, cutting isn’t even any fun.  Had I not found the linen cornucopia, I probably would have broken my 15-plus year stint of vowing not to sew so much and then manically clothing a small village.  Luckily, there are adult beverages with which to refill that pint glass of mine, and we’re going to summer camp for a shorter stint than usual this year, so I have a bit more time to work.  Still: yikes.

Which is a pretty hard thing to photograph, particularly since it’s all about the oral tradition and poetry and sound, rather than sight.

I’m a bard, as I’ve mentioned.  I translate pieces of mythology from Middle Welsh and Irish into English-language poems and songs, and tell about vital events from ancient history to people who might never hear of them otherwise.  I sing and tell, but I hope I do more than that for the people who come see us perform or read my pieces.  I study myth from many other cultures too, all of which tangle around my brain and inform most of my days. I’ve been obsessed with mythology for so long that I don’t remember a time before it, as I don’t remember a time before music, or fiber arts, or food.

I’ll put up, since I can’t seem to shut up.  This is one of the first things I translated on my own, and perhaps the translation I’m proudest of.  I love the story itself, and its feminist core, and the myth cycle it comes from, and its role as both remscela (introductory tale) and dindsenchas.   It seems the right thing to post today because it’s about Macha, one of the guises of the Morrigan, and that’s enough Ms to be right on the nose, isn’t it.  I’d really rather you could hear me tell this instead of reading it from a page, but I’ve never recorded it, so, you know, shoulda but dinna.

Dán dó Emain Macha (Poem of the Twins of Macha)

Crunniuc mac Agnomain, hosteler,
is father to four fame-bound sons,
each a war hungry hero of the Ulaid.
Father and sons tend hostel and holdings
and host the traveling warriors and bards
on the rocky coast of Moyle’s sea.
But Crunniuc suffers a pain well known
among his kinsmen:
Ulster has need of warriors, and warriors grow from sons
who sometimes come so strong and stubborn from the womb
that their earliest resting place sheds two souls with their birthing.
Thus had Crunniuc’s wife died as she was delivered of their youngest:
his last vision of her saw her taught, moon-white breast loosen
as she fed their bawling, life-greedy child
once,
until not just her belly but her body was empty of life.
And for the span of time between his red son’s birth
and the boy’s second bloodletting
Crunniuc has slept singly.

Crunniuc tends his paling
as he watches a lithe woman approach his dwelling.
Glistening linen drapes her ripened form,
newly woven strong and dyed deeply.
Red gold hanging from ear and braid,
clinging to nape and wrist,
waist wrapped in bronze chain, finely wrought,
ankles flashing under skirt with each step.
Her beauty so great as to still the tongue
and move the groin all in the one glance.
The woman strides proudly into Crunniuc’s hall,
sits at his hearth, and stokes the
fire
from smolder to blaze
all the while silent.
Bewildered Crunniuc stands dumb,
fearing to blink or breathe, only
staring in wonder.
The sun sets and the woman rises,
picking utensils from the hearth
and preparing the meal as if the kitchen
is her own.
Crunniuc and his sons sit at table, eat the feast before them,
and hold their tongues for fear she will vanish
and the sixth chair will again sit empty
as it did for so many seasons.
They fill their bellies, and clean their plates,
and Crunniuc’s sons retreat to their rooms silently.
The woman walks to Crunniuc’s bed
where she waits.
He approaches cautiously, searching for protest or rejection
in her eyes or lips.
Finding none, he lays with the woman
as he once laid with his sons’ mother.
In the night, her name comes to him as they rustle the sheets.
Her lips open and release:
Macha,
the breath of love itself.
The sound soothes Crunniuc and he sleeps.

Macha and Crunniuc live thus for several seasons,
sharing plate, bed, home, and family.
She is wife to Crunniuc, second mother to his sons,
and wonder to those passing boatmen who catch glimpses of her
staring seaward from the high chalk
cliffs above.
Under Macha’s attention Crunniuc’s corn grows fuller,
his sows and kine fatten, his nets
find more fish,
and his sons grow to be among the strongest men of the Ulaid.
Fortune flocks to Macha and her kin.
And soon, Macha herself grows with the mark
of their bed-work
and her back bows forward with the
weight of a great pregnancy.
Macha’s tongue loosens to sing her bliss,
finding the family she has knitted
herself happy.

Now Bealtaine’s great festival calls Crunniuc forth
out of their private reverie to Ulster’s raucous celebration,
anxious to stand among kinsmen and
share their cups.
Macha, wary of the journey, warns Crunniuc
to hold both pride and tongue:
“Speak to no man of me, for if
you arouse
the wrath of the Ulaid with boasting and bravado
we will find no peace, and our home and family will melt
like so much snow in the
spring.”
Crunniuc soothes Macha and sets out for the gathering.
And Macha rests fitfully
under the twinned burdens of pregnancy and worry.

Arriving at the festival Crunniuc holds his secret tight
as he greets friends and rivals,
but as the day is passed, so are the cups,
and soon Crunniuc’s bond to Macha fades from his mind.
Ulster’s king calls for races and
his chariots win handily,
he bragging all the while that his horses
have the swiftest feet of any beasts living.
Crunniuc, full of spirits, answers
“My bride could outrun your horses,
and she full up with my child.”
The king rushes forward in anger,
demanding Crunniuc deliver up his wife
to fulfill the rashly uttered bond.
Crunniuc blanches, recognizing his betrayal of Macha.
He begs the king’s pardon and his
patience,
but the king will not be appeased
and his men fetch Macha from her home.
She, gravid, grave, protests.Asking for patience,
for a stay that lasts the length of her delivery.
The men pull her from her threshold with no answer to her pleas.
Riding forward into the king’s lands

her labor comes on harder than the gallop of their steeds,
the child in her belly scrambling for freedom,
a respite from this jarring trek.

The king demands her name on
arrival,
and she, red-faced, proclaims
“I am Macha, daughter of Sainraith mac Imbath.
None of you will escape my curse today,
for each man here was born of woman,
your lives a product of mothers’ toil,
yet neither king nor crowd
will lend me mercy in my time of need.”
The scornful king laughs, saying
“Refuse to race and I will rend Crunniuc to pieces
and drop him into my wallows as food for swine,
and then who will play father to your mewling babe?”
Macha complies and walks to the
starting line,
the child squirming in her belly, round as the fullest moon.
Racing hard, Macha quickly outstrips
the horse,
whose heart bears no match for the one in Macha’s breast.
Crossing the finish line, the water in her breaks

and the horse’s heart explodes.
Both fall in the dust.
And as Macha rises with two beautiful sons at her breasts,
the men about her fall, overtaken by
a pain they do not fathom.

“Emain Macha is the name now on this place,
for the twins borne so well, though without aid,
surrounded by merciless men.
For as it is here I suffered the indignity of your trial,
so it is here my sons and I prevail.
Each of you small men and all of your sons
for nine generations will suffer my pangs
for four days and five nights
whenever threat or trial come to the Ulaid.”
And so speaking, Macha turns to
rejoin her kin in the sidhe.

And so it is that the men of Ulster are crippled
whenever they lands are threatened.
Only the man-child CúChullain is spared this pain,
and he so loved and hated by Macha and her sister selves,
Bodb and Anu: three bound as one
in the great queen Morrigan.

© 2004 Amy Ripton

My husband’s aunt and uncle have llamas out in Utah, as I’ve mentioned.  They are fascinating, beautiful, funny creatures.  Most of their llamas are excellent packers, and a real treat on hikes. 
 

I think most folks could easily develop an obsession with scratching those long, elegant necks.  Watching them gambol once they’re released into the pasture on the other side of the creek is one of the sweetest things I’ve seen. 

Our trio Tethera will be performing at the Pennsylvania Celtic Fling on June 28 and 29, and we'd love to see you there.  The festival is on the grounds of the Pennsylvania Renn Fest, outside of Lancaster, PA.  That makes it an easy day trip from DC, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Harrisburg, Pittsburgh, Delaware–you get the point.  There are great bands playing all weekend long, dancers, crafters and vendors, sheep trials, falconry, and good food and drink.  If you're interested in coming out, please let me know so I can be on the lookout for  you.  If it looks like a lot of knitters and spinners are going to show up, we can even circle up and play with fiber. 

So much to say in so little time . . .

Most importantly, our bardic trio Tethera performed at the Potomac Celtic Festival on Saturday and had a great time.  I don't know if I can explain how great it feels to have people appreciate our work.  We were lucky enough to have some dear friends come to the show, including my former PCF co-conspirator and our great emcee Dana Henry, Mike and Tara,  Jinann, Mary and Máiréad (who then demanded we visit their booth and do an encore–I love them), Lynn . . . I'm sure I'm forgetting someone . . .  some of whom had never seen us sing or tell, so that was doubly great.  If you want to come out and see us when next we perform, come to the Pennsylvania Celtic Fling on June 28th and 29th.   We spent the rest of the day doing living history demos and talks with our tribe, watching great bands and dancers, and oogling our friends' merchant booths.  But I had to stay frugal because on Sunday we . . .

Bought a used 2005 Toyota Sienna, and got a great deal on it.  I can't tell you how excited I am about it.  My truck was really starting to wear on me, and Kayo's advancing age made his jumps in and out of it increasingly dicey, and my crunchy knees and oft unstable hip were rebelling against the clutch in the very bad DC traffic, so it was time.  The van is really swanky and in great shape, so I hope to have it for at least the next decade.  It's making me think bad things about looms and upright basses, but things like that will need to wait a while.  It will absolutely make camping and road trips much easier, and that's going to be fantastic. 

Other than that, I've been reclaiming my studio from the remodel (almost done), plotting some new historical garments for Scott and our friend Morag, knitting socks, planning sock bag color combos, reading, and watching John Adams.  

The Tain, translated by Ciarán Carson. 

When I came across an actual copy of this book during my visit to Chicago, I was almost afraid to buy it.  I had to buy it, of course–it's not often I find real evidence of Celtic Studies works showing up in bookstores, and when I do find titles that fit the bill, I always buy them.  Bookstores need to be supported and congratulated for stocking things that are outside of the mainstream.

I was afraid to read the book because I was convinced that Thomas Kinsella's translation, graced by Louis le Brocquy's genius illustrations, was the only translation I could ever love.  I'm a huge fan of Carson's, so I really wanted his work to shine.  Moreover, a few years ago I had a fraught, life-affirming conversation with Carson about translation and poetry and voice where he convinced me with just a few words that I should keep up my own attempts at poetry in translation.  So I needed his version of this great work to be wonderful.

I needn't have worried.  Carson opens the book with an introduction explaining just how hesitant he was to publish a translation of  the Táin Bó Cúailnge, in light of Kinsella's masterful work.  Carson even calls his translation an homage to Kinsella.  Like Kinsella, Carson used Recension I.  Carson chose not to include the remscéla, or fore-tales, which are some of my favorite bits, but which aren't physically included in Lebor na hUidre or The Yellow Book of Lecan, the two texts in which The Tain survives.

Carson is a wonderful translator.  He's fluent in modern Irish, and he's a musician as well as a poet and writer, and I think those skills combine to enrich his translation.  He is clearly intrigued by the true characters of Cú Chulainn, Medb, Ailill, and Fergus, and by the mores surrounding sex, violence, honor, ownership, land, family–all the big ones.  Having read his and compared it to Kinsella's, I don't think I can read one without the other again.  Both convince me to keep struggling through language and myth that is so distant from my daily life. 

I commute to DC for work, and most of my commute is on Metro, DC’s subway system.  I don’t like working so far from home (23.6 miles, 9 of them in a car, with a river in the way during the subway trip).  I am generally happy that I can do most of my commute via public transit, which allows me to read or knit rather than drive the whole way in DC’s horrid rush hour.

Well, the last week or so has been a bad week for Metro riders.  Last week, the endless storms in DC brought trees and power lines down on the tracks, and Metro staff and local police were completely overwhelmed, and many of us were stranded around the DC for hours and hours trying to get home.  To make matters worse, the throngs of people trying to board the very few shuttle busses available showed Washingtonians at their worse.  Neighbor, in case no one has told you, it is never ok to push a person’s wheelchair away from the entrance of a bus so you can board before said wheel-chair bound person.  Never.  I lucked into a shared cab ride back to my station, so it only took me 3 1/2 hours to get home that afternoon.  Today, a derailment blocked service again, but I lucked into a spot on one of the first shuttles and it only took me 2 1/2 hours to get home.  And when I got home, some crazy woman (i.e. me) demanded I paint some more blasted trim in our house, because our remodel still isn’t entirely finished. 

That said, you’ll understand my need to go to a happy place.   Thankfully, Scott and I just reminded ourselves a few weeks ago that there are places outside of the DC area, and some of those places are fantastic.  So rather than complaining anymore than I already have about my horrid commute and how much I hate painting trim, (and also the new Typepad because it makes it a huge pain to align photos the way I like),  I give you a random assortment of llama photos, triumphantly rescued from a misbehaving memory stick. 

I’m pretty obviously jumping the gun on the ABC along, but I’ll come back to the Ls with some actual description and more photos.  Some day soon, I will even show you knitting. 

As in “yippie kai yo,”  and as in Coyo(te), and as in our wonderful dog, half Chesapeake Bay Retriever, half Siberian Husky, and quite possibly the dog of a lifetime. 

He is officially elderly now, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him most of the time, so we have dedicated ourselves to spoiling him as much as we can.  This big guy is now a couch dog, and is lobbying to become a bed dog.  So far, we have refused to relent except when we’re camping.

Kayo is my first dog.  I grew up around cats, and really learned to understand dogs hanging out with Scott and his Mom and their dogs and our friend Oona’s fantastic trio of shepherd mixes.  I’ve been hooked since, and was really anxious to get a dog once we were able to buy a house with a yard.  It took us a little while, but we found a fantastic pet.

Kayo is intensely loyal, devoted to pleasing us, a quick learner, very kind to our cats–to the point of alerting us if one of the cats is ill and pestering us until we rush off to the vet, an excellent fetcher and hiker and camping companion, a master of expression via eyebrow and ear manipulation . . .

I doubt that I can explain quickly what a great dog he is.  He is by turns joyous, and melancholy, and goofy, and placid, and defensive, and athletic, and maddening, and adorable.  I hope he lives forever.

Tags: dog, Kaio, Kayo