#bríd

[dianasson]

A few belated photos from this Lá Fhéile Bríde.

Had so much snow in my boots from the procession!

[autumnal-blues]

Not to be annoying but...

I don't understand how anyone working with, or worshipping, or devoting themselves to a creative artistic goddess like Brigid can use genAI.

She's a goddess of poets and artists and you won't even put the effort into creating for yourself? You would let a machine secrete a sad mockery of creativity and present it to her? Or gods forbid make AI images of her?!

I can't speak for a goddess but I feel this is true.

Brigid weeps at the death of creativity, and AI is the plague bringing that death.

[aliachehova]

Thig crìoch air an t-saoghal, ach mairidh gaol is ceòl.

[polyteleology]

Three lights are of Brighid: firelight, twilight, and starlight.

Three lights are of Brighid: the light in the home, the light in the mind, the light of truth.

Three lights are of Brighid: the light of the hearth, the light of realization, the light of hope.

[caraecethrae]

Why dandelions grow (abridged)/ As beárnan gidge raired

an Irish Traveller story

The old ones say that during the great flood, the Mincéirí, in fear, had prayed and willed away the clouds, so there came a great drought when the sun shone ceaselessly and no rain fell, when the skies themselves were emptied and the sun stood fixed in place as their ruler.

At first the skies had resisted the banishing of the clouds, understanding the cycle of the weather and how it has its mark on the passing of each day, but so great was the fear of the great flood that nature herself withdrew the clouds and the rain for the sake of the Mincéirí.

In the beginning, the dry days and crisp nights brought only joy, the warm sweet morning air woke people with a softness and the evenings often saw children playing by streams and ponds. The old would rest under the shade of the hazel trees and songs were the common company of the slow-moving winds.

As time went on, however, people grew weary, dreary, dusty and dry. Animals became ill, plants started to shrivel and even the birds refused the winds, preferring to walk on the earth in search of what food remained.

The drought continued until one day a beautiful young lackeen named Brid called to the sun in search of an answer. She knew the land. She knew the plants, the trees, the weary rivers and how the fiery sun was slowly quenching the flames of those she loved. But the sun, the sun did not reply.

. . . .

The young girl, distraught, fell to the ground and cried, So great were her wails of loss that the star and the moon looked upon her and wept. The sun, on hearing their cries, finally turned towards Bríd. The young lackeen, in desperation and tiredness, but with a depth of wit and a strength rare in a child of her age, pleaded with the sun to rest. She spoke of life with its relentless presence, of the cracking lands and withering animals, of the river beds that looked like deep, carved scars upon the soil, of red sun-flamed flesh and world that knew so much disorder. She spoke of the need for rhythm, of the folly of her people who in fear had driven away the natural movement of the sun.

The sun spoke in a booming voice, loud enough to shake the crumpled leaves that remained on the trees and for the cracked soil to give up a thick layer of dust as if the land itself was breathing. The sun explained that it was the people who had banished the clouds, who had implored it to shine without resting, so on it would shine.

Her body exhausted from the trials of her journey and her spirit as brittle as the withered leaves, this last denial was a wound she could not recover from. With a whimper, she fell back against the ground, and there the young lackeen died.

The sun looked down on her broken frame and was stirred in a great sorrow for her, for her journey, for her half-lived life, and for her death. It shed tears that fell and mixed with the tears of the star and the moon, who too did mourn for her. Their tears fell to the earth and sank deep into the thirsty soil.

Knowing their part in what had happened, the sun, star and moon gathered in the sky. Each promised the young lackeen that they would never forget her.

Eventually from those fallen tears grew a plant, blessed in the light of the sun, star and moon, and took unto it their shapes and forms.

Among its many names is dandelion.

Even to this day, the dandelion remains embodied with the fiery force of the sun, moon and star and it grants the easy flow of water to those who drink it in a tea. If you look closely at the dandelion you will see that it resembles the sun when it is in flower, the moon when it is in seed, and the star is in the leaves that grow about its base. If you are lucky and pick it carefully from the ground with a song, you might find that the roots are in the form of the young lackeen.

To read the entirety of this story, and many others, check out Why the moon travels by Oein DeBhairduin

[elleryhart]

An attack for @letheology ! this one is. more than a little self-indulgent.

[mythicalmuseomine]

Lady Brigid of Ireland

The patroness, mother saint, of Ireland

Requested by @wanderers-inn

Taking requests via asks, and anonymous requests via messages.

[morgandria]

Bríd of the mantles, Bríd of the hearth-fire, Bríd of the twining hair, Bríd of the Auguries, Bríd of the fair face, Bríd of the calmness, Bríd of the strong hands, Bríd of the kine! Bríd, friend of women, Bríd, fire of magic, Bríd the foster mother, Bríd woman of wisdom! Bríd the daughter of Danu, Bríd of the triple flame, This day/this night, we call the flame of Bríd! That the power of shaping be within us, That the power of poetry be within us, That the power of healing be within us, In earth, sea, and sky, and among the kindreds! Kindle your flame in our heads, hearts, and loins, Bríd above us, Bríd below us, Bríd at every airt about us. Bríd in our truest heart!