The Morrigan and “Weakness”
While devoting yourself to a trio of primal goddesses heavily associated with battle, athleticism, sex and other activities that require a certain amount of bodily and mental strength, it’s important to realize that weakness is not inherently shameful. We see depictions of the Morrigan as fierce warriors, and think of them in terms of the heat and violence of battle, and the visceral energy of sex—but based on what we know of Celtic cultural and religious identity, I argue that weakness is intimately tied to strength.
We know through the lore and through accounts from people like Julius Caesar that the Celts were fierce warriors. Both men and women were regarded as powerful and strong, and were formidable enemies. Though they were not an organized civilization, the tribes scattered across Europe that we think of as the Celts shared a universal passion for the glory and honor of war.
And what, in warrior culture, is more honorable than death and injury sustained during battle?
Considering this, and with our knowledge that the Morrigan held dominion over war (both of the body and the land), we can then begin to recognize their connection to the other side of the coin.
In one of Macha’s stories, she is forced into racing horses while pregnant, and after crossing the finish line as the victor, she dies in childbirth. Before dying, she lays a curse on the people who caused her death, that in times of great peril, the men of the village would experience the same pain of childbirth and be unable to fight. By assuming that pregnancy was indicative of weakness and that this weakness made her incompetent, they doomed themselves. What they saw as weakness, was actually great strength. Macha died honorably, and the men lost the ability to prove themselves in battle.
The story that most interests me is that of the Morrigan and Cuchulainn. In the Book of the Great Queen by Morpheus Ravenna, she suggests that the exchange between goddess and hero is symbolic of an initiation ritual representing the warrior’s dependence on the goddess. In order to be strong, he must accept that his success in battle can only be made possible through his submission to the goddess.
During that story Cuchulainn rejects the Morrigan’s offer of sex prior to a battle, thus asserting that he has no need of her blessing and can win the fight out of sheer will. In short, he’s full of himself and overestimates his strength—similar to the villagers in Macha’s story. In retaliation the Morrigan comes to him during the battle and wounds him:
“The she-wolf attacked him, and drove the cattle on him westwards. He throws a stone from his sling, so that her eye broke in her head. She goes in the form of a hornless red heifer; she rushes before the cows upon the pools and fords. It is then he said: I cannot see the fords for water.’ He throws a stone at the hornless red heifer, so that her leg breaks under her.”
After the battle, Cuchulainn comes upon the Morrigan disguised as a hag. She offers him milk from her cow, which heals each of his wounds. With the healing of each wound, he blesses her and subsequently heals her wounds as well, bringing the exchange between goddess and hero full circle.
In their lore, the sisters call warriors to battle, and they themselves fight with the strength of an army. But through the stories of Macha and Cuchulainn we see another side—the importance of weakness as a sign of strength rather than an obstacle to achieving it.
So what does this mean for modern devotees?
Our society is no longer one solely focused on warfare. Most of us will never participate in literal battle, and quite a few followers of the Morrigan struggle with things like physical disabilities and mental illnesses. When researching the lore and culture of the ancient Celts, comparing ourselves to those standards can be disheartening. We’re not sword fighters and soldiers, and in some cases, the sexual nature of the Morrigan may be difficult to relate to as well.
If you’ve been called by the sisters, it’s natural to be intimidated, and to wonder “am I really worthy?” As someone who is physically able bodied, but deals often with the fatigue that comes with a mood disorder, I’ve wondered the same thing. But at every stage of my devotion to the sisters, I have never been shamed for being “weak”. In fact, on days when I’m at my lowest, they have often commended me for the smallest accomplishments. Getting out of bed and going to work is a battle won. Stepping out of my comfort zone to try something new is met with congratulations and praise.
The Morrigan know suffering. They are the fighters on the field and the sword in the hand, the wings of the mighty crow and the howl of the she-wolf. But they know the pain of labor, the agony of broken bones and failure. The sorrow of rejection and loss, mourning for the dead, and the stoop of aging.
They know what it’s like to lie in the dirt while your life escapes you, and be dependent on the blessings of a cocky hero in order to heal from the wounds he inflicted. They don’t fear weakness. They revel in it. They use it to prepare for the next battle. To recover from mourning. As followers of the Morrigan, we are taught to not feel shame when we are weak, but to respect that weakness, and treat it as an important part of the healing process.
