Brigid's Blessings, #365StrongStories 32

We lived one hundred feet from the fastest flowing river in Europe. At least that’s what the guidebooks said. Those same books also hinted at the legends of fairy forts and the mysteries of those standing stones that anchored farmers’ fields in something even more ancient than Guinness and junior year abroad programs.

We’d been in Galway for six months and had the audacity to call it home. Myth and poetry were the most important things in the world. Even more important than kissing Irish men. Well, that’s the story I’m telling my kids anyway.

And so, on Imbolc, it was time to honor customs that were as old as that frantic River Corrib. Brigid - the goddess who sculpted the land before anyone had ever dreamed of Christ and his saints - this was her night. Legend has it that this is when she passes by, blessing the cloaks of the faithful.

Brigid is one of those handy, all purpose goddesses. In addition to being the patron deity of home and hearth and smithcraft, milk and fire and birthing women, she wore a healing mantle that could be hung on a sunbeam and her coming was the herald of spring.

Being a fresh faced pagan girl on sojourn from a Catholic college, I hung my new shawl in the damp night. I was going to soak up every drip of magic in the Celtic twilight.

Did she stop that night? Did an American girl who knotted her own story with this green, rocky place get the attention of a goddess? That Imbolc feast was almost half a lifetime ago, but I know I met Brigid this very morning in my New York back yard.

She lingered in a warm breeze that had no business shaking the bare trees of a February Hudson Valley. I stood by the summer fire pit in its neat iron bowl, looking back at that house that glowed with the babies I had birthed and nursed.

Without a doubt, I knew she’d graced my every step from then to now.

Bright Brigid blessings to all - especially the brilliant Suzi Banks Baum because it seems that we've been sitting around the same sacred fire all along. Read her St. Brighid's Day post (and learn about the invention of whistling!) here.

Filling the Storyteller's Chalice, #365StrongStories

“You look like you’re in agony, dear one.” “Oh, I’m not. I’m just… It’s the next story.”

“I thought you were happy with this arrangement. The chance to take the stage in the square each day… It’s such an honor. And I’ve heard wonderful things.”

“Of course you have! You’re my husband,” she closed her eyes and pinched at the bridge of her long nose. “I do love doing it and I feel the good of it. I just don’t have anything left.”

“Nothing left! You told me that you were born a storyteller and I’ve never doubted that for a moment since we met.”

“Oh, but you know what it is to be tired when a deep place within your mind's worn through. Like all the creative fires has been put to bed in preparation for a night that just may not end.”

“I’m a glass blower, wife. When the fires go out I bid the apprentices to stoke them hotter than ever and I make thick tumblers for the publicans.”

“Ach, you’re no help! And I have to get up on the stage in less than two hours.”

“You are the Rememberer for these people. You hold their chalice and you wield their sword. Only you dare speak all of their dreams and their fears. You know the secrets what makes them proud and what makes them glad they weren’t born to some other savage race - no matter how rich their kings or fierce their warriors.

“Tell them of the goddess you love best,” he said, leaning forward to tuck the stray curls behind her ears. “Tell the women about how she stands tall in battle and how she births a dozen sons without dread. Tell the men about the swell of her breast and the warmth of her mystery. Tell the children that she holds the keys to the fairy realm. And, when you come home, tell me how you’re just like her.”

The storyteller sighed, but as she closed her eyes, it was not with weariness but trust. Trust in the man who held her chalice and called her to take up her own sword. Trust in the stories that guided her and everyone who gathered when she raised up her voice.

Sometimes this storyteller's chalice feels empty... If you'd like to contribute a story to the #365StrongStories project, read the submission guidelines here.

Part of Him Came Home, #365StrongStories 30

He left. And then he came back. In the midst of it all, we survived on wholesome, fresh food an the stuff from back of the freezer. We wrote notes to say how we missed him and we FaceTime'd every night. We counted sleeps 'til he came back - even the that were nights so disrupted it felt as if no one slept at all.

He returned a conquered hero... all airport flu bug and Greenwich Mean Time lagged.

Soup was made and blankets fetched.

We hope he really comes home tomorrow.

Ask Your Beloved Creations to Love You Back, #365StrongStories 28

A teacher of environmental biology asks her two questions at the start of each semester. “Do you love nature?” Yes, of course. Every hand is raised.

“Do you believe that nature loves you in return?” Not a single earnest academic was going to be caught dead admitting to something so… pagan.

Elizabeth Gilbert tells this story in Big Magic to prove that we have a right to be in conversation with Mother Earth, with creativity, with whatever great superhuman force we happen to love.

I keep coming back to Liz’s idea when I secretly reread the stories I have written over the first month of this #365StrongStories project. The way these pieces flow through me and the streams of information and experience rush on, even the post from a few days ago can take me by surprise.

It’s fashionable to bemoan the narcissism of the age. All those selfies we take proves that we’re self-obsessed, right? When I admit that I go back and look at my own work and smile when there’s so much other worthy content to consume… does that prove I have some 21st century sickness?

I don’t think so. Instead, it feels like I am giving my creations a chance to love me back.

You know what it takes to write something that feels worthy of publishing. And you know how hard it is to connect to the reader, even when you’re pouring your best into a post. There’s no guarantee the right people will see what you write and that they’ll have their thumbs prepared to send a response that assures you all the hard work was worth it.

Based on my experiences telling my own Strong Stories, this is my invitation to you: do the work (at your own rate) - the thinking, the writing, the posting, the publicizing. Then, ask those words to love you back when you revisit them.

I never really believed that you need to write for yourself first. Not when I was so desperate to be seen and validated. But finally, I’ve arrived at a place where I give myself permission to stop and see myself and recognize what I’ve made… That’s the nature of real creative magic.

How to Evolve Like a Freaking Mother Goddess, #365StrongStories 27

The modern world likes its goddesses to look and act a certain way. Gorgeous nymphs in gauzy gowns. Abundantly bosomed beings who offer wealth and well being. Great mothers who nurture their beatific babes.

Once upon a time, I used to agree. Six years ago this January, when I was leaving my first daughter to return to my J-O-B, I wrote this:

Want a surefire, foolproof, 100% guaranteed way to become a goddess on earth?  Follow these steps:

• Be born a woman.
• Make love at your most fertile moment.
• Act as a hospitable vessel for nine glorious months.
• Love the little creature that you have created with all your body, heart, and soul.
• Leave aforementioned angel child with a trusted caregiver after she has been lavished with two and a half months of dedicated attachment parenting.
• Return within four hours to a child with eyelids slightly purpled and swollen from much weeping.
• Hold her in your arms and offer her that sweetest mother’s milk.
• When this child falls back in a delighted coma of sleepiest nourishment, witness the rapture on that flushed face.

That’s lovely, but I’m revising what it means to be a goddess. The sweet innocence of a milk dripping deity is great, but there’s another way to earn your place in the pantheon.

I’m nearing the end of my breastfeeding journey with my second child. My boobs can still soothe a crying kid, but I’m less amazed by my alchemical powers. (Wow! I eat food and it ends us as someone else’s poop!)

Now, as I endure the two a.m. screaming that I can feel in my teeth simply because I will not submit to being treated like a human chew toy, I discover I have another superhuman skill: the firm but gentle “no.”

Every mother who resists the desire to devour her young - even when they seem hell bent on swallowing their mother whole - yeah, she’s a goddess.

There is something divine about cradling an infant and pledging a lifetime of nourishing devotion. The refusal to turn into Kali in the darkest hour before dawn? That’s the love that creates the world.