Happy St. Patrick's Day!

I'm a quarter Irish on my father's side (the other half of that half is Scottish), and the rest comes from Germany with a little bit of French mixed in. Therefore, I consider myself a purebred Celt. Also, St. Patrick's Day is my third-favorite holiday of the year (after Halloween and Christmas, and right before April Fool's Day). I figured I'd do an Irish myth today, perhaps something from the Ulster Cycle. But it's a long story and I got to it kind of late, so I'll just cover a section of it.

THE CATTLE RAID OF COOLEY
Queen Medb of Connaught wished to acquire the legendary brown bull of Cooley (Donn Cualinge in Irish), who was extremely fertile and desirable as breeding stock. So, naturally, what does she do? She decides to wage a war. Over a bull.

CU CHULAINN
The central hero-figure in the Cattle Raid of Cooley story, he was the son of the god Lugh and a mortal woman, Deichtire. Originally known as Setanta, Cu Chulainn got his name when he killed Culann the smith's bloodhound, then offers to take its place. Cu Chulainn means "Hound of Culann." During the Cattle Raid of Cooley, Cu Chulainn (then seventeen) is the only one of the Ulster men unaffected by a supernatural illness unleashed by the goddess Macha, whom the King of Ulster offended. He invoked the right of single combat at fords and defeated hundreds of Medb's soldiers in this fashion.

Years later, Cu Chulainn's final battle came when he saw a bean nighe washing his bloodstained clothes in the ford. (According to Irish tradition, the bean nighe is an omen foretelling one's death.) He was mortally wounded by a spear belonging to Lugaid, the son of Cu Roi, a warrior Cu Chulainn had killed. Now comes my favorite part of the story--Cu Chulainn tied himself to a standing stone and continued to fight valiantly until the last breath left his lungs. Until a raven landed on his shoulder, Lugaid and his comrades were hesitant to approach Cu Chulainn's lifeless body, out of fear that he was not yet dead. Finally, Lugaid cut Cu Chulainn's head off as a trophy, but the fallen warrior's sword fell and severed Lugaid's hand. Lugaid was eventually killed by Conall Cernach, who had sworn to avenge Cu Chulainn's death.

The Beautiful Writings of Khalil Gibran

Those of you who have taken the time to enjoy the works of Kahlil Gibran are truly blessed. Gibran was a Lebanese-born poet and artist whose most famous work was The Prophet, although other works include The Madman (which was my gateway into his literature) and Kingdom of the Imagination. Today I managed to get my hands on a brand-spanking-new (and might I add, gorgeous) copy of The Prophet:

 

Then I realized that I hadn't posted a blog in a few weeks, and I figured, "What the hell; I'll share a chapter."

ON LOVE

Then said Almitra, Speak to us of Love.

And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:

When love beckons to you, follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

And when he speaks to you believe in him,

Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.

He threshes you to make you naked.

He sifts you to free you from your husks.

He grinds you to whiteness.

He kneads you until you are pliant;

And then he assigns you to his sacred fire,

that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,

Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,

Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.

Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;

For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God."

And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.