Meditation: Cerridwyn & the new Sun

Take a deep breath, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Take another deep breath, filling your stomach, your diaphragm, and finally your lungs. Hold this breath for five seconds… 1-2-3-4-5... And exhale, allowing the breath to exit your lungs first, then your diaphragm, and finally your stomach. Take one more deep breath, and as you breathe in, feel the energy and the wonder of the world around you in your fingers, your toes, your legs and shoulders, even the top of your head. Hold the breath for seven seconds…1-2-3-4-5-6-7... As you exhale, feel all the tension leave your fingers, your toes, your legs and shoulders, even the top of your head. Feel the fertile earth under your body, expectant and waiting - waiting for the burgeoning warmth of the sun, waiting for the frost to lift. Cool to the touch yet bracing, the earth sweeps away any of your hidden fears. You are free of worry and anxiety. Free to frolic with the snowflakes on the wind. Free to expose your wild side to the white wonderland around you. Take a deep breath in and feel the icy air stimulating every nerve, every cell, in your body. Continue breathing deeply, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Allow the earth to hold and support your body. Allow the wind to blow away any remaining fear and to hold and support your body. Allow the wind to blow away any remaining fear and anxiety. You have never felt so relaxed, so secure, so calm.

You are walking in the depths of a great forest. It is night, by the moon is full and the stars twinkle brightly in the midnight blue sky. The tree branches are bare, allowing the glow of the moon to light your way from above. You are on a path that is covered with snow and mud. Snow rests on some of the tree branches and as you look up to inspect them, you sniff, smelling snow on the wind. An owl hoots off to your right. You see his big, round eyes flash briefly in the dark before his wings swoop past you.

Your boots are sturdy with a thick, steadying tread, yet your toes are numb from the cold. Your fingers in their mittens are also chilled to the bone, and you can no longer feel your nose. You wrap your woollen cape more snuggly around your body and trudge onward. Clasping your protective talisman between frozen fingers, you look down at the muddy, snowy ground on either side of the narrow path. Not relishing an evening sleeping outdoors, you hope for a tavern up ahead. The forest is thick and dense with pine trees. No sound greets your ears, save the whispering sigh of the breeze through the pine needles. You sigh along with the wind, seeing your breath form a white plume before you. Even an abandoned hunting cabin would suffice at this time of the night, you think to yourself. You glance at the movement of the stars. The Wheel has almost completed its turn.

You pull your weary gaze from the star-strewn sky and skid to a stop. There, before you, in a small clearing, stands a small, stone cottage. White smoke belches from the tiny chimney, and a lantern in the window sends a soft, golden signal of welcome. You walk to the cottage (pause) and raise your fist to knock on the dark-red door.

Before you can land even a fingernail on the door, it swings open and a white-haired woman steps out, a bucket in hand.

“Good,” she exclaims as she tosses the contents of the bucket over your shoulder and into the cottage yard. “We’ve been waiting for you.” She bustles back into the house, one hand holding the bucket and the hand fumbling around in her pink-flowered apron. You stand at the threshold, completely surprised by your welcome. “Well, don’t just stand there letting all the warm air out.” The old woman looks at you crossly. “Come on in!” You step into the cottage and the door slams shut behind you.

“Give me your cloak, dearie. You won’t need that here.” The old woman is suddenly behind you, nimbly unclasping your cape and placing it on a wrought-iron hook next to the doorway. “Can you put another log on the fire?” she asks you, pointing to the enormous fireplace that takes up the whole right-hand wall of the cottage. “The time is almost here,” she states, striding toward some shelves with jars on them in the darkened recesses of the cottage. “I must prepare myself.” She is swallowed by the darkness and you can no longer see her. However, the click and clatter of glass jars being moved remind you that she has not vanished entirely.

You walk over to the fire and pick up a heavy log. A very large cauldron hangs over the fire from a blackened chain. You peer over its side and sniff hesitantly. A noxious smell invades your nose. You pull back, eyes watering, nose running, sneezing uncontrollably.

“I asked you to put another log on the fire,” the old woman calls from the back of the one-room cottage, “not poke your nose where it doesn’t belong.” You give one last final sneeze, your cheeks burning from exertion and embarrassment, and throw the log on the fire. The flames leap up, greedily devouring the wood, and the contents of the cauldron boil fitfully. The room grows warmer.

“Ah-ha!” The cry of triumph is followed by the strident gait of the old woman as she walks toward the cauldron and toward you. “Got it!” She holds a bit of greenery aloft. Scampering to the window, she looks upward at the stars, pauses for a space of two heartbeats, and then, quick as a fox, throws the herb into the cauldron. Yellow smoke puffs from the cauldron, followed by a loud burp.

“Now’s all we have to do is wait, dearie,” the old woman says, rubbing her hands. “Help me with this.” The old woman shoves a huge bundle of unbleached cotton into your hands. It is soft to the touch, and you stagger under the sheer size of the cloth. You take a step backward and trip over a low, solid item that you’re sure was not there a few moments before. Your feet fly out and you land with a thud on your bottom. The cotton slips from your hands, landing all around you. You feel warm, moist pressure on your hand. Surprised, you pull your hand away and push aside the cloth. Two soft brown eyes look up from the narrow, plumb face of a white sow.

“Pepper, Pepper!” The old woman leans down to scratch the ear of the sow. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear that her hand disappears into the sow. You shake your head. Obviously the fall addled your brain. You laugh to yourself, scratch behind Pepper’s ear, and gather the cotton cloth.

“Don’t mind her,” the old woman says, loading more cloth into your arms. “She gets underfoot sometimes, but she’s a love. Won’t harm ya a wink!” She winks then, a sparkle of mischief in her icy-blue eyes, and pats the large, tough-hewn wooden table. “Put the cloth on here, dearie.” She darts to the back of the cottage, leaving you to struggle with the cloth on your own, with Pepper’s warm, wet nose pushed up against the back of your knees.

For the next several hours you straighten the cloth, separate it into three piles, and fold it. Just as you think you are finished, the old woman asks you to pout another log on the fire, and when you return to the table, the pile of cloth has grown bigger and messier. Throughout the long, dark night, your work continues and the old woman scuttles back and forth from her jars to the fire, throwing in herbs and flowers and muttering incantations. (pause)

Just when you feel that you could not fold another piece of cloth, the old woman exclaims, “It is time!” The sow runs to the cottage door and noses it open The piles of cloth lie neat and tidy on the table, and the fire radiates a low, warm heart. The old woman stands before the cauldron, arms outstretched. She watches the sow, who, in turn, watches the sky. The sky is no longer midnight blue. The gray light of predawn seeps down from the clouds. The trees sway and the first fingers of dawn reach across the sky - pink and light blue and lemon yellow. And then, with a triumphant burst of energy and light and daring and courage, the sun pops above the tree line. At that exact moment, the sow squeals with joy and the old woman reaches her bare hands and arms into the boiling cauldron. A strangling cry of warning dies in your throat as she removes a perfectly formed baby boy from the fiery depths. She cradles him in her arms, ducking down and protecting him with her body… as if she knows. For in the next instant, the cauldron explodes with a loud blast, leaving nothing but a pile of dust and a few shards of twisted metal.

The old woman stands and turns toward you. You bring her a cotton cloth and clean the perfectly formed face of the baby boy in her arms. “The sun is reborn,” the old woman says in a hushed, awe-filled voice. “From the darkness of the longest night, warmth in your heart.” Smiling, despite your fatigue, you reach down and kiss the baby. His almond eyes flare open, touching you with their wisdom and knowledge. A ray of sun envelops him, you, and the old woman in a warming embrace.

Now, take a deep breath, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Take another deep breath, filling your stomach, your diaphragm, and finally your lungs. Hold this breath for five seconds…1-2-3-4-5... And exhale, allowing the breath to exit your lungs first, then your diaphragm, and finally your stomach. Breathe deeply once more, and as you breathe in, feel the energy and the wonder of the world around you in your fingers, your toes, your legs and shoulders, even the top of your head. As you exhale, wiggle your fingers and toes. Shake your legs and move your shoulders up and down. Take another deep breath and, as you exhale, move your head from side to side. Feel the ground under your body touching every nerve ending and muscle. Hear the rustlings of the people around you. Notice the movements outside. Continue breathing. Stretch your arms out above your head. You are returning to the present, to the here and now. Continue stretching. Continue breathing. When you are ready, open your eyes, blink and focus, and sit up.

Invocation to Cerridwyn

Wise woman.
Hag.
Crone.
Mother.
Teacher.
Cerridwyn.

You comfort the dark sky
And midwife the sun.
Possessor of energy and wisdom,
Creatrix of meaning and movement,
Lend me your strength.
Teach me your knowledge.

By the great cauldron, Awen,
I taste your greal
And know your power!
I transform my shape
And learn your wisdom!
I begin my quest
And hear your inspiration!

Beginning.
Ending.
Birth.
Death.
Rebirth.
Cerridwyn.

“The Mabinogion” - Welsh folklore

Cerridwyn is in her isolated island home, in the middle of Llyn Tegid (now known as Bala Lake) in the northwest section of Wales. Her daughter and husband play no part in her story and, presumably, due to their respective beauty and size, are making their way peacefully through the world. Her son, Morfran, on the other hand, plays a prominent role. Also known as Afagddu, or “utter darkness”, Cerridwyn’s son has a gloomy disposition and an ugly outward appearance. She fears for him once he leaves the protection of her island home. Believing he will never be afforded the respect he deserves, she seeks to award him with other gifts that will compensate for his ugliness.

Cerridwyn studies long and hard, delving into her books of magick and sorcery, and finally alights on a spell that will help her son. She must gather herbs, whose properties will impart intellect, wisdom, inspiration, and skill. Through knowledge of the stars, she must throw them into a boiling cauldron at varying times throughout an entire year plus one day. The cauldron of inspiration and knowledge must be continually boiling during this entire time. After a year and a day, the combined power of the herbs and the stars will coalesce into three drops of the potion, forming a heady magickal brew. The rest will be deadly poison and will cause the cauldron to explode, seeping into the earth.

Armed with the information, she works non-stop for a year, gathering herbs, consulting her books, and reading the stars. She pours the waters of prophecy and inspiration into the cauldron, along with each herb and root and the foam of the ocean waters, all according to the movement of the stars. So that she can focus on her magickal goal, she employs a young boy, Gwion Bach, to stir the cauldron, and an old blind man, Morda, to tend the fire. Her son, during this year and a day, does not help at all. And so, in the end, he receives exactly what he deserves, according to his work ethic. Absolutely nothing.

Near the end of the year and a day, Cerridwyn, exhausted from her labours, having said all the incantations and added all the herbs, takes a much-needed rest. And somehow, during her slumbers, the three drops of power and wisdom and inspiration fall on the hand of the servant boy Gwion instead of her beloved son Morfran.

As the cauldron explodes from the powerful poison still inside, Cerridwyn wakes to find her son deprived of the potion’s power. Gwion, with his new knowledge and wisdom, realizes the full extent of Cerridwyn’s power and her rage and tries to escape to the lands of his family. Incensed with having worked an entire year for nothing, Cerridwyn beats the old man Morda with a heavy log, causing one of his eyeballs to pop out. “Mistress,” Morda says, “wrongfully hast thou disfigured me, for I am innocent. Thy loss was not because of me.” Cerridwyn acknowledges his wisdom and races off after the boy Gwion Bach.

The chase becomes a battle of magickal wills as each magician shape shifts from one animal to another. Gwion, upon seeing the furious Cerridwyn running after him, changes himself into a fleet-footed hare. Cerridwyn counters with the speed and grace of a greyhound. Just as her teeth nip at Gwion’s fuzzy hind legs, he morphs into a slippery fish and slides into a nearby river. Cerridwyn responds by transforming into a sleek, sharp otter and deftly glides after him. Feeling her pointed nails on his scales, Gwion alters his shape into that of a bird and rises above the earthbound Cerridwyn. She replaces her otter skin with that of a bird of prey, a sharp-eyed, sharp-taloned hawk, and soars after him. Realizing his mistake and tired from hours of using his new shape-shifting skills, Gwion spots a pile of newly winnowed wheat on a barn floor. Dropping close to the ground, he shifts into a grain of wheat and burrows amid all the other grains, sure that his disguise will confound the enraged Cerridwyn. However, Cerridwyn is more comfortable morphing from one animal to another and does not feel as tired as Gwion. Sensing his deception, Cerridwyn lands on the ground and changes into a high-crested black hen. In her new form, she promptly eats all the grains of wheat in the pile, including Gwion.

In seed form, Gwion takes root inside Cerridwyn, and before long, she is pregnant with him. Understandably upset and feeling thwarted, Cerridwyn vows to destroy Gwion as soon as he is born. She carries him for nine months, but after his birth, she does not have the heart to destroy the beautiful, golden-haired baby. Instead, she wraps him in a leather bag and tosses him into a raging river on April 29th. He is found a day later by the son of a wealthy nobleman. Struck by the beauty of the boy, he names the baby Taliesin, which means “radiant brow”. Taliesin recalls all of the knowledge and inspiration that he learned from Cerridwyn’s cauldron when he was Gwion. With such wisdom, he becomes the most noted, most talented of Celtic bards and poets.

Meditation: Cerridwen’s Cauldron

Ground and center. Hold the cauldron in both hands. Breathe deep, and feel the power of transformation. You hold the Cauldron of Cerridwen, where the dead come to life. You hold the cauldron in which was brewed the broth that imports all knowledge and understanding. The cauldron is the womb of the Goddess, the gestation ground of all birth. Think of the transformation you undergo every day. In a moment, you die and are reborn a thousand times. Feel your power to end and begin anew, your ability to gestate, to create, to give birth to new things, and let that power flow into your cauldron.