Druidry, a view by Oakwyse
Druidry emerged quietly into my life, in a small wood behind my home when I was seventeen, as a growing sense of kinship with the wide world. I had never heard the word “druid,” knew nothing of my Irish ancestry, and had no idea that my Ukrainian grandparents were born in the ancient Celtic homeland near the shores of the Black Sea. There was a small stream that tumbled down the wooded hillside. It was there that I spent many long, silent hours, becoming one with the green world. Later I wrote a series of seasonal poems that reflect the turning of the year beside that magical stream, a wheel that turned for me some six times before I ventured out into the wider world. That cycle became forever a part of me, and still shapes my experience of life. Back then I did not have the knowledge of history, or spirituality, to understand the journey I was beginning, but it was there and then I began to become a Druid.
Journey
On a May morning,
now forty years past,
a youth carved his name
on the slate of a young Beech.
The woods then were new, with the hope of Spring,
and the nearby stream
sang with the joy of life.
How could he know –
a boy with no mentor in the ways of the wood –
the the Old Knowledge, even then,
was sinking into his bones?
Later,
in the summer of life,
Taran brought the thrill of insight;
Were there Spindle, it would have been his walking stick.
But the Beech aged and grew,
and the Thunder rumbled
always in the distance,
and the druid-stream was left behind.
Beechwood knowledge slept in his bones
while he went about the business of the world.
One morning in Autumn,
first-frost on the fallen leaves
crunching lightly underfoot,
he came upon a Blackthorn in the wood
and reached out to take
the cold-sweetened,
wintering fruit . . .
(25 July 2000)
Druidry is like that. It comes upon you unawares, like a quiet spring seeping from a hillside, or a new fern slowly unfolding from beneath old leaves in spring. Celtic history can be taught, Celtic spirituality may be learned, but Druidry sneaks up from behind and catches hold of you. Suddenly you feel the thrumming rhythm of the Earth in the soles of your feet, and your blood runs in concert with the streams and the flow of sap in the trees. Druidry is the soul-magic of the living Earth, the Fire of passion, the dark, moist womb of the ancient Waters, the Breath of the slightest breeze, and the roar of the whirling Winds. No one can teach Druidry. The wise mentor, if you have one, leads only to stillness, awareness, and the wonder of wakefulness. But, in any case, Druidry comes when and as it will, and, like the dragon energy of Nwyfre, it burns from within.
Speaking of Dragons
It was the smoke I saw first,
gently, gently curling about me in the twilight.
It was the smoke I saw first,
but then the low,
expectant rumble that sounded almost like breath –
that was breath –
and then the hum of thrumming air
about me.
It was the smoke I saw first,
but then the serpentine smell of something scaley,
and then,
in the growing darkness,
the soft, insistent red glow of eyes.
And the warmth. The warmth.
Then the voice spoken to my mind:
“Well, human, at last you’re awake,
I’ve been watching you! Can we talk?”
It was the smoke I saw first.
(13 July 2001)
Druidry is like that.
By W. William Melnyk
(OakWyse)
12 December 2006