Fàilte chridheil dhuibh uile/ A heartfelt welcome to yous 

The altar that is Gaothan na Tuatha is in devotion to the aether, to the folk of the misty knolls who are sometimes called Wee, to the Earth, to the Goddess, to waters of three. It is in devotion to the lilted intonations of Spirit, of the ancestors ancient whose roots lead us back to the stars.

I call back to the wyld, northern winds, and I bow my head to the mystical wisdom that comes whispering on their tails. I bow my head to the wondrous, ancient arts, songs, and medicines that the so-called Wee Folk have so lovingly passed to humanity. I bow my head to the Fey, to the Tuatha Dé Danann, teachers who have blessed my life time and again. I bow my head to the hallowed, eternal stream of the Gael. I bow my head to the venerable Norns, to Frigga, to Odin, to the Elves, and to the profound medicine of the runes. I bow my head to my teachers and elders, human-being and spirit-being, in wholehearted gratitude and respect. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

When I envision the altar that is Gaothan na Tuatha, I see an ancient, mossy knoll of the Fair Folk that, surrounded by holy mists, settles in the Earth once more so that their medicine, their winds, can flow even a wee bit more during this pivotal time on Earth. A knoll amongst knolls, like the great ursula star constellation sprinkled in a verdant moor, it joins a glowing cèilidh in the forest.

It is a heart-centered hearth for the sacred arts and the old ways, for harmony, for gnosis, for connection to the silver stars above and the mist-dusted lichen beneath our feet. It is a place for joy, for belonging, for magick.  

I light my candle with the intention to be a wee but magickal part of the magnificent age that is emerging now, where the Fey and Wee Folk can walk tall amongst us again and Spirit is welcomed back to this dimension with sacred reverence and vibrant joy. I devotedly lend my hands and my heart to be a wee part of anchoring the Good Neighbors’ medicines and teachings and tunes and mirth so that the ones who come thereupon can sing and dance in the winds of the woods wyld and free. I humbly sit at the hearth that is Gaothan na Tuatha in awe, with love, humming a jolly air for a starry new day that encompasses all of life.

May it be so/sew.

May it be so/sew. 

May it be so/sew.  

Le gach deagh dhùrachd/ With every good wish, 

Sylvie

Gaothan na Tuatha/ The Winds of the North 

In Scottish Gaelic, or Gàidhlig, Gaothan na Tuatha more literally means The Winds of the North. At the same time, through the ages, ‘an tuath’ from which na tuatha comes, was also used in Scotland to denote both the land and the people of Gaeldom. It is my belief that, perhaps, this eternal echo of ‘an tuath’ is a reverberating, living memory of one of the roots of not only the Gaelic language and her heritage, but the people themselves: the Tuatha Dé Danann.

In my version of English phonetics, as I believe that we each have a unique way in which we hear subtle resonances, Gaothan na Tuatha would sound something like ‘Goo-haen nah Too-ah-ha.’

Ever since I was a wee lass, I remember listening to the wind as if they were my friends, my teachers, my kin. On the winds, I could find a song carried from home. On the winds, I could see the brilliant song of the Aurora, na fir chlis. On the winds, I could feel the five-pointed star that guided my way from the night sky. The winds, the aethers, they brought me to time out of time where I could hear other worlds. In these threshold places, I could and can often still hear songs of time and memoriam, the likes of which the ancestors and the beings of the spiritual dimensions have been singing to our hearts since the very beginning.

As I have grown and embarked on a journey of healing and remembrance, the winds continue to carry the song of truth and home to my heart. When I met my teacher, I began to remember and cultivate an active, ever-loving, ever-humbling relationship with the Wee Folk, the Fey, the Tuatha Dé Danann, and the starry line from whence I came. This has infinitely changed the course of my life. Or rather, it set the course to the northern, lilted winds of home once more. In my winding findings, I happily discovered that Tuatha Dé Danann, the tall and shining faeries of the goddess Danu who brought medicine and language and culture to the Gaels, were said to have journeyed to this dimension on flying ships carried by the northern winds, and that they were once said to an embodiment of the northern winds themselves. This is a vision, a memory, that lights the candle of inspiration and hope in my heart.

When I am in Scotland, it is a beloved practice of mine to sing Scottish Gaelic songs at mystical thin-places: perhaps where the moor and a castle ruin met the sea, or where the river meets the sea. There I can sit, often with the sheep, to watch the dance of the winds on the water. In Scotland, the winds are disputably some of the loudest voices of all, but at the waters they scribe gossamer poems, sacred snippets of music from beyond the veil on the very tip of the silver seas. It is as if they paint the ballads of the ancients, of the elements, of the people of the mists for me to hear, to behold, to remember.

No matter where my journeys take me, these tunes, they travel with me tucked in my heart. They bring me back to the ancient in-between spaces, to the babbling brooks of the stars. They bring me back to the wee lass that I once was, a girl who so often stood at the foot of a beloved cherry blossom tree, who would put down wee, berry pies for the Fey and heard the winds respond with tune, in runes, and the light of the moon.