Hill of Tara Part 2 _ Ireland, 2015

“A’Ma,” the old name pierces through the humming of my bones, as if someone were insistently trying to call me back from some precipice of ancient time over which I might slip out of sight. I stand at the back of a group of at least twenty-five tourists, at the summit of the Hill of Tara. The tour guide is speaking about the Tomb of the Hostages, and how archaeologists believe Tara was probably more of a ceremonial site for the inauguration of kings than the actual dwelling place of any of the high kings themselves.

It’s probably rude, but I ignore her. Archaeological theories simply pale in comparison to my own bone-deep knowing of a very different Tara, a place on which an entire king’s fort stood, which could, when necessary, house over a hundred tens of people.

“A’Ma.” Softer now, the voice parts my thoughts, a mind of its own, diffusing some of the memories, and I take notice, finally stirred enough out of my distant reverie to respond. Moved by the old name of endearment, I look to my right, my eyes falling on the only person who ever spoke that name to me when I was alive, 1800 years ago.

“Ailbhe, sister,” I say excitedly, silently, our conversation as it so often does carrying on through thoughts, intention, images, and feelings. I send her the intention full of feeling, “I am so glad you are here to share this experience with me.” And I am very glad indeed. My immediate family simply would not understand why this place holds such meaning to me, and why I feel the way I do, being here.

“Right now you are more Mairin than Éilis,” she observes, glancing at me thoughtfully.

This makes me a bit uncomfortable. Can she see passed my thoughts which contain my words? Does she see that I have been lost in an ancient reflection? How much of that reflection am I prepared to share? For I was taken, suddenly, back into the days when my name was Mairin, when I was a bandraoi who knew the healing powers of herbs, who protected my people against the unseen and could see the light in all living ones. My memories were not so much of events as feelings, and I felt the way Mairin often felt at Tara, uncertain about her legitimacy and own merits to be present at such a kingly place, haunted by the guilt, almost successfully buried, of abandoning her birth family, and terrified of forever being lost behind the shadow of her sister. The awe and wonder at standing in the boundaries of such a sacred place was there; so was the misgivings of a girl, born a middle child, who disappointed her parents for the second time by leaving her family and a life of a land-owner’s daughter to train as a druid.

Our family was a noble one in status, but not in character. I still don’t remember why it was so dysfunctional, but I do know our brothers were highly favored, and we girls were to have children and continue our mother’s line: our response to which, jointly, was to remove ourselves as fast as possible. Ailbhe had been the first to walk away, taking what she could carry and steeling into the night, only nine years of age, to journey here to Tara and try her hand at becoming a banfhénnid, a warrior of the fianna. But at the time I was only just turned seven, and never fully understood the why of my sister’s leaving. It was a terrible loss for me to spend my days without her, and despite myself, I would wonder whether she might have stayed a bit longer, had I been a better sister.

By the time we found each other again, I was a full bandraoi and Ailbhe was the rigbanfhénnid of fian 4, she had a nine of her own. I feared all those years of separation could have been enough to distance us, but the love and loyalty we had toward one another as children did not fade with time. And so I chose to serve her community rather than that of our birth family, who had nothing for us, and those years together at Almu were the happiest in my life. … And yet, I always wondered whether my sister influenced my acceptance, and whether I would have qualified on my own. And so, at Tara, I would spend much time fighting a gnawing insecurity I felt surely druids ought not possess.

I can tell that Ailbhe has seen these thoughts and feelings. For an instant, part of me worries she will judge me for it, but I know her well enough to know better. Instead, she looks me in the eye and says, “I was always so proud to be your sister.”

I shoot her a thought that I am going to get emotional and can’t randomly start crying in the middle of a large tour group. Ailbhe breaks out with a knowing sisterly grin: “But that wouldn’t be so bad for you, come to think of it.” Her smile is full of as much mischief as compassion.

Then I have an idea, only in part formed to change the subject. “Do you want me to aspect you?” I ask. She nods in answer. Aspecting, which is also called trance channeling or just channeling, is when you share space with a person from the spirit world. I move my ego/personality consciousness partly out of the way and Ailbhe fills in the rest of the space, so we’re both sharing the same body. I’m about 1/3 present, and she has the rest of the space. I stop trying to hide any thoughts, When you’re sharing a body with someone, neither you nor the person sharing your space can hide anything. This used to be somewhat alarming to me, but now I greatly value sharing such a profound level of honesty.

As Ailbhe goes about sending me feelings of acceptance to quell the growing emotions gripping me from the memories, she also draws our attention to the tour guide. We listen, I, fascinated, Ailbhe both quizzical and reflective, while the guide starts relaying one of the myriad legends of the fianna associated with Tara.

I convey my excitement to Ailbhe about this. “There are many who still remember you, see, there really are.” My comment is in part made in reference to continuing our conversation from the day before, over the surprising frequency with which “pagan Ireland” seems to be represented in tourist audiovisuals almost exclusively with the mention of Cúchulainn, and no one else.

“It’s one of those stories that is not accurate with events,” Ailbhe remarks in reply, “But she does a good job in the telling of it.”

Then a somber stillness steels over her, and I am flooded with an uncanny mixture of gratitude at what is remembered and grief for an era long passed, the recognition of so many inevitable changes since create an inexplicable kind of longing. “What is it Ailbhe,” I ask, concerned.

“Isn’t it strange,” Ailbhe says then, “That today among the tourists gathered at the seat of the ancient high king stand many of our fianna themselves, and of us I myself am looking out through your eyes, embodied in a way wholly unexpected; and then to hear of my own people, being discussed in passed tense. But we are still here. No one considers that we might be very much present now.”

I briefly imagine the possible look that would cross the tour guide’s face if she somehow gazed out toward the crowd and noticed that many of the ones she was speaking about were also gathered here, listening to her. I realize that in such a case she’d most likely be frightened, both by what she was seeing and by the confusion that would set in, having no culturally accepted language in which to articulate the experience so others would understand without judgment. I can tell that Ailbhe certainly knows all of this, and yet there is a part of her still wishing to be seen, not just for who she was, but for who she is. I keep her close to me. “I see you,” I tell her.

For a while we simply stand together silently. The guide has finished her story and goes on with a speech about something, but I am too out of the way to track it consistently. I am aware most of all of how the two of us are standing with the self-assured dignity and grace which Ailbhe has in abundance, and I am still learning to possess.

Then Ailbhe says quietly, “It’s hard for you not to be able to see it, isn’t it, Éilis? It’s not easy for me either, to be looking out of your eyes and not to be able to see all of Ireland expanding out from us.”

I agree, taken somewhat aback by the comment. Usually I think little about what I might be missing with my lack of eyesight, but in this place full of memories, and many visual memories now lost as I have no reference for them, I am feeling bereft. Suddenly I go from being grateful for Ailbhe’s words of comfort to feeling hugely inadequate. Here I am, trying to give Ailbhe the experience of once again being an embodied person at Tara, but I will never be able to give her the whole of the sense of the place she once had.

Ailbhe notices the shift in me immediately. “It’s all right,” she whispers, trying to console my troubled mind, “This experience is more than I ever imagined I would have again. It is more than enough, Éilis. Thank you, I am more than grateful to you.” She pauses, and puts a light around us. The light is made of unconditional acceptance, and slowly I become at peace again. Finally she says, “I should let you have a few more moments up here fully back in yourself before you and the group need to move on.”

She steps out of my space then, and with a radiant white light shining around me, I completely return to myself. I can still see Ailbhe next to me. People are now walking up to touch the Lia fáil, the stone of destiny. Our time to just stand quietly will be over shortly.

Suddenly, Ailbhe reaches out, and takes my hand. With the connection she conveys a picture. Two souls, having been sisters long ago in an ancient age, reunite once again on the hill of Tara to stand at the summit and look out at a country that was once their home but is no longer home to either of them now. No matter that the sisters now live in different worlds. No matter that one has been wandering through lifetimes in search of her origins while the other has spent her existence in the world beyond, representing an age. None of that has ever been enough to keep us apart. Once again, we stand in a place that has always held a deep significance to us, except that now the land beneath and around us has been transformed by the passage of almost two millennia, in a way barely recognizable. Hand in hand we both reclaim and lay to rest an era, safely holding what once was in memory, while restoring to who we are now what of our histories the land once claimed as its own. For one more moment we look into each other’s eyes, brown peering into blue. Then Ailbhe gently lets go of my hand and disappears.

When I finally get to touch the lia fáil, it oddly seems to pail in comparison to that more private experience Ailbhe and I shared. Somewhat to my immense relief, the stone doesn’t make any piercing cries. Thank goodness, I think to myself, half jokingly, that means less responsibility for me. But even while I walk away and start down the descent of the hill, I am struck by the gnawing feeling that I am already on my way to fulfilling a destiny of my own.


6 thoughts on “Hill of Tara Part 2 _ Ireland, 2015

  1. What an amazing experience Éilis! Thank you so much for sharing it. I love visiting Tara, but also felt nothing when I touched the Lia Fail. I don’t think it is the real stone. What do you think?

    1. Thanks, Ali! Yes it was a very profound experience, even now I feel so blessed that Ailbhe and I had that time together. 🙂

      I’d have to agree with you about the stone. I know you said before you weren’t sure it was real… I was still hoping I’d feel something. I did have a meaningful connection/experience at Brighid’s actual well and there was even a sense of sacredness about the ogham stones and Cernunnos carving I got to feel. The stone did absolutely nothing for me. I feel like I am connected enough to at least a couple of the Tuatha de Danann that I would have some sort of resonance. But the stone had no life in it. I’d say it is either not the real one, or is so goggled over that the magic is gone from it in the same way that the most touristy cathedrals we visited felt the least sacred. In either case, besides a symbolic historical token of a long fled past, I don’t think the Tuatha De Danann enfuse it with any of their memories, or claim it energetically anymore. They were certainly angry about the symbolic slight when people misused it, but your first book I think has it closer to the truth, that they have forged a new stone or taken the real one into their own safe keeping.

      1. I never realised you had replied to my comment Éilis. I wonder why WP never showed me your comment? Strange.

        I like your idea that they may have taken the real stone into their own safekeeping. I hope so. X xx

  2. Éilis Niamh, I started backwards with your posts about Tara. I started with this post, went back to read the others, and then came back here.

    I came to your blog because WordPress had recommended fresh posts from someone who had commented on my Soulful Traveler site and when I read those three words: “Hill of Tara”, I froze. Those three words mean something to me that I cannot speak in Waking Language. It is a universe of feeling and thought and something not of this earth and more.

    So I came here to read what you wrote, starting with your Part 2, and what happened? I promptly burst into tears.

    Now truth be told I am a sentimental person, and many things move me to tears. But I never had a reaction to a written piece as I did when I read this blog post of yours.

    I felt a whole big wave of feeling from Spirit hit me when I read your post because I understood some things I was not able to share with anyone, decades ago, when I myself visited the Hill of Tara.

    When I was in my late 20s, I did a tour of Ireland with a friend. For years, I had read whatever Celtic lore I could and kept being drawn to all things Irish. So it was literally a dream come true when I made the trip. And when I first stepped on Irish soil, I felt such a sense of coming home that I have never felt anywhere else.

    During my trip around the country, different things resonated with me in different places. In Blarney Castle, far away from all the tourist nonsense about the Blarney stone, I had an overwhelming clairsentient experience in the former dungeons of the castle.

    But the strongest experience of all that I had was on the Hill of Tara.

    I felt a crazy electric energy fill me in every cell of my body as if I had plugged my entire self into an electric socket. And even though my rational mind thought it seemed disrespectful (like everyone else does apparently), I ran and ran and ran all over the hills. I felt connected to that sacred ground there in a way I have never felt before or since in my life.

    Now I went and read the first part of your blog and marveled at all the OTHER people who had an urge to run around on Tara, including yourself. And I felt a kinship with you and all those many other souls who have lived a past life there.

    I don’t remember if there was a Tour Guide at the Hill of Tara that day. I don’t remember whether or not I saw or touched the Stone of Destiny. I don’t even remember sharing the experience with my friend. All I remember is running on that hallowed ground and how right it felt.

    I felt shivers when I read how you said that of course those past residents of Tara were still very much there. That makes so much sense to me now but back then my journey with understanding Spirit had yet to begin. That thought comforts me.

    Your blog comforted me and my spirit in a way I cannot express.

    Much Love & Gratitude,

    1. Dearest Aurora You have moved me into wordlessness, I have not known what to say. What a wonderful thing that you actually got to run at Tara, if I ever go back there, I will make sure I go with someone who will run with me. It was such a longing for me, like the whole place holds a sense of such freedom and connection, all I wanted was to be a part of it.

      I’m so glad my experience resonated with you. It’s a gift, really, for me to realize that writing about my own journey just might help others remember, or be useful in making sense of what’s already remembered. I have no doubt you had a past life at Tara, too. Yes, the people who lived at Tara are still there, when people in this world are honoring them, and some I think are there to guard the place. There were too many physical people for me to actually interact with any of them. I’m with Ailbhe every day, so that was a bit different, but I did sense/know many others were there.

      Thanks for sharing your experience, I can tell it left its mark on you, in a profound and positive way.

      Blessings and light to you. 🙂

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