Daughter of the rising sun
Of universes just begun,
Sister to the wind and rain
Remember who you are, remember your name.
About Éilis Niamh:
I am lonely, wild daughter
I am woman, I speak the language of Earth Mother
I am lone wolf of ancestor forest groves
I am laughter through echoing canyons
I am crisp wind through grassy barren fields
I, small life rustling in the bush
I, smooth, small grainy pebbles pushed up on beaches, water-worn
I am roaring river along harsh and stoney banks
I am wisp of smoke from lingering campfire, scattering above thin high clouds
I am the peaceful quietude of the dying twilight
I am a beam of light at sunrise piercing the shield of darkness over a mountain forest
I am a caterpillar on a leaf gaining sustenance to change
I am the taste of honey suckle, dew drops and mint leaves
I am scented salty blue, of dirt after rain, of chocolate
I am the wild strawberry plant twining through undergrowth to present an offering to birds
I am the subtlety of reeds and the wild wind which blows through them cold and rattling
I am the scurry of a curious, effervescent squirrel and the acorns squirrels gather.
Many things happen. Life is an activity, and every moment contains something wondrous if only you stop to notice it. This is the place where I share what happens, where I make space for the telling of all that awen urges me to put into words. The majority of my writing here will be poetry and short stories, but don't be surprised to see the occasional advocacy piece or mercifully short philosophical argument, or pun for that matter. I love playing around with words, so if you ever encounter something like: the statement "This statement is false," is false, don't panic. Everything written on this blog actually happened, unless it didn't, and that won't change until it does.
I now leave you with the story that inspired the name of this blog: a story about the people whose willingness to live or die by what they held as truth gave me the strength to once again speak mine.
The Music Of What Happens:
“Once, as they rested on a chase, a debate arose among the Fianna-Finn as to what was the finest music in the world.
“Tell us that,” said Fionn turning to Oisin.
“The cuckoo calling from the tree that is highest in the hedge,” cried his merry son.
“A good sound,” said Fionn. “And you, Oscar,” he asked, “what is to your mind the finest of music?”
“The top of music is the ring of a spear on a shield,” cried the stout lad.
“It is a good sound,” said Fionn. And the other champions told their delight; the belling of a stag across water, the baying of a tuneful pack heard in the distance, the song of a lark, the laugh of a gleeful girl, or the whisper of a moved one.
“They are good sounds all,” said Fionn.
“Tell us, chief,” one ventured, “what you think?”
“The music of what happens,” said great Fionn, “that is the finest music in the world.”