I Buried The Book in the Bog

I buried the book in the bog.

I died for it.

I had to.

It was inevitable.

Unavoidable.

I wasn't going to let that book be destroyed. It held the meticulous script and texts. Written in a sacred tongue, preserving oral lore.

So I gave up my life to preserve the book.

Sacrificing myself.

The horse reared up above me with a strong soldier atop. My crumpled form lay there, adorned with brown robes and brown wooden cross. I held on for hope until the very end.

I died upon that very bog where the sacred text lay buried.

As my body returned to the earth,

SHE gathered me home.

Holding me in her arms;

consumed by her immortal soils

as I became one with HerStory.

She sang me home to source.

We knew the bog would preserve our stories. We knew the texts were safe beneath those soils. Cradled within the roots of our ancient tree ancestors. Preserved alongside their gold.

Until such time as we felt the vibrations as messengers,

calling us to rise up,

for our stories NOW to be told.

Their cries rang out along the ley lines.

The ground rumbled her response.

Uphold the gold in these sacred texts that tell of the ancient lore. Of cosmic stories passed down in whispers direct to the hearts of the story keepers.

Uphold the gold!

The oracles, seers and witches.

The druids, monks and priests.

The bards, priestesses and nuns.

We are The Poets of old.

Oh wait til you read of our true adventures.

Of our deep knowings and spells!

Oh wait til you gaze upon the magic symbols that will crack your heart wide open!

We are resurrecting The Truth in these stories, encased in pure elemental gold.

We are resurrecting The Golden Grail by waving our magic wand.

Resurrecting the truth of Tara, of these ancient, timeless lands.

Resurrecting the knowing of what's possible now as we reach out our ancestral hands to you to walk into new ways of being.

We are your ancestors of then and now.

We are your future knowings.

We ask that you write us back into the scriptures now, remembering the sacred texts of Éiriú.

These books that you buried in the bog hold all of the ancient mysteries.

We ask you to remember now, all that you buried in that bog because...

Now it is safe for the wisdom to return.

It is safe to share all that you learnt, through the endless lifetimes you reincarnated here.

Including those lifetimes where you were burnt.

We ask for you to share this knowledge now.

Write, paint and draw.

Chant these mantras to remember your courage:

I am safe now.

It is safe now.

Your words are a gift to the world.

This is part of your legacy.

By honouring The Witches & Druids.

By honouring all those Wise Ones ~ their voices want to flow through you.

My whole body shuddered and trembled with all of this ancient knowing. As these words flowed through me, I knew that it was time.

I planted that book in the bog then to be found now at this time. To call all that wisdom back for the here and now!

I planted it like a seed that would sprout for these times to resurrect the gold.

This is the word of the witch and I shall keep my word!

I leave you with 3 last commands:

1. Resurrect Your Gold.

2. Excavate Your Truth.

3. Uncover the seeds of what you hid eons ago to support you and your work now in this lifetime.

​Click here if you'd like support with the magical craft of soul based coaching with sacred storytelling sessions.

Within the fertile bog lies your gold.

With love,

Eimear xxx

{Newgrange Transmission} Oh Bitter Sweet Solstice

Newgrange at Brú na Bóinne taken on my visit during Aug 2022

The ancient heartbeat of Newgrange at Brú na Bóinne in Ireland's Ancient East has being calling out to me these past few days as we step over the threshold from Samhain into the season of Winter Solstice.

Aligned to the rising Winter Solstice sun as he rises above the outline of Red Mountain to slowly slowly begin to shine his celestial golden rays onto Newgrange, or Sí an Bhrú, to first activate the spiral rock art of the entrance stone with golden infused light codes and then make his way through the roofbox above the Pi Portal.

Creeping his golden rays up up along the narrow passageway, just like the birth canal, the golden rays eventually reach the central womb shaped inner chamber which bursts into magical golden hues, activating everything that he touches, almost reaching the triple spiral carved into the orthostat in the west recess, but doesn't quite because of the unnatural tilt of the earth's axis that knocks this monument slightly out of alignment.

This spectacle takes about 17 minutes in total as the sun then retreats as he rises higher in the sky and the womb of Bóinn rests in peace in darkness once again. This illuminated alignment occurs for longer than previously thought - nearly a whole month in duration.

I have a lot to share about Newgrange since it's a place that I have visited 3 times in the last few years.....feeling the call every time to learn and experience more as I walk upon these sacred lands.

During the Mentorship for Witches class yesterday, we resurrected our gold as we went into a deep meditation into Newgrange and also to Ancient Egypt.

Prior to the class, this poem came through in chunks yesterday as I went about my morning which I then had to share thanks to The Cailleach Witch. I share this with you now in spoken and written form in the hope that it too activates you to resurrect your gold at this time.

​Click here to listen or read on below.

Oh Bitter Sweet Solstice

Where were you in our moment of need?

Where were you when we needed you most?

We were left to starve as you trampled across our land. Told we were stupid, dirty and lazy.

Where were you when they exported the food and left none for us?

Our people exiled; our language quenched. Families split apart.

To Hell or to Connaught my arse! Shame on you Oliver Cromwell!

How dare you step upon our land and claim it as your own.

How dare you claim rights over the indigenous people of this land.

How dare you claim your entitlement to what was not yours to take. Renaming our ancient sites and “taming” our untameable wild natures.

Casting a colonial curse upon the bloodied land.

Yet the rising had to come from within in the end when no outside help was to be had. Such as the 1916 Rising where they fought back to reclaim our lands.

To fight for sovereign freedom and self rulership. To paint post boxes green again and wave the Irish flag.

But where were you when we needed you most to dig us out of our plight?

Where were you when we needed you most. 'Tis a bitter sweet day.

Now you come to celebrate. Now you sing and dance upon the land. As the light penetrates the deep winter darkness, oh bitter sweet solstice child.

Now you come in your droves to the land of Éiriú. Like they did in ancient times.

Now you come.

With you we stand still as a holy daughters of the sun.

We stand together in silence and reverence for all that has unfurled upon these lands.

She reaches out her gnarly ancient crone hand.

She rests it upon my shoulder.

She leans in with mossy earthy breath:

I’ve always been here dear child of mine. I have always been here. You were never abandoned even when it felt you were. I have always been here. Never abandoned you and never will.

Sweet solstice child.

Let me hold your bitterness in my outstretched hands. Your bitterness rattles my bones. Let me hold and cradle your bitterness now. Let me witness your anguish and pain.

I watched the horror play out.

I fed you when you were hungry.

I walked with you as you left the land that could no longer support you.

I left on the coffin ship with you as you sailed to far off lands.

As the ocean lurched and swelled, I held your dying hand.

I hold your hands in mine now and ask you to heed my loving command.

When you reclaim your Irish Ancestry, please remember this, my Cailleach Command.

Continue to heal all that rises within you as you tread upon this land. Lay to rest those who couldn’t. The responsibility is yours now. Your ancestors depend on you now. This is your passport to our new Earth. Calling the children of Tara home.

Understand our history of a freedom fought and the many lives lost.

As Newgrange puts on her spectacle, she sheds light upon our recent past to bring healing to the land.

We’re being called to look beyond our senses. To see and hear the story behind the story. To know the distortions of the truth. The battles that have happened upon this land. Look beyond the surface. Lift the veil of deception and amnesia to reveal the truth and true power of what it is to walk upon these lands.

May the rain fall down upon us to cleanse our souls.

May the fire ignite within to purge away the old his stories and spark to life the true divine flame of remembrance within.

May the air blow away the cobwebs and whisper divine messages as we walk soles to soil to activate the healing process of these memories within. The collective healing continues.

For she calls on us to be fierce. To strip away the lies.

She calls on us to rise up divine feminine and divine masculine in circles of protection empowering each and every one of us.

She walks with us on this soul journey home.

Cast your eyes over to the horizon towards the red mountain. Sliabh Rua.

Watch as the first rays of golden rising sunlight births the new day forth. Wait and allow this golden infused fiery sun to fill you with the golden rays of its emanation.

Oh golden child of mine. For you are golden, timeless and ancient. The solstice calls us to stand still with the sun at this threshold time.

To step into the womb.

The void.

The nothingness.

Oh sweet solstice child.

Newgrange entrance taken on my visit in Aug 2022

Let me know what this activates within you at this powerful threshold time.

With lots of solstice love,

Eimear

Dear Éiriú: There’s a Blight that Sits Upon These Coveted Lands

It angers me when I see Ireland solely portrayed as the mystical, magical island that She of course is. There’s a whole lot more to the story that lives out upon these coveted lands.

This anger rumbles deep within me, like a suppressed volcano that is waiting, waiting, for His time to erupt and spew out newly born molten lava flares from the mouth of The Mother. It surprises me when it arises. I feel a certain kind of protectiveness over these lands, just like the protectiveness I feel over my children and all that is precious and sacred in my life.

I visited the Famine Monument last month when I went home to Dublin. As I stood there witnessing the plight of 1,490 tenants forced to leave their home and, in May 1847, walk 165 km to Dublin docks.

It was part of an “assisted emigration scheme” organised by their landlord from where they took the coffin ship to Quebec in this instance, to start a new life.

The landlord, after evicting them, tore down their houses to make sure that they could not return. With rations of sugar, tea and bread, they made this epic journey, carrying and supporting each other as best they could.

There’s an ache in the bellies of the Irish Psyche.

Pangs of hunger in the Irish heart.

A worn forlornness born out of a land that’s been torn apart throughout history over the eons.

Divided and conquered.

Suppressed and oppressed.

Lands stolen and dominated making it illegal and dangerous to practise the indigenous crafts and speak the native tongue.

Gaeilge.

An Teanga.

The soul voice of the land.

Mythology distorted; stories changed to suit the intentions of the writers.

I feel this deeply. It’s hard to know where to start or end with the story of our land, and of course it is an eternal spiral of death and rebirth. Carved into the stones as symbolic messages to decode and share.

So I ask you, Éiriú, how can I best honour you and my ancestors at this time?

She replies:

Be our voice.

Speak our stories.

Honour our flesh and bones upon native soil. Home grown on the lands of Éiriú.

Don’t shy away from what’s painful.

Don’t use the name of Ireland to profit only your pockets.

Turn gently towards all of that painful history that’s still embedded in the bones of the collective.

Make it ok to speak about these wounds – the colonial wounds and all these wounds deeply felt by the people of Ireland.

When you speak this loosens the density of the shame and silence that’s holding these lands captive. This sets your cells free organically, naturally repairing your DNA as the pain releases and returns to earth source to be transmuted home to truth.

***

During the times of the Great Hunger / The Irish Famine / An Gorta Mór, when a blight caused the potato crop to fail over many years during the 1800’s, millions died. Millions emigrated. Many died on those coffin ships. Those that arrived alive experienced hardship, racism, abuse and became enslaved by the systems and structures on these new lands. Others merged with the new ways and became very successful.

So many of us feel this ache of being exiled from ancestral lands.

Souls split apart.

Severed from indigenous Irish roots at the attempted soul stripping of the land.

An entire nation suppressed and silenced.

So when you tread upon these shores of the Emerald Isle, our door is always open to welcome you, and, please remember all those who have gone before you.

Dearest Éiriú,

It’s painful to write about these topics. Of the eons of heart ache and heart break. Yet I’m here now to honour my ancestors in the best way that I can.

I feel the blight that sits upon these coveted lands and I walk with you to heal home to whole soul truth with each and every step I take, soles to soil, on my individual soul journey at this time.

Will you pick up the flag in their honour now?

Will you bear witness to these wounds within you?

Can you reconcile all these exiled soul parts by calling each and every one of them home?

In the words of Laura Eisenhower “We have to have clear truth in order to heal.”

In honour to all of you at this Samhain threshold moving into Winter Solstice.

Eimear x

PS: Support yourself at this threshold time with these online products that are still at my birthday special reduced price over the course of this holiday season. Click here to check them out.

#LettersFromIreland #Éiriú #AnGortaMór #MysticalIreland

Irish Famine Memorial, Dublin - I took this photo in November 2022.

Letters from Ireland - Potatoes

My grandfather, Jim, grew potatoes in a field up the road from his house.

I remember him making the short journey down the bohareen, the little path, and around the bend in the road before arriving at the potato field to dig up and fill his sack with new potatoes, or spuds as we also call them.

Retracing his steps, he’d arrive back, sack full, and store them in the cupboard for when the potatoes were needed.

He loved his spuds. They accompanied every single dinner. He’d fill an aluminium pot with tap water which piped in directly from the well and place the potatoes inside, after scrubbing and washing the dirt and earth from them with a scrubbing brush.

He’d then place the pot onto his little hob in the back kitchen which looked out to the hill behind. That hill is called the Bean, which, when you climb it, gifts the most magnificent panoramic views of Dingle on one side and Ballyferriter on the other side, then all the way across the sea to South Kerry and beyond. Climbing The Bean was always on the list of activities during our childhood holidays….it still is!

The smell of the cooking potatoes filled the house with an earthen aroma that made my tummy rumble as my hunger grew more urgent. Playing outside in the fresh Kerry air seemed to make me very hungry as a child.

Once the skin of the potatoes would begin to crack open to reveal the fluffy white treat inside, we knew the cooking process was nearly over. Lifting the pot off the stove, my grandfather would then bring it over to the sink. Positioning himself squarely by that sink, he’d begin to tilt the pot and, using the lid to keep the contents inside the pot, he’d strain the boiling water, now a cloudy colour, from the pot. Once fully strained, he’d then tip the potatoes into the lid of the pot and shuffle his way down the hall and into the front room where the kitchen table was.

Placing the lid filled with spuds onto that kitchen table, this became the centre piece for all evening meals. I remember sitting and watching as he’d stick his fork into a spud and peel the skin from it, letting the skin drop back into the lid of the pot. Placing the peeled spud onto his plate, he’d lather it with salty yellow Irish butter and tuck in. Usually meat and veg would accompany the spuds, but for me, the spuds were the main event! Spud by spud he’d work his way through the pile with an ardent focus, until they were all eaten. I’m sure he’d devour 5-10 potatoes depending on their size. The fresh Kerry air made him hungry too!

It was like a process of pure magical alchemy. This important produce grown in the dark earthen womb of the rich nourishing West Kerry soil which then emerged into the divine light to be cleansed and washed by the holy well waters. This sack of potatoes would provide sustenance, vitamins and nourishment for the whole family.

I was home in Dublin last weekend. I visited EPIC which is the Irish Emigration Museum in Dublin with my mother and my son. I found it incredibly moving. The museum presented Irish history in a poignant and graceful way when parts of our history are far from graceful. It’s a museum that is about more than potatoes and yet, a large part of the focus is on just that, potatoes, in relation to The Irish Famine / An an Gorta Mór or The Great Hunger.

The museum gets “under the skin of what it really means to be Irish” according to the EPIC museum. It excels in doing just that.

This is something that I will write more about over the coming days / weeks. I plan to explore topics such as The Irish Famine; Soul Loss; Repressed Grief; The Colonial Mind; The Raw and The Reel (get it?!) as well as The Suppression of the Irish Language; The Penal Laws and how Irish eyes just keep on smiling through. I’m calling this series “Letters from Ireland”.

Despite the blight, I still love spuds. When I hold a potato in my hands and feel the caked mud from the earth; as I wash them in the Scottish water, I feel that connection to my ancestors. How they flourished and endured the good, the bad and all things Irish.

When I feed spuds to my children, they somehow aren’t as enthused as I am about this food source. However, I do make sure they understand the significant symbolism of this humble root vegetable within the heart breaking history and aching belly of every Irish soul.

With love / Le Grá,

Eimear xx

Written on 2 December 2022

PS: Checkout the EPIC Irish Emigration Museum website. It really is epic and packed with information. https://epicchq.com/

Top Photo: My son and me at the EPIC Museum last Friday. Taken by my mum. Grandfather Jim's daughter :).

Calling You to Rise

~ Calling You to Rise ~

We are the Wayfarers.

burning tattered old map.

Called to rise together,

Before Mother Earth reaches the end of her tether.

We are the Shapeshifters, nimble and swift.

Ready and waiting to shapeshift and act.

We are the Trailblazers,

daring to care, linking global arms as we forge new ground.

We are the Travellers, we’ve been here before.

Adventurers, Explorers….called forth to BE more.

We are the Archaeologists, excavating old ground,

for treasure long hidden deep down underground.

A millennia of dust; rubble, debris.

A delicate brushing off layers of old stories and beliefs.

~​

We are the Witches.

Yes, we have returned!

Earthwalkers; Firekeepers; Stewards of our land.

We are the Lightworkers, beaming divine light,

Leaders of our new World – oh what a vibrant sight!

We are the Artists, Activists and Futurists,

Feeling with great zeal…

On a mission to Heal.

~​

This mission to Heal is an inside out job,

Diving deep to our depths,

On this voyage of discovery,

For our Global recovery.

~

So listeners and readers, the by-pass is closed.

The way out is through.

To the new world of infinite possibility.

~​

She waits. She watches. She breathes.

She drops into her heart.

In this still spaciousness,

her next step

Begins to seed,

With nurturing and great care, it sprouts forth, alive and free!​

I’ve lit a fire for you,

on the edges of possibility.

It’s a great big bonfire with fierce flames that lick the cosmos.

I invite you to gather with softness with courage,

To sit; warm your hands, come close now, you can.

We’ll listen and pray as we dream into our collective way.

We are birthing a new world for generations to come.

And for now, would you like to join me for another cuppa tea?

Where we can just Be…until we See what the next step shall be…

- Eimear Stassin x