CANDLES YET TO LIGHT
My candles,
yet to light,
Against the pressing wind.
Coming to rest
midway through this pilgrimage
bringing my own earnest inquiry
to the piled limestone of the cairn above the cliffs,
I do not find myself reaching
to my ancestors,
still strangers to me, in all ways.
I find myself
instead, trying to reach the ones
who will recognise us
as their forbears.
I do not ask clemency or blessings
from the dead.
I am instead lighting candles
and searching out
the sacred and forgotten places
of this land
and in us all,
to entreat with not our dead
who gave their blood
back to the soil
and their prayers up
to ancient skies and cow dung fires,
both
of fleeting embers
long since come to ash;
Not they,
but to the living
who walk beside me,
in reckless slumber,
against the grain
of every grieving season,
against the wisdom of the Winterage.
My candles,
yet to light.
Rocco Jarman
May 2023
—
A group of forty or so, some in the tour, some local farmers and their family walked The Burren in North Clare high above the village of Carran, and right towards the end came to a stop at a Cairn, an ancient burial mound, one of hundreds dotted about the high places on the limestone shoulders of The Burren.
The man who had led the walk was a local farmer, full of local lore and in rude health, who directed the hearts of everyone who could hear is voice carry above the tearing wind, to the idea that we should reacquaint ourselves with our ancestors, we should name them, entreat them and pester them even, to let them know they matter, that we are here, that our troubles might become their troubles.
I found myself authentically and comfortably outside that experience. Of the two score folks who sat together in communion with that sentiment, i alone did not know my ancestors, had never known where I might begin to look for them, and could not find inside myself any plea I had to lay before their absence.
It was only in hindsight, after writing this actually, that it came to me what I would ask help with, given that if they would know to wish or pray for anything at all beyond the horizon of their lives, or even mine, it would be my prayer too; that our lives, theirs and mine, that all our trials and suffering would have Meaning.
And not just the myopic sense of narrow purpose, but that our effort to endure here in the world and how we embraced a sense of stewardship over our corner of the world, counted some, towards the world future generations might wake up into, and the launchpad they might yet create for the future human, the proud son of Man we might one day yet become.
“You are who your ancestors sang about in their ceremonies.
You are their revolutionary prayer.
You are their sacred gift to the world.” - Sarah Elkhaldy.
—
Photography credit unknown.
Cernunnos, Irish deity of nature, as well as a god of life, death, and rebirth
Beautiful writing my man, it seems like you’re enjoying your walk about! I hope you have a great time and continue to drop little treats like this long the way.
How good to sit comfortably outside group think and other people’s ideas without judgement - still knowing your position. I like the idea of sitting as an ancestor and seeing what comes through inspiration from that place. Enjoy the next half!!