The air was thick with purpose, as the scent of burning wood mingled with Mother Earth's musky breath. Smoke would cling to our clothes amárach—tomorrow. We pagans—country folk carried along by our chatty camaraderie, quickly left behind Ail na Míreann—Stone of Divisions and we walked up the fields to Uisneach’s sacred summit. Cattle chewed noisily as damp grass clung to our feet.

I threw my mossy log into the Samhain tine chnámh—bone fire as my culchie, kindred spirits sang along to the beats of the bodhrán and guth gheal- bright voice of the ceoltóir—musician.

I was celebrating the Celtic New Year and I felt fully beo—alive!

Séan, the seanchaí—storyteller scared us to half to death with tales of the Púca and an Dubhlachan— an fearr gan ceann— the headless man, and so my limbs loosened and I forgot all about the my money woes and the worries of this human world. I squeezed my daughter’s hand, as he traversed through the crowd, his long cloak flowing freely behind him, whilst his animated voice reached back through the ages. In the dusky darkness I heard my clan, both living and dead, ag gáire os ard—laughing loudly, full of mischief.

Who knew what ghostly ghouls were grinning this needy night, relishing the frightening faces Séan made as his flamed torch under-lit his face, to exaggerate the eerie effect. Yet here on these pagan pastures fun and fear fused le chéile—together as murky mysteries and myth-telling suspended us all between beatha agus bás—life and death. We were happily haunted, and high on feeling afraid in this shared safe space.

By now the fields around were filling up with fog, a ceo draíocht— magic mist. As it descended all around me, a tiny droplet of dóchas—hope seemed to settle upon my chest. My senses were heightened, my hands felt rough, cheeks burning; lips dry, as I stared into the blue of the flames. The crackle of the fire blending with the whisper of the warm westerly wind, as a soft sí gaoithe—spirit energy reconnected me to my ancestors.

Under the navy November night sky feeling drunk on the druidess’ dirge I closed my eyes. It was then I felt the phantom of my mother’s discontent. It was three years since Maureen had passed to the Other World. I had been hungry for her spirit energy, yet the force of this fearful presence took me by surprise. It was a guth—voice from the valley, a ghost in my throat and a ceist cheanna—an important question all at once, demanding my attention, anois—now! 

The words formed themselves on my lips 

'What would Morrígan do?'

As the dark Goddess moved through my mind, she transformed into a howling wolf, then a kicking heifer, and finally a wriggling eel slithering away into the wet grass beneath my wellied feet. She’d fought the bloodiest of battles and used the darkness itself as fuel for rebirth. I saw her destroy all in her path. Yet she loved baníocht—the company of women, and I sensed her sisterhood here on the hill. 

All at once, something shifted in me, and I felt fite fuaite—interwoven with these ancient feminine forces around me. Next I heard a sharp shrill sound, and bird seem to cry out: 

'You, Yerself, so it is, Yerself, so it is! Yerself, so it is!'

A chough flew by the fire, its legs as dearg—red as the flames. The Morrígan herself, so it was! 

My body shivered, fingers fuara—cold, yet I felt pregnant with purpose, the smoke of the phantom queen had smudged my eyes with a smidgeon of promise. But before my rebirth I knew I had to embrace my own descent into darkness. The time had come to face up to the legacy of family mental illness and the fear of my ADHD brain as it hijacked hours of my day, my business banjaxed and my soul in smithereens.

Cos tine—by the fireside the hooley continued. Enmeshed in these sounds of music and merriment my smaointe—thoughts swirled. I pulled my dad’s tweed cap down my forehead as the ancient words Bheith idir dhá thine Samhain—to stand between two choices, began to damhsa—dance in my head. For a nostalgic nóiméad—minute my farming forefathers were standing with me on this Westmeath hill. Just as they had purified their cattle by driving them between the two Samhain fires, I too felt cleansed, my pathway cleared.  

I pulled my mother’s woolly baneen tighter around me, fingering its worn wooden buttons as I moved closer to the rising flames. I felt a cróga croí—the courage of herself to keep going and to heed the Cailleach’s call and not put my spiritual work on on the méar fhada—long finger. 

I knew then that the old scéalta—stories of the Aos Sí, the magnificent mythological beings of Ireland, were our slí amach—way out. 

My mind made up and an inner feminine authority ablaze I let out a huge sigh of relief. My warm breath became visible in the cold air it vaporised into a vibrant vision. 

Floating before was an awe inspiring aisling—dreamscape of the Morrígan. Streelish in her red robes, long wild red hair flowing, she was surrounded by her sisterhood and mná—women I knew, sitting in a fáinne—ring. And in the centre sat Goddess Bláthnat’s cauldron of plenty. I sat with these mnásome—amazing women, sharing my new tales as well as my mind tools as I stirred three colourful ingredients into the big black pot.

First, Mnáology: green as grass and lush as the land lore of Goddess Ériu’s land. These new myths would uplift us from the daily grind, negate our nightmares, and reignite our self-belief.

Next, Mná-tra meditation: honey-coloured and a gift from Goddess Bríg’s bountiful bees. These soothing sounds in Gaeilge—Irish would guide us to the cuasnóg—the honey nest within, releasing the sweetest gift of all, self-trust.

Lastly, Mná-infesting: red as the blood from the maclog—womb of Goddess Medb and ablaze with the t-ádh dearg—the red luck of creativity. This is a new way to visualize our desires, where our dreams and dúlra—nature are fused, guiding us to live our kindest life. 

I stirred the cauldron again, the vivid colours whirling in my mind.  The vision changed once more. I saw how my recipe for resilience, invoking the Celtic power of three, would become our shared ritual, repeated arís agus arís—again and again, in country and in city, ar fud na hÉireann agus timpeall an domhain- all around Ireland and the world.

The three elements represented three essential parts. Mnáology signified our community. Mná-tra meditation represented our compassion and Mná-infesting embodied our creativity. 

Wherever we gathered, these three elements would return us to our instincts and croí—heart healing, replacing the despair we felt from the deeds of too many manipulative, misogynistic men. 

As night deepened and I left the hillside, I took with me a blás beo—a living taste of inner Goddess power. This force of nature had been fermenting in the bogs of the midlands, ancient Mide, for millennia, carried tonight by cáinte gaoithe—talking wind across the three worlds, spoken by Amergin, the ancient poet, his words bubbling in the river of Goddess Eithne, the Inny nearby. 

Yet this fierce energy had been buried for centuries by colonisers and the Church, hidden from my mother and many women like her, who had suffered in silent cruelty, locked up or dismissed as craiceáilte—crazy. As the veil was thin, this hill was saturated with their spirits trina chéile—upset, shook looking, as they reached back across the decades, seeking release.

This Goddess power had been caillte—lost, but not forgotten. For my grandmother Gertrude Ní Mhaolalaidh had known this inner feminine authority. A widow at twenty-two and a solo parent, she farmed these fields alone with smashing strength. 

Suddenly a shooting star appeared in the sky. We stared in wonder, my girl and I, mouths open in awe, as the réalta— star shot down towards the talamh—earth. I no longer felt stuck in a swally hole of grief. Ar cur ar bith—not at all, I was oscailte—open to receiving the stamina and Sí spirit of my grandmother, and her mother and her mother before. I was reconnected to the cycle of death, life and rebirth, never ending within the muirling Morrígan — the mists of time of the great goddess. She, who waited for no one. She, who was death itself. 

As the bean feasa— wise woman beat the bodhán once more, salty tears ran down my face into the corners of my mouth. My tongue tingled with comforting words in my teanga tíre— the language of my mother land.

Maith go leor… Maith go leor… Maith go leor.

All is well. All is well. All is well.

I knew then I had crossed over the threshold. I was on the pig’s back. My people, past and present, had opened a portal tonight and what I needed to see had been shown to me. The future was unwritten yet I was the scríobneoir— writer to shape its course. The Morrígan, the goddess of prophecy had revealed a boreen to me. I would take it, the road less travelled. 

During this liminal time, as the days passed, when I caught the scent of smoke lingering in my wild red hair, or when I was in a néal codlata—cloud of sleep by the farmhouse hearth, the Goddesses’ voices echoed in my ears—Guth na Dé go Deo!