Dùthchas: Ancestral ripples

Two ducks were foraging on the loch this equinox. Quietly resting, paddling below the surface. Their reflection could be seen all along the shoreline as the sun rose, and yet, when they poked their beaks below the tide to find food, a ripple rang out from their bodies along the length of the loch, and washed up on shore. They were only two. They were barely moving, and yet circles marked their presence.

A ripple is a common metaphor for how a small act can have gradually larger impacts. We see this all the time today in politics and war: a single sentence having devastating consequences for whole communities and nations. The 2010 eruption of Eyjafjallajökull caused air travel to cease in the UK, 1200 miles away, due to the volcanic ash and sulfur dioxide. Smoke from British Columbia's 2023 forest fires rippled out to Toronto, 3000 miles away. And waves can also have more personal, ancestral reverberations over generations and time.

My seanmhair use to say that the dreams we have of a familiar place, a familiar house, the same [unknown] people or event were not made up dreams at all, but the memories of ancestors passed down. That is, when I was dreaming, I was reliving the memories of my ancestors (although not understanding that this is what I was experiencing.) A great, great, great grandmother of my own was passing along support, life knowledge and instincts to survive in even the most basic of human interactions. I was the beneficiary of all those years of loving and learning.

 Today, with epigenetics, we find that this is true. Trauma that has occurred seven generations before is passed along through DNA cells to warn descendants of danger, or to allow them the innate understanding of love and belonging to a place. That is what the ripples from these two ducks teach us. The ducks, like our ancestors, may not be with us on the shore, but they are still connecting with us through the waves of time. Be watchful, and thankful, of those that have passed before you - they have honoured you with their gifts of understanding. And know that, when you go, the memories you contain, from this land, carry on in the continuum of time.

Dùthchas: Deep breathing to regain your wind energy

 

 As I write this, there is a gèile shaking my windows at about 65mph, definately over the national speed limit. In Orkney, where there is more of a Viking Norrœna lineage, they would say, 'it's blowing a hoolie.'

Gales are common in the Western Isles, and will usually cancel ferries and last for two to three days at a time. At least one trampoline can be seen rolling across the A857, unless it's bin day. Yet within this common Hebridean experience lies a lesson as well: breathe.

The Gèile is a long distance runner, it has to pace itself, draw breath, inhale energy to continue. If you listen carefully, every other minute there is a calming of the wind. As if it is pausing to consume more air; breathing in; hesitating before huffing it. It's a very human experience; a connection we can all make to our elemental selves. 

The ebb and flow of the wind is not unlike our other island element - the sea. Standing at the seashore, the waves roll in, breathe out. Then, they retreat, breathe in. Out and in. Out and in. In steady, consistent, giant waves - the lungs of the world - on display within the element from which we all evolve.

Singers use breath to fill a room with the sound of the song, puirt à beul. It is the source of vigour. We can use this wind. Stress and anxiety, at work or at school, can be slowed simply by breathing. Breathing slowing in through the nose, collecting new oxygen energy, and out through the mouth, 'releasing the bad', liberating the stress. I always envision Michael Clark's portrayal of John Coffey in the Green Mile (1999) here. With one great breath he expels all of the evil, all of the bad feelings and sickness of the world from his body and he is fine. Pure energy in, and powerful waves out.

In and out. In and out. In and out. In this way, we are breathing with the Earth. Pausing to inhale when we need energy -

and finding our 'second wind' to keep our power moving.  Be like the gèile: breathe.