Becoming An Ancestor

By Amelia Furlong

Samhain as an event has come and gone, but the effects of this year’s Celtic new year are still lingering in my mind.

Samhain is often viewed as a time for releasing what desires to die. I interpret this as a time when I release the old me; a rebirth from ambitions and patterns that no longer serve me to new, purpose-driven ones.

In fact, I even decided to move to Ireland after a DIY Samhain ritual that I performed in Orange County, California, in 2018. I was searching, then, for who I was meant to be, ready for the old me to die. I hoped that by coming to the land of my ancestors, I would find answers. After two years in Ireland, all of those questions have been satisfactorily answered, and this Samhain I found my thoughts drifting, instead, to my own role as an ancestor.

Releasing what desires to die

I work as a content writer for a wedding corporation and am in a long-term, happy relationship. So inevitably, questions have been swirling recently about marriage and children. This is compounded by the fact that I’m turning 30 next month and many of my friends are getting married and starting families. But I’m a wanderlusting Sagittarius with Venus in Scorpio. I don’t know if I’m ready to release the wild, untameable side of myself and “settle down”. And yet, it pulls on me.

Considering all this, I was determined to use Samhain 2021 as a chance to ask what direction my life should be going. I had plans to attend a bonfire lighting at Tlachtga, now known as the Hill of Ward. Tlachtga was a druidess who travelled with her father, the infamous druid Mug Ruith, to Italy, to study with the sorcerer Simon Magus. There, however, she was raped by his three sons. She escaped back to Ireland and gave birth to triplets before dying of grief. The hill is named after her and is one way in which her tragedy is etched into the landscape. On Samhain, all the fires in Ireland would be extinguished, and druids would gather on Tlachtga to light one great bonfire.

Art by Robin Eisenberg

31 October, however, didn’t go as planned, and I only got as far as Athenry, where I contracted food poisoning at a McDonald’s. My disappointment was palpable; I had been eager to celebrate a real Samhain in Ireland, as the previous two had been stymied by graduate school and the pandemic. It was my first Samhain, after all, that had spurred me to move to Ireland.

The first Samhain

This occurred in 2018, when I was working on a political campaign in Irvine, California. The reproductive rights nonprofit where I worked had sent me to Southern California for two weeks to help unseat an anti-choice Republican and elect a pro-choice Democrat. This wasn’t the first campaign I’d worked on, but it was to be my last.

At this point, I knew that I could not go on much longer as an activist. The confirmation hearings of Brett Kavanaugh the month before had completely broken me. The hopelessness with which my work had infected me had led to an all-consuming rage. I was extremely unhappy and desperately wanted to quit my job to become a writer. 

But this felt impossible. Not only did I have no idea how to make money from writing, but I didn’t feel confident in myself as an artist. I’d visited Ireland the summer before, and while there I had become obsessed with moving to Galway to write a novel, but this seemed like a pipe dream.

While in Ireland I had also learned about Samhain, and the magic of it captivated me at once. I was drawn to the idea of a time when the veil between the worlds grows thin, when one can commune with spirits. I didn’t quite know if I believed in spirits, but I knew I wanted to.

So while in Orange County, I decided to try my hand at celebrating Samhain. I wanted to ask my ancient Irish ancestors if I should quit my job, move to Ireland, and do a graduate program in writing. I wanted them to give me strength to make the leap. On Halloween I drove down to Laguna Beach, bought a black pillar candle at a roadside mysticism shop, and, near midnight, hiked down to the beach. It was deserted. All alone under a bright moon, I drew a circle in the sand. Then I sat inside of it and lit my candle. Feeling foolish, I cleared my throat and spoke aloud to the night. I asked my ancestors - if they were there - for permission to leave my “important” work in reproductive rights, to leave behind my anger and sadness, in order to pursue my real passion in the land where they were born and died.

I’m still not sure if anyone answered me. I felt something, but it might just have been the breeze off the Pacific. Whatever it was, I suddenly knew what I had to do. The activist was ready to be released. The writer was ready to be born.

Old Answers and New Questions

On September 4, 2019, I flew to Ireland to begin an MA in Writing at the National University of Ireland-Galway. In the next two years I would fall in love, write two and a half novels, start writing full-time, and let my anger and hopelessness die.

But of course, my wanderlust has its drawbacks. I feel isolated from my family, who all live in America, and cut off from my community. I’ve never lived in a place long enough to put down roots. Even now, my boyfriend and I are making plans to move to London or Berlin, where we’ll live for a year or two before moving onto the next place.

So as my thirties approach, it’s hard not to turn my attention to the big decisions that I will have to make this decade.

Will I return to America to care for my aging parents, or stay over here and continue my European adventure? Will I get married? Will we settle down and raise a family? Or will I galavant across the globe, perpetually single and wild, writing novels that become like children?

After my failure to reach the Hill of Ward, I assumed I’d have to wait another year to get to ask my ancestors these questions. But tragedy has its own agenda.

The Funeral

Shortly after Samhain, my friend A.’s mother passed away. She’d been sick for a while, and while the news wasn’t shocking, it was devastating. My boyfriend and I journeyed to Trim on Monday, 8 November for the funeral. The date of this funeral was disquieting. While Samhain is traditionally celebrated on 31 October and 1 November, the actual calendar date in 2021, based on astronomical calculations, is 7 November. Attending a funeral just two days later, when the veil between the worlds would still be sheer, felt eerie.

The funeral was very sad and very moving. A.’s mother was an astonishing woman. Although I never met her, her warmth and wisdom were evident in the stories her large, adoring family told about her. She was a gardener, a nurturer of life. She had deep roots in the community. My friend - a storyteller, a lover of Irish myth, and one of the most thoughtful people I know - is a testament to her legacy. Her spirit lives on in him, and he will tell her story for the rest of his life. The importance of ancestors - not the long-dead, ancient ones, but our most immediate - had never been more clear to me.

After the funeral, we walked in a procession through the streets of Trim. Cars pulled over to let us by. Not one seemed annoyed or angry by the inconvenience. Instead, they sat in reverent silence, witnessing her passing.

I’d never been to an Irish funeral before. I’d never walked through the streets with a coffin and watched as the entire community came to a standstill to pay their respects to the deceased. It was a profound example of how meaningful a life is that is lived in one place, spent raising children, passing down knowledge, and caring for the community.

My boyfriend and I walked hand-in-hand, but we weren’t alone. All throughout the funeral, I’d felt a presence sitting next to me on the pews, watchful and wide-eyed. As we walked towards the graveyard, I felt her soft, warm hand in mine. I sensed that she had questions about death, but I also knew she wasn’t afraid. She was brave, just like me. She was gentle, just like my boyfriend.

She doesn’t exist yet, but we have a name for her. We don’t know if we’ll ever meet her, but we hope we will.

Becoming an ancestor

Art by Robin Eisenberg

Was this spirit a figment of my imagination, conjured up to help me process the death of A.’s mother, which, inevitably, forced me to think about my own parents’ mortality? Was she a way of reassuring myself that life goes on, that the next generation will continue to tell our stories? Or was the veil between our worlds flickering, allowing her to escape into mine in the hour of my need?

I think I know. The part of me that followed the whispers on the wind to this side of the world knows.

It’s okay if I’m not ready to settle down. The wanderlusting, wild woman in me is not quite ready to die and be reborn as an ancestor; a wife; a mother. The spirit I met knows this, and she doesn’t want to rush me. But when I’m ready, she’ll be waiting.

What about you?

As you process your Samhain experience, here are some questions you can ask yourself:

What were the Samhain rituals that resonated with you this year? What would you like to incorporate into your celebration next year?

Is there a part of you that is ready to be released, old ambitions and patterns that no longer serve you? What new, purpose-driven paths are you ready to embrace?

What parts of yourself are not ready to be released? Are there certain ambitions you need to see through to the end before you can turn to new paths?

---

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amelia Furlong is a content writer, ghostwriter, and novelist living in Galway, Ireland. She graduated from the MA in Writing at the National University of Ireland, Galway in 2019 and has published articles and poetry in Ireland and abroad. She is currently working on a pirate romance novel and an anti-romantic comedy screenplay.

Letting Your Wild Woman Rest

By Amelia Furlong

This year, as the days darken and the winds grow chillier, I find myself preparing my heart and my home for Samhain. The candles are lit, my intentions for the Celtic New Year are written, and my cauldron is filled with resin for burning. My plans to visit The Hill of Ward for the bonfire-lighting are underway.

In the Celtic Calendar, Samhain is a time for letting go.

For me, it is also a time to let my body rest. I find the darkening of the seasons very difficult on my mental health, so during it I allow myself to indulge in pleasure and sensuality. I also allow myself to be cared for by my partner. This hasn’t always been easy for me. As a wild and wounded woman, I spent many years rejecting vulnerability with men and spurning their intimacy.

This changed last summer, when I enrolled in the Celtic School of Embodiment’s Banríon Celtic Circle. In this life-changing course, we journeyed deep into Irish myth. To the ancients, stories were a way of understanding the world, making meaning, and teaching lessons to the community. Our modern experience of myth is no different. And in the Banríon Celtic Circle, I met a woman who showed me a different way of living. Her name is Mis.

THE MAD WOMAN IN THE MOUNTAINS

The story of Mis runs deep in both the Irish imagination and landscape. Sliabh Mis in Co. Kerry is named for her, and she is thought to be the first Irish vampire. And yet, her story was not re-discovered until 1954, when it was found tucked away in a manuscript in the old ecclesiastic library at Maynooth University.

Mis was the daughter of Dáire Dóidgheal, who came from Europe to conquer Ireland and landed in Ventry, Co. Kerry. After Dáire was slain in battle by the hero Fionn mac Cumaill, Mis found his bleeding, broken body on the beach. Consumed by grief, she threw herself upon her father’s corpse and began to lick and drink his blood. She then escaped to the surrounding hills, where her hair grew long, she sprouted feathers and fur, and her hands and feet curled into claws. For 300 years, Mis terrorised Kerry, ripping apart anyone or anything that came close to her.

Despite this, the local monarch, King Feidhlimidh, forbade her to be killed. Instead, he offered a handsome reward to anyone who could capture her alive. Many tried, and all of them failed. That is, until a gentle harpist named Dubh Ruis offered to bring back the mad woman.

THE ROMANCE OF MIS AND DUBH RUIS

Dubh Ruis was not a warrior. Unlike the men who had tried to hunt and subdue Mis before, Dubh Ruis had a different plan. He thought that if he could serenade her with his harp, he might be able to woo her. This, he hoped, would heal her wounded soul and cure her madness.

Mis was, indeed, transfixed by the sound of Dubh Ruis’s harp. She was also transfixed by his naked body as he played the sweet songs. They made love, and afterward, Dubh Ruis cleansed Mis’s body of its dirt and massaged her joints with deer fat. For two months, he remained with her, making love to her and cleaning her, until the whiskers and fur fell off, and her hands and feet returned to normal. Eventually they married and had four children. Dubh Ruis was later killed by warriors, and she cried a great keen over his body.

EMBODIED DESIRE

When I first heard the story of Mis, I felt an immediate and instinctual connection. Here she was, an ancient character from a long-dead civilization; and yet, she was me.

Much like Mis, my emotions have always been a powerful force that can take control of me and turn me into someone I don’t recognise. The passionate intensity with which I feel everything is a blessing and a curse. On my best days, it is an intoxicating quality that has allowed me to form deep, life-long connections with people who are drawn to my openness and thirst for adventure. On my worst days, it has gotten me dangerously close to tearing apart everyone and everything that comes close to me. But as much as my nature is volatile, it is also the best part about me, and I would never want someone to take that away.

I think for this reason, I am sometimes unsure how to interpret the story of Mis and Dubh Ruis. On the one hand, it seems to me that Dubh Ruis is taking away Mis’s power. Yes, she is wracked with grief and insanity. But she is also strong. When Dubh Ruis says he is hungry, she goes into the woods and chases down a deer, which she kills with her bare hands. She has an inhuman speed and strength. She is wild. After she falls in love with Dubh Ruis, she becomes domesticated. Her fur and claws fall off. I worry this story says that a grotesque, feral, and dangerously strong woman must be tamed, masculine order brought to the feminine chaos.

On the other hand, debilitating grief is a terrible thing. Dubh Ruis doesn’t so much as tame Mis as he does help her remember gentleness and love. Moreover, he embraces her sexuality. He may serenade her, but she seduces him. She makes the first move and unabashedly embodies her desires. Furthermore, Dubh Ruis doesn’t just make love to Mis, he washes her and massages her tired body. He builds a home for her in the woods and promises never to leave her. He takes care of her. She is a strong woman who nevertheless allows herself to rest, to have pleasure, to be sexual, and to be cared for. This is a powerful story of a person reclaiming themselves through their embodied desires.

Beyond Here by Andrea Kowch

This is why I was drawn to Mis. Much like her, it was the love of a gentle storyteller that brought me back from my own rage.

TEARING THE WORLD APART

I moved to Ireland in 2019 to heal myself. I was hurting at the time, deeply traumatised from my time working in abortion advocacy in San Francisco. This work, and its seeming futility, had filled me with an anger that was constant and consuming. It coloured all my interactions with men and led me into several dangerous situations. I was always worried it would explode into violence, which it sometimes did. But as terrible as this fury was, it also gave me purpose. It called me to better the world.

After a trip to Ireland, I became fascinated with the stories of strong, resilient Celtic women, and I decided to move here. I also hoped that learning about these women, and my own ancestors, would heal me.

Once in Ireland, however, I fell in love with a sweet, gentle writer, and everything changed. My anger left me. My boiling rage cooled to a simmering cynicism. I no longer worried that I would explode over the slightest injustice.

I was happy romantically for maybe the first time ever, but I still felt lost. A part of me was afraid I had been tamed; saved by a man, instead of by myself. This made me feel weak, not like the strong, wild woman I had been. I had also stopped pursuing activism, but I was excelling in my professional goals as a writer and had found a rare and beautiful love. All this was good; all this was what I had worked for. So why didn’t I feel like myself? As these feelings swirled, my relationship suffered, and there were a few terrible months when I thought I would leave Ireland and return home, with or without him.

Then I joined the Banríon Celtic Circle. When I read how Mis was saved by Dubh Ruis, I began to wonder if I was interpreting my own story all wrong.

Radical Vulnerability

Blackbirds are Gathering by Andrea Kowch

Dubh Ruis doesn’t just save Mis. Mis chooses to let herself be saved. Despite knowing the depths of her despair at losing those she loves, she opens herself up to love again. This is an act of bravery. And when she lets herself be cared for, this is an act of radical vulnerability.

Much like Mis, I allowed myself to be vulnerable with another person. I trusted him, despite my deep mistrust. I let his kindness heal my wounds. And with those wounds healed, I think I will be a better advocate and activist in the future.

The story of Mis and Dubh Ruis also reminds me of another Irish woman who drank the blood of her dead lover. I’ve recently been reading The Ghost in the Throat by Doireann Ní Ghríofa. This book tells the story of Eileen Dubh Ní Chonaill, the 18th-century noblewoman who, when she found her husband dead, drank fistfuls of his blood and composed the epic poem Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire, Lament for Art Ó Laoghaire. A keen, for a beloved who is gone.

Irish myth and Irish history are filled with passionate women whose emotions, and griefs, are too big for their bodies to hold in. They suck the blood of their beloved with a ravenousness that seems to say: give me your pain. They do not shrink from their feelings. Their stories are reminders that deep emotion is not something that makes us weak, but powerful. However, in these stories, their emotions can only exist outside the beloved - in the case of Eileen, when he has died; for Mis, before she meets him - outside the ordered, civilised, masculine world. What this says about my own, I am not entirely sure yet.

Every reader of  Mis and Dubh Ruis’s romance will have their own interpretation. For me, the tension between my two readings isn’t easily reconcilable. Perhaps for love - to build healthy, strong relationships with your partner and your community - you do have to give up some of your rage. Is this worth it? Is the sacrifice too great? Only you can decide.

What about you?

As we celebrate Samhain this Sunday, these are some questions and intentions that you can ask yourself as you let go and surrender to the darkness.

How can you invite radical vulnerability into your life? What about pleasure and rest?

Do you need to be cared for? If so, who can you lean on to care for you right now? How can you connect deeper with them and nurture a reciprocal healing relationship?

Which interpretation of Mis’s story resonates with you? Why? Is there another interpretation that feels more authentic in your body?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amelia Furlong is a content writer, ghostwriter, and novelist living in Galway, Ireland. She graduated from the MA in Writing at the National University of Ireland, Galway in 2019 and has published articles and poetry in Ireland and abroad. She is currently working on a pirate romance novel and an anti-romantic comedy screenplay.

Sources:

Greene, David [tr.], “The romance of Mis and Dubh Ruis”, in: Mercier, Vivian [ed.], Great Irish short stories, New York: Dell, 1964. 32–36

The Celtic Heroic Age: Literary Sources for Ancient Celtic Europe & Early Ireland & Wales by by John T. Koch & John Carey

---