This concept is reiterated by one of Wales’s most eminent and respected Celtic scholars, Marged Haycock, from the University of Wales, who is quoted as saying:
It was imperative that the concept of Taliesin moved along in Christian terms too, absorbing the latest elements of learning as well as retaining the keys to the mysteries of the Cynfyd (the old world and old ways), ensuring its continuous survival.5
The above statement clearly demonstrates the remarkable achievements of the bards to ensure the survival of the tradition, but they did so in an even more remarkable manner. It seems that Christian references were placed, sometimes totally out of sync with the style of poetry, where blatant references to the old ways existed within the narrative tradition. Written in the language of the people of Britain over a considerable number of centuries, these manuscripts were initially scribed and then rewritten several times over countless years. With their contradictory mixture of pro-clerical and anti-clerical themes and the blatant references to a pantheon of non-Christian gods, I would imagine that the common inventory scribe of the Middle Ages, having little knowledge of the old language, must have been baffled by the material. But Latinised words pertinent to the Christian tradition would have leaped out at him from the parchments, perhaps convincing the scribes and monasteries to value the texts and deem them worthy of keeping.
Seemingly the mysteries were concealed for their own protection, preserved for future generations remarkably by utilising the power of the church. And right there, in an institution that opposed the old ways, the mysteries were intentionally eviscerated into riddles that would require cross-references and intertextual skills to reform them. They were concealed by simply designating them as pointless, quaint folk tales that contained pertinent references to Christianity to prevent their destruction. The scribe in my musings is a secret member of the bardic tradition; he has within him the prophetic Narrative Spirit and sacrifices his entire life to the preservation of mystery.
The Celtic material has suffered heavy criticism throughout the centuries and perhaps more so in recent years. Even within Paganism itself there has been a blatant attack upon the material by those who have little understanding of it or its validity. Those who devalue the material do so by claiming that the medieval manuscripts do not pertain to a period before the coming of Christianity. This serves to demonstrate ignorance of the source material and the historical contexts of the manuscripts. It also does not take into consideration the amount of times the material has been translated and copied.
Interestingly, in her statement, Marged Haycock confirms that the material, although superimposed with Christian references, has within it vital keys to the mysteries of what is called the Cynfyd, literally translated as the “old world” or “previous world.” It is the term “key” that is the vital component of her statement, for that is precisely what we find within the old tales: powerful keys that unlock doors to untold mystery and magic. The keys are still here; they exist for those who feel the calling of the Narrative Spirit to explore and decipher—to seek out the various locks and find the keys that fit them.
For most, the immense achievements and struggles of our ancestors who were in possession of the Narrative Spirit go unnoticed. By honouring and acknowledging the struggles of our ancestors, we begin to hear clearly the message of Awen contained within the cauldron of potentiality. Combined with the efforts of countless individuals who lived, breathed, and died to ensure a continuation of the mysteries, they served to save the past for the people of the future. A faceless individual in the distant future became their inspiration; if we ignore the calling of the cauldron and dismiss the efforts of our ancestors, they will have struggled in vain. Our responsibility to maintain survival, to become current guardians of the knowledge to ensure their continuation, causes us to have the ability to respond in a manner that honours the past and looks to the future, where body and spirit combine to enrich an apathetic world where the spirit is neglected.
From Mouth to Parchment
The tale of Cerridwen and Taliesin in its written format is relatively late, the copies that survive having been penned at some point during the middle half of the sixteenth century. It is generally accepted that the surviving manuscripts were copied from an earlier source that has subsequently vanished. Several manuscripts exist today that record the Cerridwen and Taliesin material; the designation of YT (Ystoria Taliesin: The Story of Taliesin) or HT (Hanes Taliesin: The History of Taliesin) are used interchangeably when referring to this specific tale. The majority of the manuscripts that include the tale are now stored as treasures in the vaults of the National Library of Wales in the western university town of Aberystwyth, in the county of Ceredigion.
The tale itself is presented in two defined parts or sections, the style and themes of which are very different in nature. The majority of folk familiar with the tale are mostly acquainted with the first section, whose themes are far more mysterious than the second. The themes seem to appear entirely allegorical and pertain to individuals of supernatural erudition and prowess who have the powers of shapeshifting and transformation. The symbology of the first section deals with obvious magical processes and describes an initiatory journey bestowed upon a seemingly innocent individual. However, the second half of the tale, in stark contrast, deals with semi-historical subjects and the rituals and customs of medieval courts. Several poems attributed to the mouth of the semi-historical Taliesin also appear in the second section, some of which are immensely beautiful and profound in the description of his origination. The poetry reveals his connection to a primal source of wisdom and magic, where he is in possession of the prophetic, all-knowing spirit of Awen. Except for an exploration of some of the poetry in the second part of the tale that is pertinent to an understanding of the nature of Taliesin the prophet, this book will focus almost entirely on the first half of the tale.
All in all, around eleven manuscripts contain the tale of Cerridwen and Taliesin to a lesser or greater extent. Some focus on both aspects of the tale, whilst others focus mainly on the first section. A further twenty-four manuscripts contain some of the poetry, which is to be found in the second section, along with references to the cauldron and the birth of Taliesin. The most extensive record of the tale is to be found in a body of work called Chronicle of the History of the World (designated within the National Library as MS NLW 5276D) by the antiquarian Elis Gruffudd, written during the sixteenth century.
It is more than likely that the forty or so manuscripts that have reached the present from the sixteenth century onwards only represent a small body of record. Several other manuscripts probably exist in private libraries and collections that have not successfully been rescued by the National Library.
• • •
The survival of the native tales of Celtica is dependent on several factors, as I have explored above. Having examined the attributes that ensured their continuation and the magic of the Narrative Spirit, we are more able to perceive the powers that secured their survival. For something to retain its applicability and authenticity, it requires something other than human effort—a sublime quality must exist to guarantee survival. Without relationship, without connection, there is no drive; a task is doomed to fail. One can only speculate as to the amount of time that has passed since the tales were first told in the oral tradition, long before they were penned onto parchment; perhaps over two thousand years or more have subsequently gone by, yet the tales persist. This fact alone demonstrates their relevance; they survive because they are a living tradition.
exercise
What does it mean to connect to something that isn’t physical—that cannot be quantified or even articulated in the logical, rational manner that society imposes on us? How can we express a connection to something ethereally fluid? What does it feel to be the totality of time and generation and heritage?
Without thinking about them too much, ask yourself these simple questions:
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• Who am I?
• Where did I come from?
• Why am I here?
• What am I?
These are questions that may have arisen in the mind of Taliesin, had he not already been in possession of the answers. The questions all relate to a common word in the English language: “I.” We say it almost without thinking: “I have a head, I have a mouth, I have a mind, I have a soul.” Very rarely do we ponder to think who that “I” is and what it is referring to. Our identities change in accordance to our environments and the people we encounter, and again based on the depth of relationship we have with them.
Without thinking too much about the answers—just let them fall out and onto your notepad—ask yourself:
• Who am I to my mother?
• Who am I to my brother/sister?
• Who am I to my children?
• Who am I to my best friend?
• Who am I to that guy at work whom I rarely speak to but greet every day?
• Who am I to my community?
• Who am I to me?
You will find that you are myriad personalities to myriad people; of course it is difficult to accurately know who you are to anybody at all, which demonstrates the fluidity of a person. We assume we know who we are in the world, but do we? Our assumptions are based on an ever-changing apparent identity, one that is altered and influenced by life. That is the person who interacts with the world, but the spirit doesn’t change—it remains a constant, it is the permanent identity. It is the “I.” It relishes in the experience of the human persona interacting with the world, a complex mass of contradictions, emotions, motivations, and influences. The ever-present “I” is the silent observer within; it is what connects the body and the mind to all that has ever been, to the constant flow and dance of the universe. But the damned cranium—that hard, bony cap around our brains—can sometimes get in the way; however, when we equate that chunk of bone with the cauldron, our perception begins to change.
Contemplate the Following:
Close your eyes and imagine the material forming your head to be composed of black cast iron—solid, unmoving, and impenetrable. The very top of your head, the crown, is open and forms the mouth of the cauldron now envisioned as your entire head. You don’t have to be all mystical and spooky; you don’t have to see it in full 3D animation. Just imagine it. It can be as elegant, enchanting, or silly as you wish; let all imaginings be yours, in your style, your way.
As the steam rises from the cauldron, become aware of the depth within it—your brain is in there somewhere; you can neither feel it nor sense it, it’s just there doing its thing. Is your mind in there too? If so, where? Is it in your brain or a part of your brain? Is it a part of the cauldron? The cauldron, however, has no bottom—it is like Dr. Who’s fantastic TARDIS, infinitely bigger on the inside!
Leave the cauldron where it is; imagine that behind each shoulder stand your mum and dad. Your mum is on the left, your dad on the right. Behind your mum stand her parents; the same on your dad’s side. Behind their parents stand your great-grandparents; behind those, each subsequent generation, forming a triangle of individuals so vast that the limited range of the human mind simply cannot fathom it. Your visualisation will quickly be unable to conceptualise all those people. Why?
Your human mind will attempt to base each image of every individual imbued with the apparent quality you perceived within them as a result of relationship. The further back you go, the less apparent the relationship— apparent being the keyword! You have no actual experience of these people, so your visualisation of them becomes somewhat cloudy; they appear as faceless, ethereal beings with no names, no sense of place, but does that negate their existence and connection to you? No, not at all; they are an essential part of your makeup, they were necessary to you being in the world, and you are the sum total of them all.
Allow your consciousness to drift with the steam that rises from the cauldron, which is still acting as your head. Imagine a floating sensation as your consciousness lifts into the air; imagine looking down from that steam and observing your human body standing at the pinnacle of a vast triangle of people reaching back to the origin of the species—the triangle loses its human lineage and falls onto four legs in animal form. It loses legs and hair and becomes cells, cells in a primordial sea on a planet that makes a system, a sun which shines in totality of suns before it, stars that shine in a great triangle reaching back into the darkness at the beginning of the physical universe. Imagine it all.
Now quickly descend back into the cauldron—which is still the head of your human form—slap a lid onto it, and the cauldron vanishes, leaving your human head quite intact. The inside of your head remains in the darkness that it has always inhabited, the same darkness that caused the universe to spring into light. You carry within you the very spark of existence, and you are connected to the beginning of the universe. You are the universe; you are its sum totality.
exercise: sacred space
Arrange yourself before the space that you created during the introduction.
Take a breath with the sky above you.
Take a breath with the land that supports you.
Take a breath with the seas that surround you.
Strike a match and breathe deeply as you invoke the image of a powerful witch goddess; allow her form to assume naturally, without force. Reach forward as you exhale slowly and light the candle on the left. Watch as the flame takes hold; introduce yourself to Cerridwen and state your intentions upon this journey.
As above, light another match, breathe deeply, and invoke the image of a person whose forehead dazzles with a radiant light. Touch the flame to the wick of the candle on the right. Introduce yourself to this image and state your intention.
Again, light another match. With a deep breath, imagine three rays of light emanating from above your sacred space, each ray illuminating each candle. As you exhale, light the central wick. Say out loud three times:
Awen I sing, from the deep I bring it.
Gaze into the depth of your cauldron and allow your eyes to defocus. It has no bottom; its belly reaches into the vastness of the universe. Allow your mind to wander into it and dissolve into the rapture of Awen.
When you are ready, become aware of your surroundings and return to the here and now.
Using your own words of gratitude, honour the ancestors for preserving the tales.
[contents]
2. Campbell, The Inner Reaches of Outer Space, xxiii.
3. From the poem “Kat Godeu” in the Book of Taliesin.
4. Bevan, Geiriadur Prifysgol Cymru (A Dictionary of the Welsh Language), 685.
5. Haycock, “Preiddeu Annwn,” 58.
Part 2
One Tale of Old, Thrice Retold
• • •
My first words spoke of the cauldron,
It is kindled by the breath of nine maidens.
It is rimmed darkly and embellished with pearls.
It will not boil the food of a coward.
Taliesin
• • •
In order to present a cross section of the tale in its various forms, I have chosen to explore two manuscripts from the sixteenth century, namely Elis Gruffudd’s Chronicle of the History of the World (NLW MS 5276D) and John Jones of Gellilyfdy’s Peniarth MS 111. Both manuscripts are preserved at the National Library of Wales.
The differing manuscripts serve to demonstrate the fluid, ever-changing nature of the tales and how they morphed themselves into landscape and communities, responding to local figures, politics, and news of the day. They are also demonstrative of the different personalities who recorded them. Only five hundred years or so have passed since some of the manuscripts were written—at least the ones that we are aware of. We may never know to what extent they
were recorded prior to that time, but many scholars believe that the themes are far older than initially perceived and may well have been originally recorded onto parchment as early as the ninth century.6 The manuscripts differ in various forms, but they all retain the fundamental principles or themes of the tale, differing only in certain particulars such as time of year, personal names, and so forth.
What is apparent upon examination of the manuscripts is the emotional connection the writers had to the tale. Seemingly, Elis Gruffudd feels no great passion and simply copies the tale from a subsequently vanished text and whatever oral sources were available to him. He comments within the main body of the text that the themes are against faith and piety; they seem to contradict his own belief system. However, the work of John Jones is quite the contrary: it expresses the tale with passion and an appreciation for the mystery, and may well imply that he took the oral tradition as his direct source for the penning of the tale.
Another fragment of the tale is recorded in the work of Llewellyn Sion, a late sixteenth-century bard. However, some controversy surrounds the Llewellyn Sion version, as many initially believed that this poet was an invention of the great Celtic genius Iolo Morganwg, who was responsible for the penning of hundreds of manuscripts pertaining to ancient British Celtic customs and traditions. In recent years it has been discovered that Llewellyn Sion did exist and was not, as many initially thought, a pure invention of Iolo Morganwg.7 The fragment recorded by Sion and the subsequent controversy make any evisceration difficult and could potentially confuse and compound an amateur student of the mysteries; needless to say, this text, attributed the number NLW 13075b, is kept at the National Library of Wales. I mention this text only in passing to demonstrate the complex nature of the various manuscripts and the manner by which controversy arose over the centuries.
From the Cauldron Born Page 4
