Once upon a time, not that long ago, my paternal-line had land, they had titles, they came from an ancient clan with a crest to claim. Three generations before me they left upon the SS Anchoria, after a failed attempt to stay closer in Scotland and sailed away from the Emerald Isle in desperate search of a better life. My grandfather was 1st generation Irish, and it’s the same story told by millions of Irish immigrants driven out of their homeland through the greed of the spreading British colonialism, it was mass genocide of an inconceivable size blamed upon a potato blight. What it really was, was the creator of giant gaping wounds of displacement, of abandonment, of the loss and rape of the motherland, of the loss of the place of their old Irish kings and the Goddess of the Hill of Tara. The wounds hit all of the chakral centers of those feisty life loving Irish souls, and have left the ghosts of their war, shell-shocked grandfathers still rocking on that eerie squeaking porch chair, and the coughs and hacks of the black soot filled lungs of their squalid surrounds echoing and vibrating somewhere deep inside of our DNA. It sounds sad and ominous until we reach further down, we dig a little deeper and harken back up that Druidic Irish magickal blood that runs in our veins, and our generational healing begins with just one daughter that creates the rippling effects throughout space and time. I’ve dug into my pockets and pulled out this old lump of coal gifted to me by my great grandfather, squeezing it tightly in my hand I begin to imagine it changing shape and form. I am the gold of alchemical success, my word-craft, spell-craft and witchery will be the change agent that takes this old depressed lump of coal, this coal that was in essence me, my factory chimney chugging away and covered in that coal miner’s dust of familial pain, depression and enslavement to the man in the business top hat, and my words begin the compression, the magical shift with an unstoppable heat and force that is the rage of the Irish spirit channeling it all into that lump of coal until becomes gold. I am healed. My lineage now glitters again with joy, covered in jewels, my written words tell bardic tales of the struggles of she who once was just a coal miner’s daughter and has now been reminded of her rightful sovereign place upon the Hill of Tara, for she is a warrioress queen. Her family has always been worthy, it just took one epically strong daughter to reach out and claim it. She is married to the son of the Greek Aphrodite and Adonis, his great great grandfather was the prime minister of Greece, but they have wounds from the man in the top hat too you see? Together, they will reign true unto themselves, holy sacred masculine united with the holy sacred feminine for their sons and daughters, and one day will make the pilgrimage back to the lands of their ancestors to help heal you too. And so it is.
Written by: Tara Nordstrom