Maud Lloyd is at home here...

“I am staying with Maud Lloyd, the artist, in her house at Inch, County Kerry. It is a strong two-story house built of stone and stands on a hill - the only house on the hill, with no other house in sight.  Far below stretches a whole countryside: the great strand of Inch, the Atlantic a-wash on its borders; the sand dunes; the deep inlet of the sea beyond and behind the sand dunes; the range of Macgallicuddy’s Reeks sharp-pointed against the sky. Maud Lloyd is at home here, for she loves to paint whole ranges of mountains, river-inlets, and meadows.“

Ella Young wrote this in her memoirs, Flowering Dusk, about her friend, Maud LLoyd.   She also describes an adventure the two of them had on Iona and it was Maud who painted Ella's portrait which in her later life she donated to the University of California, Berkeley.  This portrait is on the cover of the anthology of Ella's work, edited by John Matthews and myself and published by Skylight Press. 

I have been curious about Maud since "meeting" her in Ella's memoirs. I did a bit of digging around while living in Ireland and found a few notices from Dublin (1903 and 1904) papers of her exhibiting her work.  Recently I once again took up the hunt and now have a better picture of the artist's life.

Maud Young was born in Christchurch,  New Zealand in about 1870.  Her father, James Herbert Lloyd was an Englishman with a family in banking and the stock market, and a lineage that goes back to Edward I.  James seems to have made an attempt in the business world by going into partnership in Christchurch, but that was dissolved in 1863.  He then married Maud's mother, Elizabeth Mary Oakes, who had family ties to Dublin.  This may be what first brought Maud to Ireland.

Directly after Maud was born the family returned to London.  At least the mother and children returned because Maud's sister Edith was born there in 1872.  At this point I lost track of the family until the 1881 census for England that shows Maud and her sister living in London with Maud's paternal grandfather, James Farmer Lloyd. There is no trace of her parents and her older brother is listed in the census as a student at Oundle School in Northamptonshire.  Maud's parents seem to have dropped off their children and taken a runner.  Perhaps her mother died and her father did what he felt was best for them.  I have yet to discover this mystery. In any case, I think that Maud's unmarried aunt, Julia Lloyd, raised the two sisters. She leaves her estate to Maud and Edith when she dies in 1920. It is this probate record that informs me of Maud's full and legal name:  Georgina Frances Maud Mary Theresa Lloyd.

So Maud grew up and was educated in London. She came from a family of wealth and privilege and in the 1901 census for England she is listed as an "Artist - Sculptor" and Edith is listed as a "Musical Composer."  The Royal Hibernian Academy of Arts, Index of Exhibitors 1826 -1979, Volume II  (compiled by Stewart, Ann M., 1986) has a list of the paintings of Maud Lloyd that they showed.  The earliest exhibit was in 1887 and her address is given at the family home in West Kensington, London.  The two paintings,   A Lonely Home, Ireland  and Evening, Ireland  tell us that by 1887 Maud was already painting in Ireland. She may have been staying with her mother's family or she may have been on her own. 

In 1910, Maud has one painting listed in the catalog for an exhibit in Cork. The work is entitled Dalkey Rocks.  In 1912 she exhibited at the Royal Hibernian Academy a painting entitled  Portrait of Mademoiselle X  and I believe this is the portrait mentioned above of Ella Young.  Maud was known for her landscapes, not her portraits, and Ella's face is not in view.

This image is entitled The Old Village but I do not know its date.  It is the only example of her landscapes I have seen and was included in an auction this past July. 

Maud exhibited frequently with another woman, Elsie O'Keefe, and helped to erect her friend's tombstone when she died in 1948.  I have a feeling I will soon be exploring this artist, as well.

The 1911 census for Ireland, lists Maud as living on her own in Dublin - in St. Stephen's Green. She lists her occupation as "Artist."  

In 1912, Maud was arrested in Dublin for breaking windows as part of a demonstration demanding the vote for women. Maud served a 6 months prison sentence for her action in the name of women's suffrage.  As related by Maria Luddy in the Irish Times

   "Irish suffragists engaged in a militant campaign from June 1912, involving breaking windows in government buildings, and heckling at meetings..When the war ended [World War I], Home Rule for Ireland was on the statute book and in 1918 the British parliament, arguably because of womens war work, granted partial suffrage, confined to those over thirty with a property qualification, to women throughout the United Kingdom."

 Ella Young does not refer to dates in her memoir so it is hard to know exactly when Maud was living on Inch. But I have a feeling that she may have moved there soon after her prison term was over. In any case, she and Ella had adventures together, in Ireland and in Scotland. Based upon letters from Ella to other artists and writers I am quite certain she was very encouraging of Maud's art. Ella would leave for the United States in 1925 and her portrait by Maud came with her.

Maud died while living in an inn near Perth.  Was she only visiting or had she taken up residence there and, if so, why?  And what happened to all her paintings?

A Trip to Tara with Ella Young

From Ella Young's memoirs:

Source: http://www.neheleniapatterns.com/english/fw230.html

    It is an expedition to Tara of the Kings that is dashing along the road from Dublin. It consists of two autos. The leading one, a bright yellow roadster flying two Sinn Fein flags, is piloted by the Countess Markievicz. At top speed it ricochets from bump to bump of a road made for horse vehicles. The expedition was organized by Gavin Arthur whose Irish ancestry claimed him as soon as he set foot in the country.  The second car belongs to him. His young and brilliant wife, Charlotte, is at the wheel repeating, bump for bump, the career of the yellow car in front. Beside her sits the young poet, Lyle Donaghy, somewhat pensive and a little sullen...The back seat holds Gavin and myself. We are exchanging views on Irish history and legend, with pauses to remonstrate with Charlotte on the pace of the car and the frequency of the bumps. Charlotte is unsympathetic...The car in front, every now and then, lets out a joyous blast of its motor-horn; sunshine flecks the road with tree-shadow; the rich pasture land in green undulations  whirls by. Consoled, placated, well-advised we progress from bump to bump...
    [At Tara] We fell to talking of the Stone of Destiny, the Lia Fail, in ancient times one of the Royal Treasures of Tara. On this Stone, according to an old chronicle, the high-kings of Ireland took the oath to their people. When a true and destined king stood with both feet upon the Stone it gave out a deep sound of approval. It roared. Where is the Lia Fail? Tradition, trustworthy or untrustworthy, maintained that Scottish kings borrowed the stone...until Edward the First of England raided Scotland and took the Stone to London. There it was fastened into the Coronation Chair, and English kings were crowned on it...
    “If we could get that Stone,” said the Countess, “the Royal Sovereignty might come back to Ireland.”
    ...I  thought, as I listened, of raids planned by Maud Gonne and Emer Moloney. I called to mind a day, years ago, when I chanced into AE’s house and found AE and Yeats discussing plans for the kidnapping of the Stone. Yeats had a bunch of grapes in his hand, and between mouthfuls detailed an elaborate plan of action. AE was a bit doubtful of its success. I was more than doubtful (we had not then young captains of the Irish Republican Army to rely on). I said if the Stone possessed the Royal Sovereignty, we might, if we could make a strong enough spiritual centre, occultly transport that power to Ireland. The Stone must follow...
    I watched the shadows lengthen on the ruined and desecrated ridges that marked the palace-sites of Tara...Tara must keep many memories, but I could not surprise one...Grass renews itself. The dream that held Ireland’s lovers, renews itself. From ruin and disaster it struggles back to the light: it burgeons a-fresh...
    I knew that I would never visit Tara again.

From: Flowering Dusk: Things Remembered Accurately and Inaccurately by Ella Young. Longmans, Green and Co., 1945.

"The world is my bone-cave, I shall not want..."

In 1971, American writer John Gardner (1934-1982) published his novel Grendel based upon the Beowulf tale and told in the voice of the monster.  I am still reading this book - or perhaps savoring it in some strange way.  Gardner was a professor of medieval literature at the University of Southern Illinois. As it should be -  this is a dark and disturbing novel. 

Illustration by J.R. Skelton, 1908.

The book and I found each other on the discard shelf of the Carmel, California public library.  Discarded. Unwanted. The book had not been checked out for quite some time. Reason enough to be rid of it. I understand the process though I often question the choices made.  And this novel in particular - discarded and unwanted though well-read. Coffee stains that do not hinder the read; smudged fingerprints marking the time when we cherished such writing.  Dark and disturbing, indeed, as a reflection of the decline of our culture.

I share a moment in the novel:

"It's good at first to be out in the night, naked to the cold mechanics of the stars.  Space hurls outward, falconswift, mounting like an irreversible injustice, a final disease. The cold night air is reality at last: indifferent to me as a stone face carved on a high cliff wall to show that the world is abandoned. So childhood too feels good at first, before one happens to notice the terrible sameness, age after age. I lie there resting in the steaming grass, the old lake hissing and gurgling behind me, whispering patterns of words my sanity resists. At last, heavy as an ice-capped mountain, I rise and work my way to the inner wall, beginning of wolfslopes, the edge of my realm. I stand in the high wind balanced, blackening the night with my stench, gazing down to cliffs that fall away to cliffs, and once again I am unaware of my potential: I could die. I cackle with rage and suck in breath."

Pairings #1

By AE (George William Russell 1867-1935

First he was her mentor and her spiritual guide.  Then he was her dear friend. Then she left him when she left Ireland. 

 Ella Young's words and AE's images...

More of Ella Young's mystical poetry and her retelling of old Irish tales are available in the anthology I co-edited with John Matthews and published by Skylight Press. 

At the Gates of Dawn: A Collection of Writings by Ella Young.

CLEENA

Pale, in the twilight, the crested waves are falling
On a lone shore where never a sea-bird strays;
Softly the twilight wind is calling, calling,
Calling for Cleena of the olden days.

Once a thousand lovers sang her praises,
Wove her name in chant and storied rann;
Cleena, for whose sake the sea-god raises,
Wave on wave, his crested foam-white clan.

Gods and heroes once the battle-gear uplifted
All for Cleena of the curling, golden head;
O’er her beauty now the dust has drifted,
The songs are silent, and her lovers dead.

Only where waves in shadowy foam are falling,
Falling, falling ever, with a sound of tears,
Earth and sea a vanished joy recalling
Mourn for Cleena and the long-forgotten years.

Mournful wind, your grief cannot avail her.
Sea-foam drifting, drifting through the night–
She has peace and silence, why bewail her?
Cleena! Cleena! Dead, forgotten quite!

 - Ella Young from Poems (1906)

Reverie, Poetry, Love and Yeats

I have only now discovered the writings of the French philosopher Gaston Bachelard (1884-1962) and am searching locally for his 1960 book The Poetics of Reverie: Childhood, Language, and the Cosmos.  I must own this book!  

This quote from the book strikes me on a very personal note today as Peter's birthday draws near:  

"Love is never finished expressing itself, and it expresses itself better the more poetically it is dreamed. The reveries of two souls prepare the sweetness of loving…The reality of love is mutilated when it is detached from all its unrealness."

The mundane is the enemy of love.  The mundane is the enemy of art.  

This, Peter and Yeats understood.  

Photograph by Peter Reichelt Hughes.  All Rights Reserved.

A Poet To His Beloved by William Butler Yeats

I BRING you with reverent hands

The books of my numberless dreams,

White woman that passion has worn

As the tide wears the dove-gray sands,

And with heart more old than the horn

    

That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:

White woman with numberless dreams,

I bring you my passionate rhyme.

"I was a voice."

A month ago I received Eavan Boland's new book entitled A Poet's Dublin published by Carcanet Press.  A city I love and a poet I admire.

Today, I found a moment and the stillness within to sit down and begin reading the poems. It has been a disturbing, unsettling few weeks.  Too much pondering over unfinished projects. Too many opportunities to allow the old self-doubts to roost in my heart and cast dark clouds on my spirit.

My growing-up years were spent either on the coast of California or on an island in the Pacific Ocean. I knew and understood the sea and its power on me. It was not until I was in my 40's on my first trip to Ireland that I discovered the deep pull and deep peace of a river. It was this river that told me I had returned home.  And I had not even been aware I was lost.  But until that moment I had not been paying attention.

Photography © Denise Sallee 2010

. 

The last stanza of Eavan Boland's poem "Anna Liffey" shot straight to my heart today. Though her poem is about Dublin's great River Liffey she ends by reminding me why it was it took a river to save me all those years ago.

In the end

It will not matter

That I was a woman. I am sure of it.

The body is a source. Nothing more.

There is a time for it. There is a certainty

About the way it seeks its own dissolution.

Consider rivers.

They are always en route to

Their own nothingness. From the first moment

They are going home. And so

When language cannot do it for us,

Cannot make us know love will not diminsh us,

There are these phrases

Of the ocean

To console us.

Particular and unafraid of their completion.

In the end

Everything that burdened and distinguished me

Will be lost in this:

I was a voice.
           -From "Anna Liffey" by Eavan Boland

Sparsity - words & writing

I've been dipping my toes into the yet unchartered waters of social media and, for the most part, I've been having a good time. As in my "real" life I avoid politics and social issues/causes. Instead, I want the years left to me to find their focus in the creative endeavor - mine and others.

So, I've noticed that haiku - that sparse and beautifully light form of poetry - has returned. When I see the word Haiku I am immediately whisked back to my childhood when, at some point, it was introduced to me in school.  I remember that it held great fascination for me - like an exotic plant or the whispered memory of a faraway land.

The college library where I work has a new book on haiku:  Favor of Crows by Gerald Vizenor. With a title such as this I was drawn to it and the "aha!" of synchronicity went off when I read the cover and saw that word -again. Haiku.

Perhaps I was onto something worth exploring.

Vizenor writes briefly of his first encounter with haiku and quotes a few examples from the Japanese masters.

I like this one by Kobayashi Issa as he remembers the death of his daughter:

            the world of dew
           is the world of dew
                   and yet…
                   and yet…


Vizenor, in the introduction to his book, speaks of the essence of haiku:  "The heart of haiku is a tease of nature, a concise, intuitive, and original moment."  And this statement recalls the later poetry of Ella Young - her work now influenced by her new home in California.  I leave you with her words:

Artemis (1950).

The moon took off her mask for me

Yester-night,

I saw her strange face

Ivory-white.

Crouching in the jungle, too,

The leopard saw:

And stretched in haughty greeting

A scimitar claw.

"New Songs" - 1904

from "New Songs" published by O'Donoghue & Co

Here is a look at Ella Young's early entry into the Irish literary scene as chronicled by Ernest Boyd in his 1916 study entitled Ireland's Literary Renaissance. 

In spite of the absorption of literary talent by the Irish Theatre during the past ten years, the poetic impulseof the Eighteen Nineties was not allowed to expire. The dedication of A. E.’s Divine Vision indicated that a group of young poets, not yet known to the general public, was at hand to carry on the work of the generation represented by that volume — the last new book of verse to come from the original Theosophical Movement. Peculiarly fitted for intellectual leadership, A. E. became the link between his own and the rising generation when he selected the poems of this group for a collection entitled New Songs, which appeared shortly before The Divine Vision, in 1904. With this little volume he introduced the poets who had gathered about him, and were preparing, under his influence, to inaugurate the next phase of Anglo-Irish poetry. With the exception of Eva Gore-Booth, none of the contributors to New Songs had published verse in book form prior to its appearance. Padraic Colum, Thomas Keohler, Alice Milligan, Susan Mitchell, Seumas O'Sullivan, George Roberts and Ella Young — these names were previously known only to readers of the more eclectic Irish periodicals. Many of the writers belonged to the Hermetic Society, where they learned from the mystic teaching of A. E. the truths which had fired his own youth. In a limited sense, therefore. New Songs may be described as the manifesto of a school, for its authors stood at least in that personal relation to A. E. which is called discipleship. He was their leader in a more intimate sense than was possible to any other prominent figure in the revival of our poetry.

My research on Ella has shown that she remained very close friends with Padraic Colum, Alice Milligan, Susan Mitchell and Seamus O'Sullivan. I have mentioned a few of these "comrades"  in previous posts. Ella broke off with A.E. over the issue of a divided Ireland. She could not settle for anything less than complete control of the island by the Irish. A.E. was basically tired of the struggle and gave in to the treaty. Ella never forgave him for this and soon after she left Ireland to begin her new life in California. 

"The Virgin Mother" is one of Ella Young's poems included in this anthology. I think it holds the seed for what would become her future work. 

For My Mother on Mother's Day…and Every Day

My mother is 92 years of age and lives near me in a nursing facility. She knows who I am and I visit with her two or three times a week. These days we have strange conversations but every once and awhile I know she is herself - the mom that raised me, loved me, nurtured me, and shared with me her love of words. More than anything, I now feel,  it was her imagination that had the most influence on my early years. She read to me and she also made up stories to fill my dreams with visions and wonderment. 

Perhaps that is why my head has always been full of more stories I want to tell - either through words or images (or both)  - than hours to bring them to life. I thank my mom for the creative gifts I have for without her tender care of that fragile spark I would have given up long ago. 

So in honor of Mom I found this poem in one of her books to share. It is perfect in recalling, for me, those precious moments listening to her words and feeling transformed to a world I knew to be my very own. 

THE FAIRY BOOK
by   Abbie Farwell Brown

When Mother takes the Fairy Book
And we curl up to hear,
'Tis "All aboard for Fairyland!"
Which seems to be so near.

For soon we reach the pleasant place
Of Once Upon a Time,
Where birdies sing the hour of day,
And flowers talk in rhyme;

Where Bobby is a velvet Prince,
And where I am a Queen;
Where one can talk with animals,
And walk about unseen;

Where Little People live in nuts,
And ride on butterflies,
And wonders kindly come to pass
Before your very eyes;

Where candy grows on every bush,
And playthings on the trees,
And visitors pick basketfuls
As often as they please.

It is the nicest time of day -
Though Bedtime is so near, -
When Mother takes the Fairy Book
And we curl up to hear.

Films…Scripts…and not giving up

If I had it to do all over again…
I've been thinking about that concept recently as I realize there are still dreams unfulfilled and challenges I have yet to meet. Looking back to my twenties and thinking about  my secret aspirations from that time,  I realize I dreamed of becoming involved with cinema. I already knew I looked through a camera lens and "saw" a world quite different than what others were seeing. The stumbling block for me was the enormity of it all - I mean, how would a young, and extremely shy and insecure, woman in the 70's become a cinematographer, or perhaps even a director?

Six hours from Hollywood but it may as well have been six hundred…


Anyway, French and Italian cinema (of that time)  beckoned me. That seemed truly impossible.

So that was then. Decades later, during a wet summer in Ireland, I discovered scriptwriting. Here was a world that allowed me to connect my words with my images. Yes!  I explored the Irish film world. Yes! Were my dreams about to be realized after all those many years?

Now here I am back in California and again "Six hours from Hollywood…" I am no longer shy and certainly not insecure but I am much older with responsibilities that have clipped my wings. I have two completed feature-length scripts I would love to sell - love to see them come to life.

Clipped wings are only for the mundane world. Dreams and challenges are of the world I create for myself. Can I sell a script via a website? via Twitter? via Tumblr?  Perhaps and why the hell not?

So I present to the world one of my scripts on its own website.  I dream of one day seeing it come to life.

Sigils, Semiotics and Symbols

You can hear the hiss of the snake in these words - sigils…semiotics...symbols. The words hold power, an alchemical power that unites the mundane to the magical. Worlds colliding. Veiling lifting. Mists dissolving.

This world that I inhabit takes great pleasure in weighing me down. Since childhood I have felt the shackles that bind me here. Why struggle?

Then, the realization that, even more than my words, my images (imaging/imagining) brought me the hidden powers necessary to connect beyond. To go deeper. To break the shackles.

My art becomes my portal to travel there…

My art becomes the portal to envision… differently… the shimmering instant when the mundane merges with the other…














And the other is Mystery - cloaked…hidden... and then,  revealed.

All images © Denise Sallee 2014

The Dream Endures

Photograph © Denise Sallee 2010

Is it wrong to speak of loss as Spring brings us abundant signs of new life? Perhaps we should honor the element of sacrifice and look for what is birthed anew within us as we surrender to what is no more?

Ella Young knew loss - she wrote a few poems in which her grief, cloaked in mystical imagery and tales of valor, is painfully raw. We will never know the name of the one, her Prince of Night,  Ella mourns. I wonder if the person was ever aware of the love she bore them - or the words they inspired?




The Prince of Night remained an unpublished poem until it was included in the anthology At the Gates of Dawn: A Collection of Writings by Ella Young by myself and John Matthews.

Prince of Night

Wisdom I have, Like those who are so wise

That they make bargain for it overnight

And have it from their birth-hour. So delight

That is but shadow-sooth, and sorrow dies.

No morn of Spring, no morning yet rise,

Will glad you on my threshold; nor will sight,

Sun-royal sight of you, make noontide bright:

Nor Hesper bring you with the darkening skies.

Fragile, alas, the world by dreaming won!

Perdurable, some alien world may be:

Let who will, vaunt its perils or its lures,

Make pattern of its stars, and mightier sun,

Despoil its jeweled empires, happily –

My world may perish, but the Dream endures!

The City

Peter and I wrote this novella (or, perhaps it is a short story?) late in 2001. Peter died in 2008 but here I have an example of what defined our relationship - we were, and perhaps still are, creative partners. 

I would love anyone's idea on how best to describe this book. Does it fit into a genre? There are so many terms today for so many types of writing. Me, I just like to write, so thank you for helping me on the others bits!

Here is an excerpt from The City.

Desire drew the men along the City’s streets. The great moon, now higher in the sky, stood witness to promises of pleasure and of moments of escape where the blood tides flowed thickly in the streets. They passed through the Third Avenue underpass, across the now-unused train tracks, and into a realm that hid its secrets behind barred windows and half-broken neon lights. They left the crowds behind when they entered this part of the City, as the loneliness of the unfulfilled now haunted their every step. The secrets of sensation beckoned them forward and they walked in silence, beyond the pale and into the grime-slicked abyss. Whores, pimps, junkies, and bouncers inhaled together as if from one half-burned cigarette. Exhaling, their smoke rose and clouded the glow of a streetlamp The Man and his Friend shared a joint together, stiffening their courage and loosening their inhibitions. For tonight’s journey, though they frequently discussed such a venture, was now a reality.

Loud music, the raised voices of drunken men, and the sound of breaking glass greeted them as they turned around the first corner. Here stood a bar with no name; a half-hidden place for those still hedging their bets and for others intent only in the disillusion of the moment. A gigantic electric sign, that had once proclaimed the glories of the industrial age, stood atop a squared-off six story building in which the bar was situated. This mighty sign which once could have been seen for miles, is now as dark as the heart’s of those who walked on the sidewalks below - a monster who in death had sworn revenge on the humanity that had both given it birth and condemned it to death. It was not a sad creature but a malevolent one.

Indeed the whole neighborhood seemed malevolent – not merely the half-human souls who had found refuge here but the buildings themselves, structures which one could hardly imagine ever saw a pleasant morning or a summer afternoon’s shower. It was as though the architects of these buildings, sober men working in brightly lit offices, with warm cheerful homes to retreat into at the evening, had deliberately set about to create nightmarish, fun house reflections of the hopeful world in which they lived. But the Man thought, “No, the architects could not do this deliberately. They have simply impressed their emptiness upon blueprint paper and this forest of shadows is what emerged.”

It seemed as though the cigarette smoke that perpetually hung in the air had gradually grown denser; a fog, or something like a fog, emanating from the street lamps themselves. Perhaps it was just the eerie yellowish color of the sodium vapor bulbs, a lack of contrast, a trick of the light. Or, perhaps it really was that phantoms rose from the sewer gratings, seeped around the edges of the manhole covers, and thus, though it was bright, it was almost impossible to see clearly. Perhaps the fog had drawn together and was now wedging itself between the Man and his Friend and the doorway of the bar that yawned in front of them. Or, had it opened, not because it was sleepy but because it was hungry? In either case, the closer they came to the door the more difficult it was for them to walk. Phantoms foul or phantoms fair, mercy and mystery, the repentant souls of thieves, murderers, and worse. An ancient neon sign, half of which had long ago burned out, caught the Friend’s attention. What remained of the sign glowed red, two horizontal parenthesis, that had once proudly highlighted the name of a beer not brewed in thirty years. Oddly enough, it now resembled a pair of female lips, blowing them a kiss through the grimy window; or a sideways vulva, inviting them to a cheap screw in an even cheaper hotel. It was easy to become confused in a place like this, to take blood for shadows and longing for love. Solid objects grew liquid under the influence of the confounding fog, shifting shape at will. A man might pass through a wall in such a fog, a woman might ooze under a door like a puddle of spilled paint. The closer one looked the quicker the texture of reality became blank, an imprint being lifted off before their hazy mind could comprehend what it really was. Here there were no illusions. In the world from which the two men came illusion persisted through the collective denial of those who beheld it. But denial was futile here. “What omen brought me here?” thought the Man, a moment before he penetrated the invisible surface of the looking glass that masqueraded as a door. The Friend, one step behind, felt something brush his face – a cobweb, or the wash of the mirror’s surface momentarily snapping back before it yielded again to him. They could almost hear the crystalline gate shut behind them.

On a Glimpse of Castle Island

W.B. Yeats, Maud Gonne, and (for a time) A.E. were involved in a magical project usually referred to as "The Celtic Mysteries."  There is no documentation to show that Ella Young was ever involved, though she knew all about what they were doing. How Ella's magical endeavors influenced Yeats, and perhaps vice-versa, has yet to be shown.

Photo by Franc.c  https://www.flickr.com/photos/francz/

Here is how I imagine the moment when Yeats first glimpsed the place that inspired his Mysteries. 

EXT: IRELAND.  A lLARGE LAKE.  SUMMER 1892 - MORNING.

YEATS and DOUGLAS HYDE, 35, a tall bearded man of great dignity and presence, are boating together on Lough Key in County Roscommon. A heavy mist rises from the lake.

Hyde rows with great ease and precision.

Yeats leans back in the boat and gazing up toward the sky.

YEATS

There are forces, mighty forces, that can do more for the revolution than my words will ever accomplish alone!

HYDE

Your occult experiments are a distraction - it is your poetry that should fill your days - and your nights!  

Hydes’ voice deepens.

Be careful of what you are asked to sacrifice so that you may gain this magic!

At that moment Yeats turns toward the lakes' center, watching as the wind sweeps away the mist to reveal a small island.  

As he sees the abandoned Castle on the island he remembers Gonne's words from an earlier time.

FLASHBACK - EXT.  IRELAND. A RUGGEDLY BEAUTIFUL SPOT FULL OF OLD STONES AND TREES. - MORNING  

Gonne and Yeats walk together, hands clasped.

GONNE

If only we could make contact with the hidden forces of the land it would give us strength for the freeing of Ireland.  The land will help us expel our enemy.  England, like the ancient Fir Bolg, will flee when our true gods empower us!

The wind on the hill blows through Gonne's dark hair and her eyes shine with her passion.

EXT. THE LAKE.

GONNE

(V.O.)

I see a tower in the middle of a lake, a shrine of Irish tradition where only those who dedicate their lives to this great land can go. It will be built of stone and decorated only with the Jewels of the Tuatha Dé Danann!

Yeats stands up in the boat and turns to Hyde.

YEATS

There! That of which my muse has spoken!  An obsession more constant than anything but my love itself is the need for mystical rites ... to reunite the perception of the spirit, of the divine, with natural beauty ... 

HYDE

Sit down, man - you'll topple us both over!  You are right about one thing - this land is holy and each of us must find our way to serve that holiness.

Yeats sits reluctantly and looks at Hyde. His voice rises with excitement.

YEATS

This is my destiny, Hyde. There are those who will serve with guns, and others with speeches, but as I serve magic so will magic serve Ireland!

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Daughters of Time - excerpt

"Autumn Riders" copyright 2004 by  Emily Balivet

This novel, based loosely upon three of my ancestors, is available on Kindle for $4.95.

 I've included an early chapter - hope you enjoy!


Happy New Year - may it be rich with the blessings of the Earth.

Chapter Three

Spain 1268

The thin gold torc around her neck caught the morning light as she adjusted the heavy cloak about her shoulders. Despite the sun’s warmth, the mountain air was cold and reminded Sanza that the seasons were changing and winter would soon be on the mountaintop. The climate of Navarra was not intense and Sanza easily welcomed the coldness of winter. This winter in particular, the coldness of the world outside would echo the coldness that lived in her heart. Even now, having achieved this much, she felt no lightening from within. Perhaps that would come later. Perhaps now it was just too soon and her expectations too grand. She wanted to be here on the mountain top—alone for the ceremony. And really, what choice did she have? If her father knew what she had done she would be cast from his home forever. She found herself caught once again in the middle of the struggles that had ripped her family apart. She loved and honored her father and she wished with all her heart she could be the good daughter he expected her to be; but greater than that love and honor was the darkly deep bond that held her to her mother—even now, even in death.

“Maman!” So soon the great longing for her mother had begun and she did not yet understand how the longing would stay with her and that it would grow and shape her life for eternity. Today she climbed the mountain in order to release her mother’s spirit and return her to the elements from which she was born. Her hand grasped the small silver box that lay nestled in the pocket of her cloak. She knew what must be done but she held back for another moment, keeping the contact that had guided her through all of her sixteen years. And her mother’s voice came to her over the wind reminding her that what she was about to do was the way of their path and the way of their ancestors.

“Keep to the true ways, daughter, though your path be walked in darkness. Keep to yourself and to the silence and honor that which I have taught you, and teach your daughter so she may teach her daughter. In this, Sanza, lies our greatest strength for I have seen such horror and death ahead in the time that is soon coming. The old ways must be kept alive though the world seeks to destroy us all…”

Her mother, Acibella, drew Sanza close when she spoke these words and the great terror that she had envisioned moved from the mother to the daughter until Sanza dropped to her knees and covered her face with the soft blue silk of her mother’s gown. And she understood that the secrecy and the lies that Acibella uneasily embraced so that they could live their truth in the outside world would become her shield of armor in the years ahead.

Acibella Salazar

Honored wife

of Arnaldo Paunfiloun

May Her Soul Rest With God

Roncesvalles, Navarra, 1268

Was it only last night at twilight she met with her mother’s two trusted friends in the mausoleum at the Chapel of the Holy Spirit in Roncesvalles? Yes, and together they had removed her mother’s shrouded body from her tomb and carried her to the mountaintop. This had been Sanza’s promise to her mother as she lay dying in her small home in the forest. She would go along with her father’s wishes and her mother would receive the Christian burial expected by the family and the people of Pamplona where her father’s house marked him as a respected member of that community. Yes, but then later, later in the darkness of night she would free her mother and return her to her true home in the mountains. And now there was nothing left but the ashes and the wind and the release of Acibella’s spirit so it might journey through the night and find again a home.

In a circle of rosemary branches Sanza stood with the silver box held up toward the evening sky. A fire of oak branches and dried herbs sent sweet-smelling smoke down into the valley. Now was the time—the twilight time when the two worlds came together for a brief moment and the powers of the elements hovered nearby waiting for her to call them into her circle. She stood facing the west where the sky was still tinged with the rose of the setting sun and in the secret language of the old ways— as taught to her by her mother who was taught by her mother and so on and so on —Sanza called out to the elementals and showed them her love and her honor. And in the old words and by their old names she bid them to attend her in the circle. In a sudden gust of the wind—in the quickening of the flames—in the trembling of the earth beneath her feet—in the pale mist that shrouded the circle the elementals made known their presence. Sanza held up the silver box and slowly opened the lid. The wind on the mountain top quieted for a brief moment and in that moment the ash lifted from the box and danced as a spiral in front of Sanza.

“I return to the river and the river returns me to the sea—mother of All! The endless beginning and eternal end. I am home.”

She felt more than heard her mother’s voice circling the mountain top. From a silk pouch tied to her belt Sanza withdrew a handful of shimmering powder and a clear smooth crystal. She circled the fire singing softly an ancient chant her mother had taught her many years ago. The words mingled together—some in her native Basque and others in the tongue of the people who had left the land so long ago. It was the language the trees spoke and the language of the earth caves. When her song was done Sanza knelt by the fire and dropped the powder and the crystal onto the burning oak wood. Violet blue flames shot up toward the darkening sky and the wind rushed down across the valley and called out to the river whose waters surged and washed over its banks. Sanza knelt before the fire, her cloak spread around her and her dark hair loose about her shoulders. And in the crystal Sanza envisioned all that was her mother’s spirit and the beauty and the wisdom of that spirit reached deeply into her heart and touched the sadness of her great mourning .

Later, wrapped in her cloak, Sanza slept in the circle by the still burning fire. And despite the mountain’s winter chill she felt the warmth that was her mother’s presence and with this warmth she felt the strength and wonder that she knew was the presence of her Lady—Dona—Donia—the pure essence of all that was and would ever be. And in her dreaming She came to Sanza and bid her no more to mourn for her mother but to change the mourning into something alive and powerful—something by which Sanza could honor her Lady and in this she would honor all life. Through the dreaming She spoke to Sanza her words—the words of the deep caves and the running rivers.

“Be here with me now, child—for I will be with you as I have with your mother through all the steps that will be your life. From the waters of the Great Mother you were born and it was I that brought you forth—it was I who was midwife to your mother and to her mother and to her mother…as I will be to your daughter and all of her daughters. In this we are one and we serve each other. Stay true only to this and I will stay true to you.”

And the breeze stirred Sanza’s dark hair where she lay on her cloak by the fire and her breathing quickened as she dreamed the words of her Lady in the night.

“My ways are not the easy ways of this world, daughter, and of this you have much to learn. We choose each other and in the choosing is the contract that will not be broken. No marriage here on earth can be so binding for I bind you, daughter of the earth, to my world — a world that is all above you and all below you. With me you have no boundaries—no weights to hobble your feet to the earth. You will see. You will grow, you will learn and you will seek with me by your side. Always and in All Ways.”

And like a lover’s kiss at dawn Sanza drew in the touch and scent and feel of her Lady and rose up from her dreaming refreshed and renewed. The day, like a wondrous journey, lay before her and though she knew not what waited on the road ahead she was strangely and eagerly excited.