Beginning a path of study, plus a poem

In the past year or two, I have said things like “My spiritual path is somewhere between earth-centered goddess spirituality and Druidry.”

That coyly skirts the fact that once you are doing some Druid things, there really isn’t much difference, except perhaps for one’s own awareness of being part of a heavily frayed string of traditions that have something to do with ancient Druids of the Celtic world. And yet, I didn’t feel like I could come right out and say, “I am Druid.”

I wasn’t really convinced we could know what a Druid was supposed to do or know from long ago, and what I did know told me that Druids were very scholarly. I am always learning and studying, but I don’t have multiple university degrees or anything. Most of my studies have been informal. So, I was reticent.

Now I have begun a training course with the British-based Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids (OBOD), one of the two major international traditions claiming to be carrying on the practices and knowledge of the Druids. This is the first time I have ever entered a formal religious tradition, signed up and put my money—not to mention significant amounts of time and energy—where my mouth is.

To be clear about the reference to “religious tradition,” OBOD is classified as a “religious organization,” but their materials state that they are not devoted to any one religion. Druidry, like Buddhism, can be a practice or a religion or both. As a practice, it is compatible with Pagan beliefs as well as Christianity. Since entering its online communities I have encountered quite a few people who steer away from any devotional wording and clearly see Druidry as a practice only. Still the majority of modern Druids seem to lean toward Pagan spirituality.

Creative Commons image from Flickr.com

Even so, it took a while to get here, mostly because there was no one I knew and trusted personally to point the way. I am not actually against formal traditions or set in my eclectic ways. But I have never lived where there were Pagan gatherings and those few groups I have encountered in person weren’t inspiring or accepting.

Online I found scattered good people, many interesting writers, and a wild plethora of competing viewpoints, most claiming to be a true and reliable ancient tradition. I also encountered a myriad of charlatans and countless hucksters in Pagan spaces. None of this— even the good people and interesting writers—was all that helpful in figuring out where I belonged.

But slowly over many years I sorted and winnowed through the streams of words and ideas and slowly a pattern became clear. Those things which made sense to me, mostly fell in one corner of the Pagan world and above that corner there where several banners “earth-centered spirituality,” “goddess spirituality,” “eclectics,” and “Druidry.”

Of those banners, Druidry was the only one offering a clear way to enter and become part of a community and a tradition. The others were either so open that there was no community to speak of or you had to know the right people. When I took a goddess spirituality class and signed up to a formal course of study some years ago, my instructor stopped communicating with me after a few months, then disappeared, then reappeared but continued silence toward me.

Druidry on the other hand, offered a highly structured and fairly expensive training course. I thought about it, met a few people who were members and found them to be among the more inclusive and level-headed in the Pagan community. I read things about the two main Druid traditions on offer. Then I had to see if I could gather the money, which I eventually did. And two months ago, I took the plunge.

Ironically, now I definitely feel that I cannot say, “I am druid.”

That is because the training course takes at least three years and often much longer to complete. Technically, everyone involved is part of “druidry” and can claim that as their spiritual path, even the newest initiate. But there are three grades and the Druid level is the most advanced. I am officially studying as a bard. A lot of people in the bardic grade call themselves bards before graduating, but many of the new initiates, myself included, are shy about it.

I always played at being a bard, when I was a kid playing fantasy games. I am already a writer, storyteller, poet and songwriter, though not much of a singer or musician. Today bards use artistic expression in everything from basket weaving to cooking though, so I should manage to pass those standards.

I am thoroughly enjoying my course of study and practice, which lifts the gloom of a northern winter amid the extra intense third Covid lockdown.

There are a great many other things that are not so great or hopeful in my life and in the world at the moment. Just about everything else feels like failure and disaster. And it is possible that I am still just playing in a fantasy. And yet, the course is surprisingly hard work, harder than I imagined, and there is a thriving community engaged in ongoing practice and study. There are also many Bards, Ovates and Druids with knowledge and skills that make me feel very much like a novice.

I don’t know if I am deluded. But I know that I have been entirely without hope for myself or humanity in general for months. I have felt like a dandelion that got covered with asphalt. Like dandelions, I don’t give in easily. I struggled and fought for a crack to the light for months. And I don’t know if this channel leads anywhere but delusion, but I know there is room for some growth here. And for me and for dandelions under asphalt, that will have to be enough.

One of the first things to come from my studies is this poem I wrote about my inner sanctuary.

The Grove

“Branches black against dark sky
Needles sharp, stiff bristles, arms surrounding.
Stars cast like corn.
Silver orb in cold dry space.
The trees stand in a rough circle,
Pine, fir, thorn and elder,
Hardy mountain trees, swift and straight.
Planted by wind and squirrel
Snow gleams, fresh sparkling sugary drifts
Graceful lines, silent, slow waves
In and out of moon shadow.
I step inside, snow creaking the audible cold.
An owl calls. Too whoo! Too whoo!
Another answers. Lo loo! We too!
The smell is cold.
Evergreen and snow, sap like stone.
And then my nose catches the warm steam.
Rising from the rocks ahead.
A pool sheltered below
Candles lit in the niches.
And black water, rippled.
Steam rising, ghostly in the moonlight.
I know then that there is magic in this.
A dream, yes, or more than a dream.
I touch the water, the stinging heat.
Flat stones, leading down to the edge.
Water black, opaque and ruffled.
I hang my coat on a branch, shirt and leggings too.
My feet sink into the burning crystals of snow.
Shoes tucked under a pine.
I step to the stones, carefully toward the pool.
Hard bumps rise across my skin,
But I take a moment to gaze at the moon.
Then step into the shocking heat,
Scalding the soles of my feet.
The shivering burn rises over my tired muscles,
Warmth closing over my shoulders, around my face.
A stone ledge makes a seat and I lie back,
The trees whisper,
Standing guard around this place of the elements.
I listen to the west wind, needle song, snow sifting.
Coyotes yip on the northeastern horizon.
Let me understand, my sisters.
Let me know the words in the song of the mountain grove.
The moon is beginning to sink to the west,
Candles puddle in their cubbies.
I must stand bare in the night frost,
To dress and make my way homeward.
The cold makes it hard to return.
And the aching, stark beauty of sky, snow and trees.
Who am I to have this joy known by so few?
The warm embrace from deep within the earth,
Earth fire water.
The breath of trees and the song of the moon.
When finally I come from this place.
I will be restored.”