The Celtic story of Cerridwen and her cauldron calls to me as Halloween/Samhain approaches. She’s a witch in search of a potion and yet, the tug of the story is deeper. Seasonal changes amplify the energies of betwixt and between that give rise to current challenges. This is a good time to examine your creative dreams.
What do you long to bring into the world? Who are you willing to become in the process? Where will you turn for inspiration and guidance?
Your ideas and expectations about creativity, and the images of the process that you hold in mind, determine the way that it will unfold. Cerridwen’s story has helped me shift my perspective and listen more carefully to messages from the imaginal realm, from soul.
I hope that you find something useful in the story too.
Transcript of Cerridwen’s cauldron of inspiration
Hello, and welcome to Myth Matters, storytelling and conversation about mythology and why myth matters to your life today. I’m your host and personal mythologist Dr. Catherine Svehla. Wherever you may be in this wide, beautiful, crazy world of ours, you are part of this story circle.
We talked about the mystery of personal transformation in the last podcast, aided by the Greek myth of Arachne, a mortal woman who challenged the goddess Athena. This myth is commonly interpreted as a caution against hubris and offending the gods. I wonder about the usefulness of that message today. There may be other themes, and other lines or edges for us to walk right now. In my view, this is a time to re-examine our relationship to the real limitations placed on our existence and to deepen our commitment, and sense of responsibility, for what we can create.
Myth Matters is a bi-weekly podcast which means that an important holiday will have passed before we meet again. I’m talking about the annual celebration to honor the dead, called Halloween. The modern Halloween celebration is relatively trivial and yet the costumes and door-to-door candy collecting have ancient, pagan roots that are shared with Samhain, Día de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead), Pitru Paksha , or Pchum Ben, to name a few examples.
Peoples around the world pause for a few hours to several weeks, to recognize the cyclical nature of life and the continuous commerce and conversation between the visible and invisible worlds. The fall harvest is a powerful image that contains literal and metaphorical truth. Communion with our ancestors is another common component. This notion of a spirit world behind the visible is both sensationalized and trivialized in our popular imagination, and yet what is shared, borrowed, recycled, and inherited from these planes of existence is not far away in some transcendent, distant dimension but immanent in the material world, in the breath, in the DNA, in consciousness, and the essence of everything.
If you consider the many lives that support the manifestation and sustenance of your own, you will boggle your mind. Try it. You’ll see what I mean. And wrap your imagination around this process of ongoing transformation.
Today, I have another story for you that involves transformation. It comes from the Celtic tradition, and although Samhain, the original Halloween, does not figure directly into the story, I find myself turning toward this one at this time of year. There is a witch and a cauldron and a magic brew, which are all imaginal conduits into liminal space, the space in which creativity and transformation occur.
This is a liminal time. Samhain takes place at the halfway point between the Fall Equinox and the Winter Solstice, which is usually October 31st or November 1st. The old ones say that the veil between the worlds is especially thin at this time, as the daylight world of action and the night world of dreams, incubation, and death blend together, and the balance of power tips toward the dark. Samhain is the Celtic New Year’s Eve, a time when anything and everything is both beginning and end.
Now, let’s turn to the story. It’s called ” The Cauldron of Inspiration and the Birth of Taliesin.”
This story is part of the Welsh Mabinogion, a collection of eleven medieval tales and the Book of Taliesin. We have texts that date from the 14th to 16th century but the original language suggest that these tales may have been told as early as the 6th century or earlier.
I invite you to relax and enter into the meditative space of this story with me. Let the story take you where you need to go right now. Notice what you notice, as these details are an opening into what this story holds for you.
The Cauldron of Inspiration and the Birth of Taliesin
Long ago, when the world was a bit younger than it is today, there was no veil separating the realm of the seen from the realm of the unseen. What we call elves and fairies and spirits moved freely among human beings. That time is past. Humans needed to grasp at what is “real” in their eyes, at what is felt in their hands, and so the curtain was hung. And yet it is still “just” a curtain and there are times and places where the fabric is thin. Very thin. These are places of power.
In the early days of the two worlds there was a woman named Cerridwen who moved between the realms. Some say she was a moon goddess or the Great Mother of the grains, others call her a sorceress. It is said that she was quite beautiful, with flowing dark hair and skin like milk, and she surely possessed great magic, as this story will reveal.
Cerridwen lived with her husband and three children on an island in Bala Lake, in the hard rock country of northern Gwynedd. Her eldest son, Afagddu was well blessed. Her only daughter Creirwy, was the fairest maiden for miles around with a voice like silver bells. But her middle child, the boy called Morvran, was ugly and ill formed. This caused his mother great concern. It is hard to get along well in the world without some measure of beauty and grace.
Cerridwen decided to concoct a potion that would instill wisdom in her son Morvran, wisdom and a poetic tongue, so that he too would prosper. His face cannot be beautiful she thought, but his voice, his words, and his thoughts– these will be.
She built a fire and took out her great cauldron, called Awen, and filled it with water and honey, acorns, barley, and other grains. Her magic would take one year and a day to complete. The fire needed to be tended and the pot needed to be stirred this whole time so the contents wouldn’t burn and stick. Cerridwen called upon her ancient manservant Morda. “You sir,” she said, “must tend this fire day and night and make sure that it does not go out.”
Morda was half-blind and he could manage no more than this, so she also called the young Gwion, a servant boy, and gave him the important task of stirring the pot. “This is your job for one year and one day,” she told the lad, “See that you perform it faithfully— or suffer the consequences.”
The desired potion was powerful and tricky to bring to completion. Every day Cerridwen went into the woods and fields to find the herbs and other ingredients necessary to make her son wise. These she chopped and ground and handled carefully. She added them to her great cauldron when the astrological signs were right, often under the light of the full moon, sometimes in the deep darkness of the new moon. She said the right prayers and sang the right songs and brought all of her powers to the task, even in silence.
Although a great huge pot sat simmering on the fire, all that could be consumed were the first three drops. Whoever partook of the first three drops would instantly know past, present, and future, and perceive the underlying unity of all things. The rest was poison.
Slowly, slowly, day by day, and night by night, the vital strength of Cerridwen’s potion took shape and grew. Morda tended the fire faithfully and Gwion stirred the pot.
At last, the year and a day was up. The last herb had been duly added. Cerridwen brought her son Morvran into the room to receive her blessing— the three potent drops of the potion. Gwion stood by the pot with his long spoon in his hand. “Come,” she said to her young servant,” and bring forth what I have created for my son.” The fire leapt as Gwion moved to serve Morvran his portion. The potion in the great pot sputtered. Several drops flew out and landed on Gwion’s tender fingers.
Without a thought he thrust the burning fingers into his mouth. In that moment, he knew all that was true. He also knew that he had stolen Morvran’s birthright and that Cerridwen would kill him.
Young Gwion ran for the door. Cerridwen left her son and followed him, arms outstretched. “Come back here,” she cried, “there is no escape from what comes next!” But Gwion understood the full extent of his new powers. He turned himself into a hare. In rabbit form he raced across the fields fifty times faster than any boy could run. But Cerridwen turned herself into a greyhound and swiftly followed, snapping at his heels.
When he reached the river Gwion jumped in and turned himself into a fish. Down, down, down into the cold depths he dove. His silver fins flashed. But Cerridwen turned herself into an otter, sleek and speedy, and dove in after him.
Feeling her whiskers brush his tail, Gwion burst from the water into the sunlight. He turned himself into a bird and flew away. But Cerridwen turned herself into a hawk and followed close behind. In those final moments, before she could plunge down to grip him in her sharp talons, Gwion spied a farmyard and barn down below.
He ceased his flapping. As he fell to the earth, he changed himself into a grain of wheat on the threshing floor.
Cerridwen followed him down to the farmyard. “Oh, you are clever my dear Gwion,” she said, “But not clever enough.” She turned herself into a black hen and began scratching the ground and sorting the many seeds. She found Gwion and ate him.
Cerridwen went home to the island in the middle of Lake Bala, full of frustration at her wasted efforts. Days passed. To her horror she discovered that she was pregnant. She knew it was that little grain of wheat. She decided to kill the child as soon as it was born. But the baby boy was so beautiful that she could not raise her hand against him.
Two days before May Day she sewed him into a leather bag and threw him into the sea. The baby drifted into Cardigan Bay and was found by Prince Elphin, who had come there to net fish. Prince Elphin took the child home and brought him up as his own. He named him Taliesin, which means “shining brow,” because the boy was so beautiful.
All was well for several years, until royal enemies imprisoned Prince Elphin. The child Taliesin made his way to the court to demand Prince Elphin’s release. Everyone laughed although many were impressed by his boldness. “My lord” the boy said to the king, “If this be your court and you are a true king, make me a wager for the life of my guardian. I will pose a riddle to you and your court. If anyone can answer it I will go quietly home, but if I confound you all, then Elphin goes free.”
“I see no harm in that” answered the king, quite certain that no child could perplex him and all of the wise men in his court. “Proceed with your riddle.”
“Discover what it is” said the boy, “The strong creature that can wreak havoc, from before the Flood, without flesh, without bone, without vein, without blood, without head, without feet… in field and in forest roams… without hand, without foot. It is also as wide as the surface of the earth, and it was not born, nor was it seen.”
The great men of the court pondered. Even the poets, the bards of the courts were called. But none knew the answer. So, Prince Elphin was freed. Thus began the fame of Taliesin, the greatest bard to ever live. It is said that he even sang for King Arthur. And the answer to his riddle: the wind.
Gwion’s new power is a new awareness, isn’t it? Awareness of the underlying unity of all things. This makes his shape-shifting possible. He knows that he is already a hare, a fish, a bird, a grain of wheat and that the outer appearance, the material form, is always temporary. A new point of view, the ability to see things differently or to lead others to see them differently, is a powerful form of magic, my friend. Magic begins with the realization that everything is not as it first appears.
Once Gwion is a grain of wheat, eaten by Cerridwen, a truly amazing transformation occurs, one that results in something new coming into the world, the bard Taliesin. This wasn’t intended– at least, not like this! Cerridwen, the uncanny witch, instigates the change. She gets things going but what is destined is beyond her control and her vision. She is more than a mother brewing a potion to elevate the abilities of her son. She becomes another type of cauldron, a womb pregnant with possibilities. I notice the image of the seed: Gwion in the form of a grain of wheat that then seeds Cerridwen, that becomes the wise poet Taliesin, born with the power to seed the imagination.
Water is another element shared by Cerridwen, Gwion, and Taliesin. Cerridwen lives on an island in the middle of a large lake. Lake Bala is four miles long and one mile wide, and sacred in the Welsh tradition. As a reflective body, a lake suggests the play between the surface and the depths, and often symbolizes a portal into the unconscious or into soul, psyche. The essence of Gwion later floats in the waters of Cerridwen’s womb, and the infant Taliesin is fished out of the sea by Prince Elphin. Again, something special and important, comes forth or is brought up out of the water. Like the seed, water is both a literal source of life and an image of our psychic life and creative potential.
I’ve often turned to this story as a description of the creative process. You start with an idea, something that you want to bring into the world. It takes a lot of patient tending and development and poof- in the final moments before its realized, or what you think are the final moments– it slips out of your control and becomes something else. You find it living in you in a new way. You make a different commitment to it. In the end, it may not belong to you at all and yet you were necessary, and you live in a world that is enriched by its presence. No wonder we long to bring something beautiful into the world, to commune with that elusive source of inspiration, and also find the process so demanding and difficult.
I imagine that Cerridwen nurtured her intentions for that potion during that year and a day. At the same time, she must have brought her attention to bear on the task for each day and responded to the moment’s intuition about what was needed, and when. If you’d like to follow in Cerridwen’s footsteps and experiment with this method, then I invite you to join me for Step Into the Fairy Glen.
Step Into the Fairy Glen is a two-week online course in story work that’s designed to help you tap the power of your symbolic life. It launches with a new moon on Thursday November 4th and ends with the full moon Friday November 19th. Like Cerridwen, I believe in working with the cycles of the moon. You can gather fresh insight into your creative projects or current life challenges. Find sacred purpose in your current situation. Develop tools and practices that you can use on your own, any time, to deepen your connection to soul.
This course is inexpensive, accessible, powerful, and fun. A link to details about Step Into the Fairy Glen, and thoughts from some past travelers and students in the course, is on my website at mythicmojo.com.
I want to close this episode with a poem in honor of Taliesin and a culture that honored the bard above the king. It’s a favorite of mine by Mary Oliver. But first–
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Gwion’s transformation into a seed was both beginning and end. Something in your life presents itself to you as a seed. Plant it now and let go of expectations and plans. Let’s see what happens. Here’s “Sleeping in the Forest” by Mary Oliver…
“Sleeping in the Forest”
I thought the earth remembered me, she
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets full of lichens and seeds. I slept
as never before, a stone
on the riverbed, nothing
between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees. All night
I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
—Mary Oliver
That’s it for me, Catherine Svehla and Myth Matters. Thank you so much for listening! Feel free to contact me if you have questions or comments about today’s program or Step Into the Fairy Glen. Please tune in next time and until then, happy myth making and keep the mystery in your life alive…
