Tuesday, 23 February 2016

The peeling of the bells that calls you to your ancient self

Some day, I would like to try to sail down the Boyne, all the way from Carbury well to Inver Colpa. I know it's likely not possible, but I'd like to do it anyway. And I think that, in the doing of it, in the navigating of the puny Boyne, and the streamy Boyne, and the mighty Boyne, I might have relived a drama encompassing the journey of life; not a linear life, flowing from beginning to end, but rather a cyclical life, one with no beginning and no end, just a constant flow from one form to the next.

The river Boyne near Brugh na Bóinne.
And I wonder, just by contemplating the journey of the eternal river, if perhaps I might enter eternity myself, on the strength of a thought. Before you were born, I knew you. Before you were the Well of Segais, you were a million raindrops. Before your ejaculation on the slopes of Sídhe Nechtain, you had been glorified on the slopes of Mount Fuji, and on Kilimanjaro you had been a spring of nimiety; on the Matterhorn you had been a darkling brook, and at Elbrus a frozen fountainhead.

Segais, the beginning and the end.
Segais, the Alpha and the Omega.

Bless me with your sanctifying waters, so that I might spring forth a river, a mighty body of water whose end cannot be known. Cry me a river – not a river of sighs, or of broody reflection. Become Boyne, and give birth to a multitude of almighties, so that not one god, but a thousand, can become deified in your pools of crystal absolution. And there, on your shores, John the Baptist and Finneces the Wise will immerse the poor in spirit so that they may have their inner eyes washed clean, and that they may see with perfect vision the cloigtheach beneath the waves.

The mystery belfry below, the one that chimes mysteriously from the bottom of the lake, or from the brooding sea in the evening, is not a stony bell-tower left standing from the time of Atlantis's destruction.  Rather, it is that mystical something that must be awakened within you, that peeling of the bells that calls you to your ancient self – the you that was alive before the first of the ancient palaces were built, the you that is potent in the very matter of the universe.

Come down and ring the bells with the monks of the submarine heaven, that realm that lies beneath the darkness of your unconscious, and there make music that will echo in the very caverns of the sídhe. Go down, and be a bell-ringer for the awakening of a multitude. Call the world to enlightenment with a chorus of sound and voice from the deep, and bring the unrestrained joy of that chthonic music to every ear and heart and soul.

In memory of John Moriarty.


  1. I hear Amergin :) awesome post Anthony!

    1. Thanks. I've become very poetic lately. Must be all that time spent by the Boyne.