Journeys With The Goddess: The Cailleach, Grandmother Winter

Journey inwards into the deep winter realm of the Cailleach: ancient creator, storm mother, and crone of transformation. Through story, mythic reflection and meditation, and song, we explore solitude, sovereignty, aging, creative power, and the wisdom of seasonal rest.

This track is an excerpt from the podcast "Journeys with the Goddess" by Bronwyn, which you can stream in full wherever you get your podcasts! The whole episode features the history and lore of the Cailleach, ways you can work with her and honour her in your own life, as well as an original song, a lullaby for the grandmothers, written in her honour.

For those interested in Celtic lore, the divine feminine archetypes, goddess work, and internal transformation at a mythic level, I definitely recommend exploring the full podcast episode and other episodes on different Celtic goddesses.

Transcript

I should not assume that you know necessarily what a snow-blanketed landscape feels like from within.

For perhaps you've never felt the cold seeping into your bones,

Or looked out over a landscape coated in white.

Perhaps you've never heard the silent,

Muted quiet of the winter air as the wind holds its breath.

As the birds huddle together keeping warm,

Not making even the tiniest of peeps so as to conserve their waning energy.

As the sky hangs heavy and grey,

Holding itself upwards so as not to disturb the hush with more of its weighted whiteness,

No sounds of dripping water,

No sounds of life.

You are alone with the snow,

And you are held by it,

Like a tiny figure in a snow globe as the flakes rest gently at the bottom of the orb.

And if perhaps you choose to move through this magical snowy landscape,

In memory or in dream,

All you will hear is the crunching of your boots compacting down the snow,

Your breath steaming,

Clouding the air in front of you,

The sound of it almost deafening in your ears,

Crunch,

Crunch,

Crunch,

Crunch.

The landscape before you blanketed,

Simplifying the forms of hills and valleys into white shapeless masses as the land before you holds its breath,

Holding its breath as you hold yours,

Communing together in the silence.

And if you did not know this place before,

Well,

You know it now,

And you can return to it always in your memory.

You can feel into that childlike wonder of waking up early and looking out your window to a whole world before you transformed,

That excitement of a whole new land,

Wrapped in the warmth of coats and mittens and scarves and wool hats,

The pull of exploration,

Of adventure calling the beckoning of this old place made new.

And if you feel that tug,

Then let us go further,

As the magic begins to spark and warm you from within.

Let us feel the glow of those embers being fanned within us,

That layer of heat and comfort pulsing between our skin and the softness of our warm clothes.

Let us feel it take on its own energy.

Let us allow it to lift us gently from this snowy,

Crisp layer of white upwards now,

Into the air,

Flying,

Floating over it as if in a dream,

Suspended over the frosted landscape below,

Feeling the sensation of lightness,

The bite of the wind on our skin,

Like we are hung from the great sky above by a thread,

And that thread is pulling us gently forward over land,

Out over ocean,

And as we move through this space,

We also begin to move through time,

Backwards in time as we move forward through space,

Each propulsion forward bringing us further back in time,

As higher up we fly,

Until the masses of continents beneath us begin to float towards each other,

Into one strangely shaped form.

We see glaciers carving out rocks as they recede and move forward,

Moving backward,

Moving forward,

Etching their signature permanently in stone,

Time moving backwards as we look down upon it all from so high above,

The space you are suspended from,

Silent and separate.

Until then,

Beyond the mass of ice and rock below,

Your eyes hone in on movement,

A tiny figure below,

Toiling,

A woman of white,

Her skin old and wrinkled like parchment paper,

Her eyes a piercing blue,

She is hard at work,

Hammering,

Collecting stones,

Carving,

Moving ceaselessly without rest,

Her energy indomitable,

Toiling,

Toiling,

Carving,

Collecting,

Using her hammer to knock ice into intricate shapes,

This old woman of snow,

This old woman of ice,

This crafter of mountains,

Mother of the land,

Creator.

You watch her at work from above,

As you drop down closer,

The wind now moving around you closer,

You can see her veil of white and her mantle of plaid,

And it moves about her whipping in the wind,

Although she doesn't seem to notice it,

She's too busy jumping from mountain peak to mountain peak,

She's too busy scattering stones here and there from her basket,

Shaking them out from her apron,

Hopping to and fro,

Creating little lakes as she goes,

Turning on geysers of rushing water here,

Rivers flowing tumultuously there,

A busier woman you have never seen.

She moves now to the ocean,

Bending over she blows into the waters and waves begin to form,

She blows like she's warming each lick of water,

Conjuring them,

Casting spells over them,

Whispering to them,

And the wind now begins to howl and whip around her,

She holds her mantle in the air as it blows and dances around her,

Into the water she throws it,

Splashing and conjuring the waves into circles,

Into tides,

Into turbulent whirlpools as she washes and she sings,

Her voice high and thin and reedy,

So joyful it brings a smile to your face.

You can see she is a woman who loves her own company,

Who sinks into it easily and wants for nothing more.

You can see she is a woman who makes her own fun where she can,

Who makes a hard day's work into play,

Creating joyfully with a supernatural artistry as vast as her creations.

And so she washes her clothes,

Ankle deep in the tidal pools as they careen effortlessly,

Powerfully around her.

And as she does this,

You notice the black of the cliffs and the slate of the rock at the shore,

They begin to change color,

Spreading from midnight black to gray to pure white now.

She washes and she hoots as she sees this transformation take place,

The white spreading across the land,

The fingers of frost and fractals that stretch out and transform it all into a snow covered landscape,

Not unlike the one you have just traveled from.

And when the land is coated in white,

She stops washing and she moves towards the shore.

You see now how large she is against the backdrop of the islands and the mountains around her,

And she moves still with purpose,

Fixing this,

Carving that,

Smoothing here,

Honing each mass and form,

Her wrinkled hands,

That of a finely skilled sculptor.

With just a flick of her wrists,

A dance of her fingers,

She shapes it all perfectly,

Magnificently.

And now that she is content with this land before her of ice and frost and snow,

She begins to stretch a new muscle now,

That of the weather,

Which she also has control over.

She turns her attention upwards now,

No longer forming landscapes,

She forms skies.

From heavy skies full of storm clouds,

To the ethereal lights of the aurora borealis,

To the rains,

To the thunder,

The sleet and hail,

She can conjure it all.

And she must,

Just to keep these landscapes active and moving,

Shaping and balanced,

For she is a force of nature,

And she knows her work is never done.

Although she can step away for a while when she wants,

You see her admiring her work as she dusts off her hands,

And then begins to move towards the tallest of all the mountains,

Through a doorway she has carved in its side,

She disappears.

And then all is silent again,

All is white,

All is new and fresh and crisp and sparkling.

This is what you have seen,

As you have watched from above,

The creation of this land now known as Scotland.

You have witnessed the final days of her hard work,

For now she will rest beneath the mountain.

She will come out to collect firewood,

To move her herd of magical deer from one valley to the next,

Or perhaps to check in on her giant sons in the north who are always fighting and tossing giant boulders at each other.

But she also knows when to rest,

And when to stay beneath the mountain,

Cozy and warmed by the fire,

The animals she keeps around her,

The visitors she welcomes in from time to time.

And if you are impatient to return forward in time to where you came,

I will tell you this.

Other mountains have grown since this time,

Other landscapes formed and changed,

But this land,

This land you have watched her create,

It is ancient.

And the one who made it even more ancient,

Unfathomably ancient,

She created it all.

And in a way,

She even created you and me,

The mother of mothers of mothers of mothers,

The wise one,

The veiled one,

Storm mother,

Ice walker,

Frost shaper,

Crone of winter.

And you might imagine that being all those things would be terribly wearisome work,

And that eventually she might look out at all she has done and be satisfied.

And maybe she was.

Maybe she did know when there was no more work to be done.

And maybe she did see that like the mountains and the snow each season,

It would one day also be her time to recede back into the dark and quiet places of the world.

Perhaps she knew this,

But perhaps she did not want to stop.

Perhaps she didn't know who she would be if she was to stop.

Despite the weariness and the stiffness of her bones,

Maybe she can just sit beneath the mountain in her great hall,

Warm and comfortable with all she has made around her,

Sitting and waiting.

But for what?

We are not so sure.

Some days she seems to get quite restless.

She'll be tired of brewing tea within her mountain,

And so she goes out to brew something much faster,

In the form of a storm,

In the whipping up of some hail,

The forging of some lightning.

But other days she is content to just stay at home,

Sipping her stone tea,

Making her rock soup,

Weaving strands of wool from her sheep into garments to keep her warm.

And so time passes.

Centuries pass,

And she sits and she waits.

And then something changes.

Nothing we would notice from our vantage point,

But in her inner landscape,

Something has shifted.

She feels it in her bones,

Which have begun to weary,

To creak,

To clink and clack whenever she moves from the fire to her chair and back.

One day,

She feels a sudden,

Strange warmth,

Not from outside of her in the warmth of her hearth,

But rather,

It is coming from within her.

This unusual feeling is one she has never felt before.

She senses change,

And she senses something near.

So she leaves her mountain hall,

And she climbs slowly to its peak to watch for movement.

Deer,

Snow hares,

Owls,

All this she knows well,

All these white,

Gentle footprints in snow she understands.

But from her view above,

She sees another kind of footprint,

Heavier,

Larger,

Heading west.

And in the distance,

She sees a huddled form moving slowly,

Burdensomely forward.

But she also senses something,

A warmth within this bundle of moving blankets.

And so she herself moves from the mountain peaks down into the glen beneath,

Westward,

Down.

She shrinks herself down and stands there,

Staff in hand,

White,

Veil over her back-bent eyes,

As piercing as ever.

Looking up,

She sees that the form before her is a girl,

Dressed in white,

With blankets wrapped snugly around her.

Her cheeks are rosy,

Her eyes blue,

Her hair golden beneath the scarf on her head.

She has a glint in her eye,

And a magic,

A lightness,

A warmth about her.

The woman feels she needs to be wary of.

And yet,

And yet,

Isn't this just what she has been waiting for?

Isn't this just what she wanted?

The girl is young,

And she is beautiful,

And the old woman feels a stab of jealousy,

A self-consciousness of her own huddled form,

This sharp feeling she's never felt before stabbing at her cold and hard just beneath her belly button.

But it quickly passes when the girl begins to speak.

And she sees this girl is innocent to the world,

And she needs her help just as much as the woman could use hers.

And so an arrangement is made.

The girl shall come to the hall beneath the mountain,

And she will live with her.

She will help her with her tasks,

And the old woman will train her in the ways of being a woman of winter,

A mother of the world,

A force of nature.

The girl's name is Brida,

And her spirit is fierce.

She is perfect for the job.

She is kind and willing and uncomplaining no matter what tasks the old woman sets her.

She works hard,

Day by day,

And the woman watches,

And the woman teaches,

Bestowing upon her her wisdom piece by piece,

Slowly but surely.

And strangely,

As the girl's strength and confidence grows,

Her own begins to seep from her,

Weakening her all the more.

This she is wary of.

She does not like what is happening,

And yet she cannot blame this sweet,

Beautiful girl who is full of warmth and laughter and adoration of her.

Some days the woman loves this girl like a daughter,

And they sit together chatting,

The girl stroking the old woman's hair or massaging her cold,

Aching feet.

But other days the woman speaks harshly to her,

Brushing her away,

Frustrated,

Feeling some sort of inexplicable injustice she can't understand.

And so it was on one of these days that she decided to give the girl an impossible task,

A test of character,

She thinks.

She sends her off,

Speaking to her brusquely,

Telling her to go and wash this mandrel that is the color of dung until it is white once more.

But the girl does not know it has never been white.

She does not know this is an impossible task.

And so she goes to the lake,

And she washes,

And she washes,

And she washes,

And she washes,

Until her hands are blue,

Until her fingers are wrinkled,

Her teeth are chattering,

And yet the color of dung it remains.

It is almost nightfall,

The light dimming,

The cold seeping into her,

And the girl is disappointed in herself.

She has done every other task the woman has given her perfectly.

She has worked so hard for her approval,

And she cannot,

She must not return until this work is done.

And yet,

It seems impossible.

In despair,

She sits down by the lake,

And she begins to cry,

Wet tears of frustration and shame,

Until an old man appears beside her out of nowhere.

With a beard of white and a cloak of velvet,

He sees her crying,

And he takes a mantle of white from his bag and exchanges it with the brown-soaked fabric she has been washing.

And then he smiles at her,

And hands her a beautiful fragile white flower,

Like a teardrop hanging from a stem of green.

And with a glint in his eye,

He tells her to bring this to the old woman for him,

And then quietly,

With only the crunching of the snow beneath his feet to be heard,

He walks back into the white,

As the light of the rising moon drips over the landscape.

And the girl is overjoyed,

For now she will return with the soft mantle of white,

And the woman will be so pleased with her.

She skips back to the mountain hall,

She cries out to the woman,

I did it,

I did it!

Oh,

I do hope you will be pleased.

Beaming,

She thrusts it into the woman's hands,

And the woman's mouth hangs open,

Gaping.

She is speechless,

How could this be?

But when the girl holds out this beautiful,

Delicate white snowdrop in her soft pale hands,

The girl does not understand when she is met with a scowl and a slap and a piercing shriek,

Go,

Go,

I do not want to see your face again this day!

For the woman knows that her reign is almost over.

The woman knows the time has come.

With this one,

Tiny flower,

She sees her demise,

And she realizes in that moment that it has never been her choice as to when she will step down as queen of this land of frost and ice,

But rather,

That father time will ruin it all for her in the end.

With this one,

Tiny,

Fragile white flower,

It has all come undone in an instant.

The despair that takes over her saps her bones of their remaining warmth,

And she uses what strength she has left to crawl out from beneath the mountain.

She crawls down through glen and valley,

And then up to the top of a hill,

Where a well of sweet waters she used to drink has always flowed fast and clear,

But the well has gone dry.

She is parched,

She is so weary,

And she drags herself to a cliff overlooking the sea.

Oh,

She did not think it would end like this,

But the snowdrop,

Her spirit sapped of hope and life,

She lies down,

Oh,

So weary.

A bone-deep weariness aches and spreads from the tips of her frozen toes to her fingers and nose,

Her old body so heavy and tired now she can hardly move.

So tired,

So very tired,

She slumps to the ground,

And a deep sleep takes over her now,

And she sleeps,

And she sleeps.

For soon spring will come to this land,

Soon Brida will be its queen,

Soon the ice and the snow will recede,

Taken by time,

Green spreading out over it as new life is created,

Bounty and abundance in all the colors you could possibly imagine spreading out across those once desolate stones,

Those harsh mountains and bare cliffs,

And as new life takes over,

The form of the old woman will slowly turn to stone as she lies looking out at the sea,

Forlorn,

Taken by time,

No promise of youth restored.

But perhaps she will return in another form.

Perhaps this is not the end of her story just yet,

But for now,

My friends,

We must leave her to rest with a promise that there will be a story for another day,

Another year,

Another time.

And that,

My friends,

Is one of the many stories of the Kaliakh,

The old woman of winter.

So just bringing your attention now as you let the images of the story fade away,

And all that you have learned in this episode,

Just letting it all float away,

Clearing your mind of any thoughts,

And just allowing the feeling of a cool breeze to blow those thoughts away.

Bringing your attention to your breath now.

With each exhale,

Just allowing the space of your brain and your mind to be cleared.

Noticing the weight of your body,

Bringing your attention down to your neck,

Down to your shoulders,

Down your spine,

Down into your hips,

Your womb space,

Down through your legs,

Down through your knees,

Your ankles,

The tops of your feet,

And the soles of your feet.

Feeling the earth beneath you,

As it holds you in whatever form it is.

Form whatever texture or feeling is beneath you,

Whether that's the earth directly or the softness of a bed,

A couch.

Just going down through that softness into the crystal layer beneath the soil,

Beneath the rock.

Imagining a beautiful crystal cave beneath you,

That you are traveling and sinking down into.

This cave of crystal quartz glistening beneath the mountain.

You feel the warmth of this space.

Knowing that the mantle,

The core,

The center of the earth is glowing and hot.

And you feel that heat being transmitted to you through your own heart.

Wrapped warm in blankets and coziness,

Feeling the warmth of the fire nearby.

You're in this cave,

Surrounded by softness.

Beneath you,

The softest of feather duvets.

The most comfortable place you could possibly imagine.

Made even more comfortable knowing that outside the mountain,

The wind is whipping.

And the snow is coming down in blanket upon blanket.

So cold,

The whole world is icing over.

Freezing.

Slowing.

Time stopping.

Knowing that this is going on outside brings you comfort in this crystal cave of softness.

And so you begin to feel sleepy.

Your body begins to feel heavier.

Each limb sinking into the softness.

Your eyelids begin to get heavier.

Your head begins to get heavier.

You feel safe and held in this space.

The glistening of the crystal shining through your eyelids.

Your body begins to dissolve into dreaming.

Resting.

Now is the time to dream.

Knowing you are safe.

You are held.

Knowing that you are watched over.

There,

Weaving her own stories into your dreams.

Or simply holding the space softly for them.

Holding the blizzard above in harmony with the quiet of your internal world.

What is it that you dream of?

What do you see?

What messages are there for you?

Now I will allow you some time within this space,

Within this quiet,

To just listen.

And see what you have not allowed yourself to see.

Your dream begins to come to a close.

You feel your body heavy,

Beginning to wake up.

Perhaps you'd like to just stay here in this warm and safe place.

And if you do choose to stay,

You are welcome.

You are watched over.

You are protected until you decide to return.

And if you'd like to leave the space and come back to the world above,

I invite you to slowly begin to wiggle your fingers and toes.

Noticing the softness behind you,

The warmth within you.

Noticing your breath.

Noticing any sensations in your body.

Any changes that have taken place.

When you are ready,

I invite you to travel back up through the mountain.

Up through the layer of crystal.

Back to the earth above.

Back into your body.

Slowly returning and opening your eyes.

Holding the dreams within you.

The visions that you received from the Kaliak.

The warmth that will stay with you through the winter.