Lá Fhéile Bríde

by Sheila Connolly (or maybe today it's Sile ni Conghaile)

Tá lá atá inniu ann lá Bhríde. Today is the feast day of St. Brigid of Ireland.  She's the female counterpart of St. Patrick, but she gets far less publicity, at least outside of Ireland. People don't go out and over-imbibe green beer in local pubs to honor her.  More likely, they'd drink milk, since she was a dairy-woman in her early life—and the saint you'd appeal to if you want your cows to produce a lot of milk.

It's great fun to read the online descriptions of St. Brigid, because they're all over the place.  The serious Catholic ones give us one story:

She was born sometime in the mid-fifth century to a pagan father (Dubthach) and a Christian slave mother (Briocsech) and was contemporary with St. Patrick. Dad's wife thought maybe Brigid's mother was a bit too tempting, so she had her sold along with Brigid, but with the promise that the daughter would be sent back to dear old Dad sometime later.  When Brigid was ten, she joined him, and he put her in charge of the dairy, but she insisted on giving most of the milk away (seems she kept giving lots of stuff away).  Dad then handed her to Dunlag, King of Leinster, who when he handed her back ten years later, told Dad to free her, which he did.

Brigid went on to found the first religious community for women in Ireland, on land given to her at Kildare by the same King Dunlag (there is still a Cathedral church of St. Brigid on the site, although it dates from the early 13th century), which flourished, and led to the establishment of many others all over Ireland. The convent became one of the greatest centers of learning in Europe, no doubt assisted by the school of art (which in those days meant illuminating manuscripts) that she also created. It should be no surprise that she is the patron saint of scholars. When she died, she was buried with St. Patrick (except for her head, which for some reason is in Portugal). Not too shabby for a poor peasant girl.

But if you choose to take a less mainstream religious view: 

Another source says she "became a vestal virgin in service to the Brid, goddess of fire, and eventually she ended up the high priestess at the pagan sanctuary of Kil Dara, built from oak, which was sacred to the Druids, but somewhere in there she converted to Christianity. However, over the centuries Brigid kind of got muddled with the pagan fire goddess Brid, and the pagan holiday Imbolc got folded into a Christian holiday, and they both marked the beginning of spring.  Time for feasting (eat a lot of milk and butter!).  Light candles or fires.  Hang those rush crosses (known as St. Brigid's crosses) over your doors and windows to protect your house from fire and lightening. 

On one of my trips to Ireland, over a decade ago, a friend and I found ourselves visiting a Brigidine nunnery (yes, they still exist, more than 1,500 years after Brigid set up the first one).  It was an unforgettable experience.  Most of the nuns were elderly, with few young replacements coming along.  They were unspeakably thrilled to have visitors, and after giving us a full tour of the building where they lived, including their archives, they insisted we stay for tea and cakes and bread and jam, and then a group of them clustered around to watch us eat. It should be no surprise that I'm incorporating part of this in a book.

But Brigid makes a good role model, whichever way you look at her.  Reading between the lines, she was determined, she knew her own mind, she took a broad view of things, and she got things done. Smart woman!

My first book set in Ireland, Buried in a Bog, comes out next week.  Naomh Bríd, beannaigh mo leabhar.

It's a Holiday

by Sheila Connolly

(Hey, you're supposed to be having a lovely time celebrating with family and friends–what are you doing here? But thanks for stopping by.)


Once upon a time, Christmas was a religious holiday. That didn't mean a lot to me when I was growing up. I had a rather sketchy religious upbringing: my father was Catholic, my mother a nominal Episcopalian, and nobody attended any services (they were married in both churches, to keep his parents happy). Neither was very concerned about passing on their convictions, such as they were, to my sister and me. In my formative early years, I attended a Quaker school, which muddled things even more. So I never had the Sunday school, drag-to-early-service experience.

Which makes it all the more odd that in graduate school I found myself studying medieval art history, and that meant churches. Not just any churches, but the grand cathedrals of Europe, where the builders strove to reach the sky, dissolve the walls, and fill the soaring space with literal and figurative light. Or if you want to take an opposing view, the rich patrons sought to erect large and ostentatious monuments in order to impress their friends and foes and buy their way into heaven. Whatever the impetus, the results are undeniably magnificent.


In any case, I have probably been in more Catholic churches in my life than most Catholics, from St. Peter's in Rome on down to the tiny "chapel of ease" where my Irish great-grandparents worshipped.


Obviously for me Christmas was a largely secular holiday, distinguished by presents and food. My parents and my grandmother were indulgent, so there were many presents. There was also much food, as my grandmother would arrive from New York bearing baskets of absurdly large fruits, bags of nuts in the shell, packages of dried dates, and of course, cookies and candies. It seems quaint now, when foods from all over the globe are available in local supermarkets, but back then it was a big deal.


For my husband and me, most of our families are gone now, and our siblings live in states sufficiently distant that it's not easy to get together. Every year I honor my own family holiday history by retrieving the tarnished blown-glass ornaments from the attic and hanging them on the tree, reminding myself of where they came from and when I first remember them. My husband brought none with him to the marriage, and can't even remember any family tree traditions, although of course we've added plenty since we've been together. I even cherish the plastic Joe Montana that my sister sent me one year (we lived in the Bay Area during the 49ers' glory years).


Even though I may not call myself religious, I still feel a compulsion to celebrate something at this time of year. Whatever organized religion may tell us, December is still the time of the solstice, when the days begin, imperceptibly, to grow longer again. I've been lucky to visit Stonehenge and a number of other stone circles, large and small, and it's humbling that those ancient, pre-literate cultures knew that there was something magical about the solstice, and built their own monuments to celebrate it. Organized religion just borrowed from them.


We believe that the sun will return, crops will grow, and life will go on. That's worth celebrating no matter what you label it. Happy holidays, whatever you choose to call them!