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Celtic myth tells of the Oran Mor, the Great Song of Creation that upholds life itself. I remember my sense of wonder and excitement when I first stumbled across this concept in The Mist Filled Path, written by Scottish/Irish/American shaman Frank MacEowen. I began an immediate quest to discover more, but internet searches produced very little information, and as there were no books available relating only to the Great Song, I concluded that perhaps information had been passed down verbally by Bards, slowly receding into the mist as Christianity became more established in the British Isles. Each time I mention the Oran Mor to someone else, they too become energised and enthusiastic, as if they sense the magic reawakening. Click the Feminism and Religion image below to read the full article  On Halloween/Samhuin/All Saints we light candles and lanterns to remember and honour the ancestors.  This bright Supermoon brought a memory of my grandmother. It was a strange sensation, as though she were in the room washing over me in a wave of affection. The memories of her smile, whenever I shared my dreams and secrets, brought with them a warm glow, enhancing that feeling of security since she always cared for me as a child. She was my rock in the often-stormy sea of my parents’ problems. From Feminism and Religion magazine
A large convenient stone, rising from the shimmering sand, bathed in a metallic rosy glow from the rays of late afternoon sunshine, offered me a seat for comfortable strumming, and sitting down upon it, I let my voice flow into the words of the Mingulay Boat Song. Then the most amazing thing happened, as though the music had pushed a door open, sending me into a mythical landscape of music and magic. Several grey seals basking on a large rock in the sea began sliding into the water, bobbing up and down in the waves, throwing their heads back to sing to the sky, in high pitched voices, ethereal as mermaids, a haunting, lilting song of the wild world. I wanted to leap into the water and swim beside them, but the voice of common sense inherited from my mother intervened, advising me that since I was alone and knew nothing of these waters, then there would be no one to help me if I got into trouble. Did I play too safe or not? I will never know, but what I do understand is how in that moment of enchantment, my heart awakened to the mysteries of the unconscious, to the deep feeling dreamscapes of my wild self, and the wisdom of the feminine, at a young time of life, when the moon was still in its first quarter. Here was a rite of passage, the beginning of a quest which has shaped my path of life right into the creative elder years I am enjoying today... Excerpt from the Summer 2023 edition of Pagan Ireland.
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Iona Jenkins
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