Pagan Holy Wells in Catholic Tradition

            It is no secret to anyone who has even a basic knowledge of Celtic history that Catholicism, when it reached Brittany, Cornwall, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, did not so much replace Pagan beliefs as superimpose itself over them.  Robert Scheer states, in an article published in the online magazine New Age Travel, that:

“Pagan worship was not actually destroyed by Christianity, but rather was overshadowed by it… Christian chapels were built over pagan holy wells and springs.” 

The same can be said for many holy sites in lands populated by people of Celtic descent.  Standing stones on the Island of Iona were carved with crosses.  The historic St. Mary’s Church was built within view of the even older ruins of a temple of Nodens-Nuada in Lydney, Gloucestershire, England.

            Perhaps one of the most interesting forms of Catholic adoption of Celtic Pagan aspects is that of holy wells.  There are hundreds of holy wells across the United Kingdom and Ireland– many of which are frequented by Catholics today and most of which were originally Pagan holy sites.

            That, however, is not what makes these wells interesting.  There are multitudes of holy wells around the world, many of which have been adopted by Catholics and dedicated to saints.  No, what is truly fascinating about these wells is the fact that Pagan ideas and practices concerning the wells have been adopted along with the locations.

            According to Holy Wells Sligo, a website maintained by St. John’s Parish in Sligo, Ireland, the Tobernalt Holy Well was originally a Pagan site.  Every year on the last Sunday in July parishioners celebrate Garland Sunday at the well.  The web page admits that this is a Christian version of two Pagan traditions– Lughnasa, which is celebrated by Pagans on August 1, and Domhnach Crom Dubh, which is celebrated by some Pagans shortly thereafter.  Even the idea of Garland Sunday has its roots in Pagan traditions.  According to Holy Wells Sligo, at one time unmarried women made garlands of vines, flowers and apples, which were then carried by unmarried men and women to the nearest burial place.  If an apple fell from the garlands on the way there, it was an ill omen for those carrying it because apples often represented love, fertility, and the goddess.  Once the parade reached the burial ground, they broke apart the garlands and scattered them on the graves while weeping and keening.  After they returned from the burial ground, there was dancing, feasting and merrymaking.  Although Garlands are no longer typically carried, Garland Sunday is still a day for visiting holy spots.  In fact, it is the official day of pilgrimage for Irish Catholics.

            Another Pagan tradition adopted at Tobernalt, as well as many other holy wells, is that of tying ribbons and small offerings to trees near holy wells.  Tying prayer ribbons to trees is a tradition that is still practiced by Pagans today.  (In fact, according to the magazine Blue World Gardener, the Pagan tradition of tying ribbons to trees is the basis for the modern tradition of decorating Christmas trees.)  The practice is still very much alive among Catholics who visit holy wells in Ireland and the U.K.  Ribbons, rosaries, and small offerings are tied to trees near holy wells, such as Tobernalt, in reverence of the saints who have all but replaced the Pagan deities once worshiped there.

Offerings tied to a tree near a holy well is Sligo, Ireland

Experiencing Catholocism

            Typically, any sort of commutation that is begun with a phrase like: “a Pagan and an Agnostic walked into a Catholic church,” might be expected to end with some sort of tasteless religious joke.  In this case, however, it is merely a statement of fact.  Recently a Syncretistic Pagan (myself) and an Agnostic (my sister) actually did enter the cathedral of St. John Vianney Catholic Church in Lithia Springs, Georgia.

            The first thing I felt, before even entering the building, was acute nervousness.  This was only to be expected, I suppose, as no human being enjoys walking into a large group of strangers with the foreknowledge that he or she is very different from anyone else present.  I was terrified that I would accidentally offend the congregation– something that would oppose my principles of open-minded tolerance and empathic respect– and I was equally worried that someone would realize that I was a not Catholic, not conservative, and not a conformist.  I insisted to myself that these ideas were stereotypes– I don’t doubt that there are plenty of liberal, free-spirited Catholics in the world– and reminded myself that if I wanted an example of a progressive Catholic that followed her heart rather than following the rules, I needed to look no further than Mother Theresa.   Nonetheless, the concern remained.  (For the sake of fairness, I should mention that I attended a Christian high school, and was badly ostracized there, so my fears were not entirely unfounded.)

I admit that I had prepared myself by questioning my younger sister’s boyfriend, who was raised in a Catholic household, and by dressing myself more conservatively than I typically would have.  I felt it was only polite to try to follow Catholic customs as closely as I could, but nonetheless I almost laughed when I saw myself.  Catching a glimpse of my unfamiliar ensemble in a car’s side mirror as I transversed the parking lot, I realized that the cliché had just gotten worse.  I was now an incognito Pagan walking into a Catholic church.

            Having been raised in a Baptist church, I found some aspects of the Catholic chapel to be familiar, and that comforted me a great deal.  The outer doors opened to reveal the same sort of formally-decorated vestibule that is common to Baptist churches.  Respectable looking old men stood just inside, handing out paper programs detailing the planned church service, just as would have been done in my childhood church.  The organ notes of a vaguely familiar hymn drifted out of the opened sanctuary doors.

            There were quite a few differences, however.  Upon entering the sanctuary, members of the congregation crossed themselves with holy water.  I silently blessed my sister’s boyfriend for explaining how I should cross myself.  There was a large crucifix hanging behind the pulpit, along with smaller statues of Mary and a saint– whom I assumed to be Saint John Vianney– in the front corners.  My sister and I took an empty pew in the back, where we felt unobtrusive, and found a couple of nearby hymnals just as a procession walked through the door.  There were a few alter boys, a priest, and two other men who appeared to be his direct subordinates.  (They may have been ordinans or simply lower-ranking priests.)  This procession was very familiar to my Pagan understanding, and incense, processions, and ritualistic entries and exits are fairly common.  The priest greeted the congregation formally, much as a Pagan priest or priestess might, though the words were, of course, different.  The congregation answered back with ritual words, just as a Pagan gathering would. 

I was surprised that some of the hymns were in Latin, which gave my sister hope that a part of the service might be in Latin as well.  I felt a little queasy.  I had purposefully ensured that this church would have their service in English for fear that I might misinterpret something when my sister asked.  (She, of course, had wanted to find a traditional chapel downtown so that she pester me for translations and see if I could actually manage it.)  I was glad I at least spoke the language well enough to understand most of the hymns, and was thrilled when the priest began the first prayer in my own native tongue.  Everyone kneeled as he invited us to pray– something I was not used to– and my sister and I realized why our pew had been empty.  Most pews had been fitted with little cushioned, folding metal stools, so that church goers could pray more comfortably.  Ours pew, however, had not been so lucky, and the industrial carpet did little to soften the hard, cold floor.

            The prayers may have been quite different from my old church, the time of fellowship was much the same, except that individuals said: “Peace be with you,” each time they shook one another’s hands.  (Once again I was quietly grateful to my sister’s boyfriend as I repeated the proper phrase over and over.)

                        There were several more prayers, hymns, and repetitions of ceremonial phrases.  At last the father stood at the pulpit and read from his Bible.  The congregation responded with an appropriate hymn, and the priest read some more.  There was one more song before he delivered a sermon very similar to one that I might expect to hear in the Baptist church I was raised in.  After that, communion was given– which thrilled my sister until I reminded her that our “inside informant” had said that we couldn’t take communion since we weren’t Catholic.  She did, however, get in line and cross her arms, as our sister’s boyfriend had instructed, and received a blessing.  Then the offering plates were passed in a very similar manner– though the men passing them wore robes rather than plain suits.  There were more songs, more prayers, and then the service was ended.  I remembered to cross myself with holy water on my way out.

            Odd, how so much of the experience wasn’t so strange and nerve-racking as I thought it might be.

Pretty Lies: TV Housewives of the '50s

            The next time you see your friends, try this little trick.  Tell them: “I want you to touch your finger to your chin– like this.”  As you speak, touch your forefinger to your cheek.  Watch your acquaintances to see what they do, and I guarantee that, ninety percent of the time, they will touch their cheek rather than their chin.

            The fact is that we emulate what we see, not what we hear.

            Any good parent can tell you that this is true.  There have even been articles concerning behavioral psychology that have come to the same conclusions.  It’s an undebatable fact that the phrase “Do as I say, not as I do,” is an empty and useless expression.

            Given humanity’s predisposition to learn by observation, is it any wonder that we are powerfully influenced by what we see on television?  The portrayals of race, gender, and class broadcast across the country greatly influence how we view reality, and this influence has, in some cases, helped to mask or even cause social issues.
           Television families have been America’s measuring stick for what it “normal” and “real” for decades.  This is not to say that we believe these fictional families actually are real, or that we think they accurately portray actual reality, but rather the fact is that we feel these TV households are an entertaining commentary on what is real.  They might be more perfect, more interesting, more dramatic or more farcical than the truth, but we perceive them as being based either on what is or what should be.

            Take, for example, the role of women in the household in 1950’s programming.  June Cleaver personified the perfect mid-twentieth-century television housewife.  She always looked immaculate, she never frowned or became angry, she was too incompetent to do practical things like driving a car, and she got a huge kick out of cleaning, laundering and cooking.  To see June at work, one would think that life as a wife and mother in the 1950’s was heaven on earth. 
            The reality is that housewives in booming suburban America were isolated, stressed and bored out of their minds.  As families moved out of close-knit city neighborhoods and into new suburbs, women found themselves cut off not only from old friends, but also from shops, parks, libraries and such.  In an era when families only owned one car, which was used by husbands to commute to work, and bus lines rarely serviced suburbs except to bring men to and from jobs, housewives were stranded in the midst of sprawling residential wastelands with little access to the outside world.  They had nothing to entertain themselves with other than housework, and shirts can only be ironed so many times.  As women were not expected to take particular interest in things like history, politics, economics and foreign affairs, there was little of substance to occupy minds and conversations.  A housewife’s only friends were usually other housewives in the same suburbs who, like everyone else, had nothing to talk about besides laundry, children, and gardening.  It must have been a lonely existence.

            Nonetheless, TV mothers like June Cleaver were held aloft as the role models for housewives everywhere.  This is how women were supposed to act.  This is how life was supposed to be.  Indeed, these characters were often aimed at women.  It was common at that time for characters and TV personalities to advertise sponsors’ products during the show, and whether by accident or design, the message was sent to women that these products, or the lack thereof, was what separated them from the contented, picture-perfect ladies on the screen.

Hello, My Name is Career: The American Search for Self in the Professional World

            I have always known I wanted to be a writer.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  As a very young child I wanted to be an artist.  I can still remember standing at a child-sized easel in three-year-old preschool, covering a large sheet of paper with clumsy streaks of primary colors and imagining I was a great painter creating another wonderful masterpiece.  Then I discovered the written words, and found my true love.  Books!  What glorious, magical things they were!  And to think that I could become one of the people whose thoughts were turned into pages!  To think I could be the one to bring a book to life!

            In kindergarten I taught myself to spell new words so that I could write books about them.  (I distinctly remember using a fairytale-themed alphabet border, which ran along the classroom wall, to teach myself “unicorn,” “dragon,” and “castle.”  I couldn’t spell more ordinary things like “said” correctly, writing “sayed” instead, but, being only five years old, I felt that mythical creatures were more important that little things like verbs.)  I wrote stories for every writing assignment, regardless of what that assignment was.  I quickly became an expert at finding ways to connect writing prompts like “summer vacation” and “my best friend” with fictional plots.  After all, the unicorn queen had to take a vacation sometime, didn’t she?  And no one had said my best friend couldn’t be an imaginary friend.

            So let us say that I knew I wanted to be a writer from a very early age.  It’s a good thing, too.  In my freshman year of college I watched many fellow students scrambling, suddenly realizing that high school was over and that they were expected to have bigger goals than being crowned prom queen.  The race was on for these suddenly disenchanted young adults to decide what they wanted to do with their lives.  Some had some idea, some had none at all.  A few, like me, had always known.

            “It must be hard,” one of these, a friend and fellow English major, said to me.  “I can’t imagine it.  Think about it, it isn’t like you’re just choosing a job, it’s more like you’re choosing who you are.  I can’t imagine having only a year or two to make that decision.”

            I confess I had never thought of things that way, but I realized she was, to an extent, quite right.  In America, and I suppose in much of the rest of the modern world, a person’s career is a large part of their social identity.  When two people are introduced, one of the first questions that usually arises is: “so, what do you do?”  The answer, I have noticed over the years, varies depending on whether the proverbial collar around one’s metaphorical neck is blue or white.  Non-professionals are more likely to keep their job and identity separate, and will respond with something like: “Oh, I work in retail.”  A professional, however, will say something such as: “I am a lawyer.”  Not “I work as a lawyer,” but “I am a lawyer.”

            Professionals have a lot invested in their careers.  Even as a mere undergraduate student I find this to be obvious.  By the time a professional enters the work force, he or she has already spent a great deal of time and money pursuing his or her chosen career.  The degree which states that this person has been sufficiently educated to fulfill a particular position in society represents a great commitment on the part of the professional.  This is not only because of the commitment necessary to earn the degree, but because of the commitment imposed by the degree.  A pediatrician cannot one day decide he would rather be dentist, or an architect, or a museum curator.  It doesn’t work that way.  His degree says he is a pediatrician, and he cannot change that without returning to school and obtaining another diploma.  Similarly, that pediatrician fills a role in society that cannot be filled by any other professional.  His friends and family– those that accept him on the first level of socialization– may know him as good ol’ Danny, who loves fishing, live theater, dogs and chocolate pound cake, but as far as the rest of the society is concerned, he is Mr. Pediatrician.

            It is, perhaps, only natural that a professional’s career becomes a part of who he or she is.  Such careers are purposefully chosen because, for one reason or another, the individual wanted to become a professional in that field.  Nonetheless, it can sometimes be hard to balance identity, or perhaps I should say pre-career identity, with one’s profession.

            In Neil Gaiman’s humorous fantasy novel, Stardust, which was later produced as a feature film, Captain Shakespeare, an infamous pirate, is revealed to be a likeable, flamboyant, and good natured cross-dresser.  This is extremely funny to both readers and audiences– partly because of the character’s ostentatious actions, but also largely because of the disconnection between his profession and his self-identity.  Society has a particular perception of what a pirate is, and that perception does not include someone who dresses in frilly ladies’ undergarments and dances the can-can.

            This example is both fictional and hilariously extreme, but it makes the point.  For a professional, career and identity are inevitably connected.  Forget being what you eat, you are what you do.  Perhaps the only way to maintain our identity, or at least to partially reconcile who we are with who society thinks we ought to be, is to choose our professions carefully.  It is not something that should be chosen on a whim, or based solely on potential income.  It is something that should be based on our love for the thing, and on our personalities.

            As I said, I’ve always known I wanted to be a writer.  It’s a good thing, too.

Suburbia: Selling a Dream

            We have all heard of the American Dream– the ideal that the economic and social equality of America offers everyone a chance for prosperity and happiness– and we are all aware of its connection with the suburbs.  The suburbs are America’s mythical Place Between Places, where the convenience of city dwelling meets the wholesome pleasure of rural life.  These are places that were based on dreams– such as the Rural Ideal– and could in fact be argued to be dreams themselves.  The Rural Ideal is, according to an article written by Larry D. Barnette for the Journal of Biosocial Science: “… the strong desire to live in areas of low population density and close to nature.”  It is an idea largely based on pastoral beliefs prominent in American society.  Consider this: When is the last time you saw a commercial advertising laundry soap or children’s vitamins that centered around a happy, healthy inner-city family?  Chances are, you’ve never seen such a thing in your life.  If a commercial wishes to project an image of a wholesome, family-friendly product, it is likely to be set in a rural or suburban home.  It may display images of children gallivanting through a green meadow or freshly washed clothes blowing on a clothesline, but it will not involve kids playing in an apartment while their mother tosses the laundry into the dryer.

            This is all part of the dream of suburbia– an ideal family life that many Americans chase throughout much of their adulthoods.  When Americans buy mini-mansions in manicured neighbourhoods, it is a dream that is sold to them, not merely a house.  The suburbs are thought to be a place for families, and a place where wholesomeness and happiness are supposedly easier to come by.

            Nothing I have said thus far is surprising, but what I write now may be.  I will admit to experiencing a certain amount of shock when I discovered how long suburbs had existed.  In the 1850’s architects began designing a new sort of dwelling– “picturesque enclaves.”  The word picturesque needs no explanation, but the word enclave may be unfamiliar to some.  It is defined in Merriam Webster’s dictionary as “a distinct territorial, cultural, or social unit enclosed within or as if within foreign territory.”  The term could be applied to many suburban neighborhoods today, as they are walled communities with internal social structures and rules.  The enclaves of the mid-nineteenth century were similar to suburbs in another way as well.  In her book Building Suburbia Delores Hayden describes these Picturesque Enclaves as being “borderlands” between cities and rural areas, which supposedly gave residents the best of both worlds.  They were refined and fashionable like city dwellings, but provided landscaped gardens and little yards which gave the illusion of being closer to nature.  Anyone who has ever seen a modern upscale suburban neighborhood will likely agree that this all sounds very familiar.  In fact, Hayden asserts that these enclaves were, indeed, the predecessors of modern suburbs.

            Perhaps it is merely human nature to chase unattainable perfection, or perhaps our society has long demanded that we try to balance the natural existence we crave with the necessary modern reality of city life.  Perhaps variations on the suburban dream have existed since the first cities were built.  I cannot be certain, but I am sure that as long as there are young families in America, people will keep seeking the “perfect suburb” as they chase the suburban dream.

Heart Homes: Place as a State of Mind

            Jack Weil, entrepreneur and owner of Rockmont Ranch Wear, said: “The west is not a place; it is a state of mind.”  He was right, of course.  Anyone experiencing the wonder of the Garden of the Gods or the stunning beauty of the Rocky Mountains will undoubtedly agree that there is something undeniably unique about the American West. 

            Mr. Weil’s mistake was not in his statement itself, but in his limiting it to the West alone.  There are many places that become a state of mind when one spends time in them.  There are many places that get under the skin and slip into the psyche, making themselves at home and forever changing the outlook of their bearer.  Yes, the American West, from Yosemite to the Bad Lands, has the capacity to invade one’s soul and make itself a permanent part of them, but it is not alone in that aptitude.

            In his book The Gary Snyder Reader: Poetry, Prose and Translations, philosopher and naturalist Gary Snyder remarked: "But if you do know what is taught by plants and weather, you are in on the gossip and can feel truly at home.  The sum of a field's forces [become] what we call very loosely the ‘spirit of the place.’  To know the spirit of a place is to realize that you are a part of a part and that the whole is made or parts, each of which in a whole.  You start with the part you are whole in."

            Novelist Charles de Lint calls this “part you are whole in” a Heart Home– a very accurate term, when one considers the human tendency to prefer one landscape over another.  (Some people prefer mountains to beaches while others are the opposite.  Some find the greatest inner peace amid sun-bathed plateaus while others find it deep in sheltering forests.)  This is not to say that an individual cannot appreciate the awe-inspiring loveliness of multiple natural landscapes, but, as Gary Snyder suggests, most have a true love among the treasures of the natural world.

            And each of these landscapes can be said to be a state of mind.  Let us play a theoretical matching game.  Let’s say that you have before you six photographs.  On the left-hand side are three pictures of three individuals.  The first is dressed in fitted jeans, calf-high, pointed-toed boots made of hardened snakeskin, a practical button-down shirt and a wide-brimmed Stetson hat.  The second is dressed in somewhat looser jeans, a khaki-green t-shirt, and a worn brown leather jacket.  This person is also wearing boots, but these are made of a water-proofed canvas-like material and lace up past his ankles.  The third person is wearing outdoor khaki pants, a light-weight shirt, sun-glasses and sneaker-like slip-on shoes.

            On your right-hand side are three pictures of natural landscapes. The first is a photograph of Cloudland Canyon.  Forest trees stand sentinel near the mossy bed of a mountain stream.  They dip their woody toes into the flow, casting green tree-shadows across the water as it bounds along its stony course.  In the background a waterfall tumbles from a rocky height.  The sky winks cool blue eyes through woodland branches.  The next picture captures a view of Cumberland Island.  A white, sandy beach stretches up from grey-blue Georgia coast waters.  Like a continuation of the sea, the sand rises into dunes– motionless tides that break against banks of grassy hills.  Driftwood curves into graceful, statuesque forms.  Behind that a beautiful tangle of live oaks rises to form a dream-like maze beneath an azure sky.  The final picture is an image of the Garden of the Gods in Colorado.  Sandstone cliffs and plateaus soar and twist into fantastical shapes.  Sunset dyes stony faces rosy-orange and casts a patchwork of vibrant color and dusky shadows on the rough, scrubby ground.  The painted sky seems to stretch one forever.

            Now, I would like you to guess which person matches which landscape. 

Even without actual photographs, most readers would doubtlessly be able to complete this task easily.  Any American person would be likely to associate these three people with a particular type of place.

Why?  The theoretical photographs of the three people could easily have been taken at a shopping center or on a college campus.  I think most people living in the American South can recall having seen individuals in similar clothing as that described above walking down average sidewalks or through normal hallways.  So what associates these people with a particular landscape?

The answer is simple.  They have, to one extent or another, connected themselves with the state of mind that is a particular place.  The way in which they have chosen to present themselves to society is a reflection of who they feel they are, or perhaps who they want to be.  This is an indicator of certain landscape– or maybe even the idealistic notion of that landscape– has wound its way into them and made itself a part of their self-perception.  A place or certain sort of place has become the setting in which each individual person feels whole.  In essence, it has become their Heart Home.

How the Railroad Built the American West

Bring in the workers and bring up the rails
We've gotta lay down the tracks and tear up the trails
Open her heart, let the lifeblood flow
Gotta get on our way 'cause we're moving too slow

            ~Gordon Lightfoot, Canadian Railroad Trilogy

            The railroad built modern America, especially the American West.  It was, in many ways, the greatest reason why the West was lost and won.  Don’t believe me?  Well, then, consider this: You’re fresh out of college and you’ve been offered two jobs– unlikely in this economy, I know, but let’s imagine it’s happened anyway.  One job is more lucrative, and offers seemingly limitless opportunities for anyone willing to put in the work.  This position, however, is in… Oh, let’s just say it’s on Fire Island, New York.  It’s a tempting employment opportunity, but, as there are no cars allowed on the island, you’ll have to walk.  And the ferry drop off is on the opposite side of the island from your potential place of employment.  That means that to reach your destination, you’ll have to walk twenty-one miles.  As is the case with most islands, shopping and entertainment options are limited.  To get to the mainland, however, you'll have to hike back to the distant ferry landing. 
            The other position is in a nearby city, with plenty of modern comforts and unrestricted automobile use.  This position, however, doesn’t pay very well, and offers little or no chance for advancement.  In fact, this position is terrible, and about the best you can say about it is that it’s a job.

            Now, which of these two employment opportunities do you think you’ll take?

            Most of us would agree that this is a tough decision.  What if you whimp out, don’t go to Fire Island, and later discover that the golden opportunity of a lifetime has passed you by?  On the other hand, what if you get to Fire Island and discover you hate it?  It isn’t as if you can simply turn around and walk back on a whim.  Pondering this theoretical predicament may give you a slight inkling of what our ancestors might have felt like when they considered the choice to move west.

            Now, imagine that the state of New York decides to build a passenger train rail on Fire Island.  It’s not much– just a single train that runs back and forth four times a day– but it makes travel on the island far more efficient and far less difficult.  Getting from the ferry landing to your potential job now takes about half an hour rather than two days.  Even better, this train also carries cargo, so if you order something by mail or online, you no longer have to make a long trip to pick it up from the nearest post office.

            Your decision just got easier, didn’t it?

            The railroad had much the same effect on the American West.  In his September 2006 six article in Railway Age, William L. Withuhn meantions that railroads been popping up all over the country since the 1830’s.  Many of these were fairly local, however, traveling from city to city within a single state.  Once the construction of the Transcontinental Rail Line was complete, people and supplies were able to move between the savage west and the dignified east with speed and ease that had never before been seen.

            This drastically affected population.  A study of U.S. population history published by the Public Purpose gives some excellent examples.  San Antonio, California, for example, grew from a population of four-thousand in 1850 to sixty-nine-thousand in 1870– one year after the Transcontinental Railroad was completed.

            The railroads also offered employment in the young West, both directly– men were hired to work for the railroad– and indirectly– increased trade caused industries to grow, which created more jobs.  William L. Withuhn mentioned in his article that “railroads changed the logistics of industry.”  He goes on to say that, though the increase in freight could be argued to be a direct result of a growing American economy, it must be accepted that, with out the railroad, the transportation of goods never could have kept up, and the economy would have faltered.  Thanks to rail lines, the western United States not only became settled, but lucrative.

            So, one can argue endlessly about whether the West lost or won in the end, or about whether the white men who traveled west were settlers or invaders.  But this much is certain: without the railroad, it never could have occurred.