A Woman’s Labor, A God’s Festival
Remembering (and forgetting) the feminist critique
Before we explore the story of Tailtiu, Lugh, and the origins of the Lughnasa festival, one last reminder:
On August 1, in celebration of Lughnasa, we’re gathering for an online event called HARVEST: a half-day retreat for mythic-minded writers.
Through storytelling, writing, and conversation, we’ll reflect on our creative year so far and imagine what’s possible in the seasons to come.
I am inviting all Myth Is Medicine subscribers to join us for this event - it’s free with your paid subscription. (A $109 value!)
It’s my way of thanking you for your support of my work, including the KnotWork Storytelling podcast.
Not a paid member yet? This is the perfect time to upgrade your subscription!
Let’s begin here: I think Lugh is a wonderful fellow.
Lugh Samhildánach, the god of many skills, you’re worth the five pages that Dáithí Ó hÓgáin gave you in his encyclopaedia of Irish mythology. It’s simply wonderful that the first harvest festival of the Celtic year, which falls around the first of August, bears your name.
But still… Lugh, you and I, and countless students of Irish mythology know that you held this great festival in honor of your beloved Tailtiu, and we celebrate you for celebrating her.
Why did Lugh celebrate Tailtiu?
Well, you’ll have to listen to the latest episode of KnotWork Storytelling to hear the whole tale.
One last thing, Lugh, before I let you go to get on with your divine hero magic: we know it’s not your fault that, in this same classic reference book1, your foster mother isn’t mentioned in relationship to the celebration of Lughnasa.
That’s the omission of more modern scholars who came to the stories with their own perspectives and priorities.
The revered historian Ó hÓgáin mentions Tailtiu just once in his encyclopaedia. She appears in an entry on “goddesses,” in a paragraph that includes mentions of several other “otherworld ladies described as having been held in captivity.”
This might be the moment to add that there is not a corresponding entry about gods. And I am sure you understand that this is not because there are too few gods to mention in the Irish myths.
Oh, and this is when I need to tell you, dear reader, that, when I told my story of Tailtiu’s great sacrifice, I forgot to include the thing that I used to find most memorable about her story: Tailtiu was the one to clear the fields (and die in the process), but they named HER funeral games for the young fellow who held the party.
It is important to note that Ó hÓgáin’s otherwise wonderful, informative book was published in 1990. Only a generation before, feminists were advocating to get women into the university classrooms. It would take some time before feminism would change the scholarship - particularly in the realms of Irish history and folklore. (None of that is a great excuse, but “because patriarchy” is going to have to suffice for the purposes of this essay.)
So, what was my excuse for leaving out the bit about how Tailtiu missed out on the naming rights of a holiday celebrated by all who mark time by the Celtic Wheel of the Year?
Twenty-five years ago when I was an emerging third-wave feminist reading my Mary Daly and covering everything with “Save Roe” stickers, what mattered most was locating women in the texts – and fiercely naming all the silences and the omissions when it came to the feminine, both human and divine, across history and literature.
Because, of course, women and goddesses were all over the original manuscripts and in the folklore (even if they were relegated to one pink hued lecture in the course or “remember the ladies” section of the modern books).
They were always there, waiting to be found by those who had the eyes to see and the desire to dig deeper. The poets and the playwrights found them long ago, again and again. People are still crying out “epiphany!” when they find her and reveal the “secret” that the Goddess has always been the heart of the land and her people.
The entire reason I enrolled in Irish studies and got two degrees in this country’s literature was an extension of my quest for the sacred feminine. She was in my bones before I found the stories. And the work I have been able to do, and the community I’ve found and forged (see the entire back catalog of KnotWork Storytelling for the who’s who), has enabled that goddess to only become more real for me.
Our Myth Work is Meant to Evolve Over Time
When I was a student, I felt it was my calling to uncover and advocate for the presence of the goddess. Now, I trust that she’s there, and that the key to her endurance is that she’s always going to be discovered and discovered anew.
So, perhaps, my excuse for sin of omission, such as it is, is that you tend to forget to mention the pain you’ve already metabolized and you neglect to tell the stories that you’ve most fully embodied.
My work is different now, and it suits me better. I risk cliche and say that wine, and certain women and men, tend to mellow with age.
I can’t drink wine anymore, but my body has come to tolerate - and crave - the mellowing.
I learned being righteously rage filled just wasn’t the right fuel for my particular system.
Please understand, I am always asking whether “the mellow” is a sign of passivity and an addiction to comfort, or some hard-won wisdom-in-action about what is mine to do in this world.
Considering one of Tailtiu’s greatest lessons for us is about the mortal risk of burnout, I think I’ll allow that latter to be true right now.
In this retelling of the Tailtiu story, I sought to understand why she would push herself beyond the breaking point. Her story is the story she lived - not the legacy of injustice of missing out on having her name associated with the first harvest festival (though Tailtiu’s name is associated with the site, Tailteann).
We tell myths again and again, always from different angles, urges, and agendas, in order to reveal something new.
I know what version my 20-something self would have spun for you. But now, I am most fascinated by the way I’ll hold, craft, and share Tailtiu’s tale at 60-something and 80-something, and beyond.
It’s not hard to track down a used copy of Myth, Legend, and Romance: An Encyclopaedia of Irish Folk Tradition.