Cosmology

In the beginning there was Silence…

In the beginning, there was Silence. And suddenly Silence turned into this primal cry, this urgency. A burning desire. Of an enchantment the size of the explosion made of stars, planets, entire galaxies. And also continents and oceans, valleys and mountains, trees that speak softly when we stop to hear them. There also came to be many animals, of scales, fur and feather. And us humans, in between.

They say that even today the gods rule the days and nights, love and death. But if it was from Silence that all things emerged, it was from poetry that they drew their first breath. It was through poetry that we came to be many. Gods, spirits, ghosts, memories, shadows, stones, plants, animals, new and old. All, in a way, living beings. Thus each being was granted a unique and invincible melody, and a voice to sing it with. Thus was set in motion the great Song of the World. Even today we dance to its rhythm; some against their will, others weaving that same dance so that everyone can join the circle.

This is a paraphrase of the concept that the author Frank Mills named Oran Mór, or Great Song. And there are those who say that this is a weak cosmology for those who want to take a serious and solid path. As if serious paths were not overrated. As if all the myths of creation were not, each in its own way, both fiction and reality.

Cosmologies teach us the order of the world, through the filter of certain cultures, languages and tongues. They do it by pulling the chair for us to take our own place in that cosmic order. It may be that for some this dynamic slips into a form of determinism. It is one of the possible extremes when working with a tool that is as aesthetic as it is ethic. But the spirituality that I practice warns: words are things. Aesthetics is an ethic. The story we tell about the formation of the Worlds is the continuous story of the growth of our inner world and how it interacts with the worlds around us. The gods to whom we attribute the order of things reflect the order we would give them if we were in command of all destinies.

The spirituality I practice recalls, as the ancient Celts did, that we are in total parity with all beings, born in original grace but also with an intrinsic duty. It was with full forthrightness, as if between equals, that the first humans to disembark on the Irish coast were said to have reached a draw with the gods of the place in the war for the dominion of the island. So the myths say. And so they reached a fair agreement to share their property: to the humans, an abode in the visible world; to the spirits of the place, a refuge in the valleys and rivers of Ireland. Both stories take place simultaneously, superimposed as in a well-tempered narrative.

With Nature as the thread running through them.

Even if the gods of the ancients never existed, the contract between the people and the place remained signed for all time. And with it, the thirst, the listening, the reverence, the walk.

We inherited from the primordial desire the capacity to form new worlds in every gesture, in every speech. We are the fruit of poetry, and through it, we shall be poets until the end of all words. This is the meaning of every vocation.

I am the child of Poetry,
Poetry, the child of Reflection,
Reflection, the child of Meditation,
Meditation, the child of Lore,
Lore, the child of Research,
Research, the child of Great Knowledge,
Great Knowledge, the child of Intelligence,
Intelligence, the child of Understanding,
Understanding, the child of Wisdom,
Wisdom, the child of the three gods of Danu.

— in the Colloquy of the Two Sages