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I call to Tuireann, son of Ogma the wordsmith
and Etan of the clever hands, voice of the storm,
lover of the good green land, sire of the three sons
brave and strong, who slew the father of the Long-armed One,
who paid their debt of blood with deeds bold and daring,
who breathed their last on the fair hills of Lochlainn.
O Tuireann of Danu’s folk, Tuireann whose stories
are lost, long gone, all but the tale of your sorrow,
the tale that told of the end of your line,
you know of the worth and the weight of kin and clan,
you know of the greatest of grief. I honor you,
O god of ancient name, I offer you my praise.
Fionnghula, daughter of deep-dwelling Lir,
O fair-faced maid with shoulders white as seafoam,
your tale is one of sorrow, your life one of loss,
of tears and betrayal, of love that endures.
Great-hearted Fionnghula of the swan-children,
the wandering ones, bound ever together
with chains of bright silver, from river to river,
from season to season you made your way,
counting the passing years, holding on to hope,
awaiting the breaking of curse and bond.
I call to you, Fionnghula of the Danann;
I honor your suffering, I honor your story.
Brigid of the flame that burns away all ill,
Brigid of the words that grant comfort and might,
Brigid of the anvil and the fiery forge,
I pray to you for the healing of ______________,
may his/her pain be eased, may his/her spirit be strong,
may s/he grow hale and whole and in all ways sound.
Good and gentle Brigid, kindest of goddesses,
grant your blessing to ______________, I pray;
grant to him/her your gift of renewal.
Lir of the roiling sea, lord of the foam-flecked waves,
father of Manannan, father of the swan-children,
Lir of the lost tales, Lir called Allod of old,
I call to you. The realm of the deep is yours,
O ancient one, the waters that crest and crash
upon the coast; yours too is the might that guides
a ship to shore or pulls it down into the brine.
We know you in the cold salt spray, the icy wet
against our skin; we know you in the blood that runs
in our veins; we know you in the legacy
we share with all creatures who live upon the earth.
Lir who holds the essence of life, I honor you.
I call to Cliodhna of the Fortunate Isles,
daughter of the Danann, fair-haired Cliodhna
of the three bright birds that ate from the apple-tree,
their song a salve to any wound, any ill.
Pretty lovers you took, O goddess, mortal men
lured by your wondrous and terrible beauty,
yet ever did you return to the Land of the Young.
Cliodhna of the stony cairn, whose voice rang out
over hill and glen, a shriek to still the heart;
chief of the mound-women, chief of the mourners
of great men. Cliodhna of many guises,
I honor your story, I honor your name.
Wise and gentle Airmed, whose art it is
to know the green things of the world, root and leaf,
stem and seed, to tend them with care, to work the soil
from which they draw their might; you hear each voice
of flower and weed, they speak to you of life and death,
of healing and of harm. Airmed, mender of men,
daughter of skillful Dian Cecht, whose wrath was borne
by your dear brother, you know the pain of a heart
torn by grief, you know the good of tears freely shed.
Airmed, beloved goddess, yours are the tonics
and balms that arise from the earth, yours the remedies
that ease body and spirit. Airmed, I call to you.
Donn, first-born of the seven sons of Mil,
your father’s father deep-rooted in the world,
Donn of the contrary tales, of the unwise words
to which peerless Eriu brought her wrath in answer;
as your brothers set their feet on the fair green isle,
you sunk into the sea. Upon the stony shore
you stand, on the isle of Tech Duinn; within the walls
of your great hall you make welcome those souls
who await their life’s last journey, their passage
to the blessed isles to join their long-gone kin.
Kind one, bold one whose blood yet runs in the veins of men,
O Donn of the fair folk, your children honor you.
Goibniu of the hammer and the forge,
of the brawny arm and the answering strike,
maker of weaponry mighty and finely formed,
crafter of blades honed to a deadly edge,
brewer of the mead of invulnerability.
Goibniu, keen-eyed master of molten ore,
O god of art, blacksmith unequaled, I honor you.
Luchtaine of the knife and the supple tree,
of the skillful touch and the careful cut,
shaper of shields to hold back the fiercest foe,
craftsman who sees in the grain of any wood
the best and truest work that resides within.
Luchtaine, guide of the builder and the joiner,
O god of art, woodwright unequaled, I honor you.
Creidhne of craftwork delicate and defined,
molder of the metals of the deep earth,
who takes from craggy stone the glittering ore
and makes from it things of beauty and worth,
the choicest of treasures in any king’s trove.
Creidhne, who knows the substance within well-wrought work,
O god of art, goldsmith unequaled, I honor you.
I call to Dian Cecht, who holds the strength of gods
and men in hand. Son of the good Dagda,
father of children sage and able, in you
do the suffering place their faith. Mender of bones,
easer of ills, the surgeon and the leech
seek your wisdom. Tales are yet told of the wonders
you have worked, of the blessed well Slane that heals
wounds grievous and grim, of the fair silver arm
borne by great Nuada. I pray to you, O knowing one,
share your gift of mind and body hale and whole,
more precious than all the world’s treasures. Dian Cecht,
well-honored god, for me and mine I ask your favor.
Etain of whom great tales are told, most lovely of maids,
Etain the Horse Rider whose gentle hands
could guide the fiercest steed with ease, Etain whose grace
never failed despite grief and misfortune,
I honor you, O lady, I honor your strength.
Unfortunate bride of Midir, great of heart
and great of love, who fondly named you Woman Fair;
silver-winged goddess, who suffered the wrath
of wronged Fuamnach; bride again, unlucky again,
of noble Eochaid. Etain of many sorrows,
Etain of many dooms, Etain of lives lived
with good intent and ill fortune, I honor you.
Fieldstones 