The Irish “Lugh” or “God of many gifts” is one of the most famous Irish legends. Known as Lugus to foreigners, this God is one of the most cherished due to his symbolic nature. Lugh symbolizes strength, the power of talent, and dexterity on the battlefield. The ancient Celtics believed that skill in combat was a necessity, thus the God Lugh was highly worshipped. Lugus was also celebrated by the Roman’s during Julius Caesar’s reign. Lugh was seen as a very powerful deity of the Gauls and a festival was held on his belhalf on August 1; this was known as the “Feast of Augustus”, named after Caesar’s son and successor Octavian Agustus. The alternative Irish name for Lugh is “Sam Ildanach”, meaning that he mastered many skills of the arts.

Well, give a druid a triad, and she’ll come up with at least nine meanings for it. Halstead’s triad resonated with me strongly; it suggested the three major power centers of the body, belly (body), heart (mind), and head (spirit), and the three major divisions of the spirits in much pagan thinking, land spirits, ancestors, and deities, and all the various correspondences to those triads that one can come up with. More importantly, perhaps, it mapped out my own progress within paganism. I began as an earth-honoring, nature-celebrating eclectic neopagan, incorporated Hermetic magic and theurgy along the way, and finally have gotten round to honoring, and working with, and coming to terms with deities.

I honestly don’t remember at this point how the first contact between my pantheon and myself was made. I might be able to uncover it by rooting around in this blog’s archives, or in my history of Livejournal blogging, but I might go into the labyrinth and never come out and finish this post. Suffice it to say that I do remember wishing I had a “patron deity”, because that’s what all the cool kids seemed to be doing, all the hot pagan bloggers–having intense, melodramatic relationships with patron deities.

… I’ve mentioned my tendency to have relationship drama in religion and not in my marriage, right? Just so we’re all on the same page.

My impression is that while I was wistfully wishing, without an awful lot of focus or really knowing what I was wishing for, deities began to show up. By “show up” I mean that I found myself thinking about them, researching them, and then having conversations with them, usually at their instigation and not mine. Many of the contacts came when I was walking to work, or doing dishes, or taking a bath or shower–that is, when I was in a light trance state due to repetitive activity. I vividly remember one contact that began with a conversation on the light rail: A god appeared to me and identified himself. He was tall, muscular, mature, red-haired, naked except for some jewelry, and… kind of shiny.

I say he appeared and talked to me while I was in a light rail car, riding back into the city from a run to the ‘burbs. What I mean is that he appeared to me in my imagination. Once in a great while I perceive magical or spiritual things with or apparently with my physical senses; it’s not impossible for me, but it’s rare. But most of my spiritual contacts are “just my imagination”. It’s just that I’ve always had the sense that the imagination is not simply a private laboratory where the mind cooks things up; it’s a room with at least two doors, and only one of them is the door from my mind. The imagination is a place where I make things, but it’s also a place where I can meet things. Ancestors, deities, fictional characters, dream people, my imagination is where they come to meet me.

I realized pretty quickly that there was a connection among the different deities who were tapping me. They were all Celtic, mostly Gaulish/Continental, and had been syncretized by the Romans with their own deities. The Shiny Naked Guy who visited me on the train identified himself as Grannos Apollo. The star goddess I was aware of around Imbolc wanted to be called Dana. Shiny Naked Guy had a shiny silver sister named Sirona who liked to visit me in my bath. I was at work when a quiet, gravelly male voice spoke to me from behind me, over my shoulder, and told me he could help me on the job. I never saw him, but I got an impression of age, wisdom, and physical ugliness. He identified himself as Ogmios, cognate to Oghma, inventor of the Ogham… and god of cataloguing?

My consistent contacts have been with Grannos, Sirona, Dana, Lugus, Rosmerta, Taranis,

Relief from Autun depicting Rosmerta and Mercury (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sulis, Belenos, Ogmios, Nodens, and Catubodva. I have read what I can find about them; most, possibly all of the surviving evidence for their character and cult is in artifacts, not in literature. I go very much by UPG and I freely admit that. The interpretatio Romana and the slightly greater amounts of information available about their cognate deities in other cultures have helped. I have had enough melodrama with them to make an American television series–all of which, honestly, has been my fault.

I called on Catubodva recently, making a considered offering and earnestly asking for help, and she came through. I’m beginning to get little nudges from my pantheon again, to hear them. My intuition/psychism/whatever, such as it is, mostly comes through hearing rather than seeing. I listen to the voices, of a poem, a fictional character, my gut feelings, or a goddess. I am listening to my gods’ voices and, finally, daring to speak aloud their names.

I think it worked moderately well. The awkwardness of a new order of ritual was definitely a hindrance to full immersion in the rite – I am still reading the script at this point, since my goal is to learn via repetition of the act rather than straight memorization. It is difficult, for me at least, to hold a visualization steady and strong through reading and uncertainty.

Overall, though, I thought it was fairly successful. The omen was good – the Hermit from my tarot deck, since my ogham are not yet made. Seeking for wisdom and finding my own way in the light of Inspiration seems a very good omen for a seeker at the start of a new path. That the Shadowscapes Hermit looks a bit druidical is no bad sign either, I think.

I chose Manannan for my Gatekeeper, though I’d still like to find a female Celtic Gatekeeper if I can. Why I’m determined about that I don’t really know. I’ve nothing against Manannan and really, his symbolism is beautiful. But… I suppose we’ll see if anyone shows up to take his place.

The deities of the occasion were (and will be for my regular devotions) Brigit and Lugh, who are my Hearth Gods at this point. Brigit has been with me I would almost say always – I took Her name for my confirmation, though I thought She was a saint then. I was mightily surprised when I wandered into pagan space and found She was so much more, and so ideally suited. Lugh is a bit of an experiment, really. A God came to me years back, when I was studying runes and seidh to try to find a way to honor the other half of my ancestry. Naturally, I thought He must be Odhinn, and tried to work with Him under that name. He answered only grudgingly, but didn’t get offended by it.

A few days ago I was looking up Celtic gods and ran across a citation noting the Lugus was known to the Germanic tribes as Wodanaz, and that Lugh, contrary to common belief derived from the Victorian obsession with sun gods, was not a sun god but more likely a lightening god, a god of sudden light, of inspiration, even ecstasy. And where calling on Odhinn left me feeling like I had a wire crossed, calling Lugh this morning felt like clear, cold rain under a storm-shot sky.

That alone makes the rite successful, I think.

Probably my favorite naming mantra is “inspiration everywhere.” I’m always on the look out for great names — and anything and everything that could be a great name.

Unsurprisingly, therefore, I came across a lot of such inspiration while in France for a month.

Here are just some of those which really jumped out at me and made me go “ooooh!”

Alençon. A town in Normandy famous for its lace. The name is probably Breton meaning “fort of the Alans” — a “barbarian” tribe which invaded Gaul in the fourth and fifth century.

Ao. A visit to Paléosite near Saintes introduced us to the lovely Ao, the “last Neanderthal” of Jacques Malaterre’s film Ao, le dernier Néandertal, based on a novel by Marc Klapczynski. Pronounced like “how” without the “h.”

Blanche Neige. French for “Snow White.” Encountered many times during our visit to Disneyland Paris, including as the name of a boat on one of my favorite rides Le Pays de Contes des Fées (known as Storybook Land Canal Boats in the US) — thrill seeker that I am . Blanche was a popular name in Victorian times which has yet to be re-embraced, while Neige has a very contemporary ring to it.

Callas. A little village in the Var region of Provence, through which he had to drive to get pretty much anywhere on an road with impossibly tight hair-pin bends. Inevitably it brought to mind the great Maria every time.

Charente. A lovely French region of gentle vine-clad hills, where I’ve spent a bit of time now, past and present. Named after the river which meanders through. In Roman times, this was known as Carantonus, from Common Celtic *karant- “friend.” Carantonus was also almost certainly the name of a river-God.

Eiffel. The magnificent tower named after Gustave Eiffel, its creator. Eiffel comes from Eifel, a region of Germany.

Élysée. The Avenue des Champs Élysées is one of the world’s most famous roads, named after the Elysian fields of classical mythology. Élysé(e) is simply the French for  “Elysian” often translated as “blessed.”

Hennessy. The name of one of my favorite brandies. We first visited the distillery in the ’90s and on this trip planned to go to my other favorite Rémy Martin. Unfortunately, the day we went to Cognac was their last day of tours for the public of the season and we’d just missed the last, so we ended up at Hennessy again. Hennessy is what it looks like — an Irish surname, meaning “descendant of Angus.”

Lô. Saint-Lô is another town in Normandy, named after St Lô. Lô is usually identified with the sixth-century St Laud, whose name is shaped to appear to be from the Latin laudo “I praise.” Personally, I’d put money on Laud really being connected with Lud, and Lô with Lugus…

The Louvre as it was in the fifteenth century

Louvre. Possibly the most famous museum and art gallery in the world, inhabiting a former royal palace, which dates back to the twelfth century. It’s meaning is unclear. My favorite theory is that it derives from l’œuvre “the masterpiece,” a testimony to the fact that even the very first Louvre on the site was a masterpiece.

Nea. Neo is in use — why not Nea for girls? We encountered it in France at Paléosite again, as the name of Ao’s daughter (and pronounced “NAY-a” rather than “NEE-a”).

Ondée. French for “heavy shower”; we drove through a few of these. Connected with onde “wave” and ultimately from the Latin unda.

Otocilia. The name of a Gaulish woman, surviving on a Roman-era gravestone, on display in the museum in Saintes.

Rémy.  Crossed our path more than once, both in the name of the cognac, and the town of St Rémy-de-Provence. ‘Tis the French form of the Latin name Remigius from remex “oarsman.”

Sirène. Another from Disneyland. La Petite Sirène is the French version of The Little Mermaid, featured fairly prominently in Le Pays de Contes des Fées ride.

Tuilerie. Les Tuileries are the famous gardens next to the Louvre, which actually used to belong to the lost Tuileries Palace (knocked down in 1883). We had lunch in one of its cafes and ice cream next to the great fountain, with a view of the Louvre in one direction, and the Arc de Triomphe in the other. Magnifique! The word means “tilery” — i.e. a place where tiles were made.

Vigne. The French for “vine.” In both Provence and Charente, vines were everywhere. Harvest had begun early, but we saw many a bunch of ripe grapes still on the vine, as well as being harvested by hand and machine. In Charente, the sound of harvesting of vine and other crops lasted after dark most nights.

Voyage. Journey’s already in the US top 1000, so why not Voyage? People said “bonne route” to us as we hit the road, rather than “bon voyage”, but “voyage” — said the English or French way — certainly has interesting name potential…

Odin leading the Wild Hunt

Following on from yesterday’s article about using the names of Gods and Goddesses, I thought I’d look at one such name which is starting to see some use, especially in the US — although it did make the top 1000 for the first time in 1884…

Odin.

Odin is the chief God of the Nordic Pantheon, and as such is revered by modern practitioners of Heathenism (also called Odinism and Asatrú) — a branch of ‘Neo’-Paganism which has revived the beliefs and practices of the Nordic people of Scandinavia, Iceland and the British Isles.

His name in Old Norse was Óðinn, cognate with the Anglo-Saxon Woden (who gives his name to Wednesday) and Old High German Wotan. The reconstructed proto-Germanic form is *Wōđanaz or *Wōđinaz from the Proto-Germanic *wōþuz ‘poetic fury’ – very appropriate for a God identified with poets and seers.

Interestingly enough, the word is also cognate with the Proto-Celtic *wƒtu- ‘poetic inspiration’ and *wƒti- ‘sooth-sayer’ and ‘prophet’.

Although not stated explicitly, it is believed that Odin was identified by the Romans not with Jupiter but Mercury. Tacitus stated that Mercury was the chief God of the Germanic people.

This is generally ascribed to the fact that both Gods are regarded as deities who led the souls of the dead to the afterlife. But there are other reasons.

Like Mercury, Odin is a God of magic.

And, like Mercury, Odin was identified with the Celtic Lugus, with whom Lugus also shares many attributes.

Not least — as I discussed in Lughnasadh! in August — the fact that it is a distinct possibility that Lugus and the Norse Loki are linked at a deep level — and the same goes for Loki and Odin. There are many who believe that Loki is an aspect of Odin.

Odin has two other very fascinating attributes.

The first is as Lord of the Wild Hunt. The Wild Hunt is the usual name given in English to the legendary spectral hunt, usually riding in the late autumn and winter. Witnessing it is said to be a terrible omen of impending doom, but more often than not, mortals who happen to see it pass by are caught up and spirited away, rarely to be seen again.

Unsurprisingly, in the Christian period, the Wild Hunt was associated with the Devil, and those who chanced upon it were believed to be whisked straight off to hell.

But as well as these later diabolic associations, Odin and his Wild Hunt also lie behind much of the legend and beliefs surrounding ‘Father Christmas’. Riding on his eight-legged horse Sleipnir, he leaves gifts for those who put out food for Sleipnir.

One of his bynames is even Jólnir ‘Yule-man’.

And he (or rather, his Saxon counterpart Woden) is also probably the figure behind the Anglo-Saxon ‘King Winter’ or ‘King Frost’, a fur-hat wearing Winter spirit who, if welcomed at the hearth, would ensure that family made it safely through the dark winter months.

Echoes of the Wild Hunt survive across Europe, and various names are attributed to the leader — but all hark back to Odin or his Celtic counterparts.

This famous image of Odin the Wanderer by Georg von Rosen shows Odin with one eye. As well as sacrificing himself on the World Tree, Odin also gave an eye in order to drink from Mímir's well and thereby gain knowledge of past, present and future.

The second very intriguing thing about Odin is the fact he is a God of sacrifice and resurrection. He sacrificed himself, in the quest for wisdom, upon the World Tree, pierced by his own spear — rising again nine days later.

As a result, Odin is also a God of Wisdom.

Another thing that sets Odin apart is his interest in human affairs. He is ‘the Wanderer’, envisaged as an old man with a grey beard who wanders the land. His ravens of wisdom — Huginn (‘thought’) and Muninn (‘memory’) — keep their beady eyes on all goings-on.

He was also the inspiration for the character of Gandalf in Tolkien’s Hobbit, Lord of the Rings and other works — and when you see 19th Century depictions of Odin, it is easy to see why.

There is no doubt that Odin is about as powerful and rich a name as they get.

It is up to you to decide, based on your beliefs, whether it is right or not to give his name to your child!

Let’s hope the rain holds off!

Although Lughnasadh is specifically Irish, the cross-quarter day August 1 is marked across the British Isles, where it is now mostly known as Lammas, from the Old English hlāfmæsse from hlāf ‘loaf’ and ‘bread’ and mæsse ‘mass’, and it celebrates the first harvest and first fruits of the season.

What the original name of the feast in what is now England and Wales was is unknown, but it was quite possibly cognate with the Irish. For Lugh is the Irish form of Lugus — the name of one of the most important of the Celtic Pagan Gods, whose name is recorded across the Celtic world.

This also survives in the Welsh form Lleu – and it may be cognate with the Norse Loki. Loki and Lugh certainly share a lot in common. They are both tricksters. Moreover, Lugus is often considered the Celtic version of Odin, and it has been suggested that Loki is in fact an aspect of Odin too.

Some depictions of Lugus hint him being a triple God; he is sometimes presented with three faces — and other times with three phalluses. This is also supported by some Irish myths in which Lugh is said to have been one of triplets, and it has been suggested he is the triple God composed of of the deities Esus, Toutatis and Taranis, recorded by Roman historians.

Today, Lugh is often perceived as a sacrificial God of rebirth, representing the cycle of agriculture — a John Barleycorn-like figure who is sown, grows and harvested; some of the grain is prepared as bread, some stored, to begin the cycle all over again.

But what is the source of the name?

Traditionally, Lugus was said to be from the Proto-Indo-European *lewko- ‘to shine’ – the same source as the Latin lux, from which last week’s Pick of the Week Lucius derives.

However, there are linguistical problems with this, and it may be that it actually comes from the opposite Proto-Indo-European *leug- ‘blackness’ (raising the same interesting parallels regarding duality of meaning as I discussed with Blake), or Common Celtic: *lug- ‘oath’.

However, *lewko- ‘to shine’ is still possible and plausible, perhaps developing from a parallel root *lewg- instead of directly from the traditional *lewko-.

How the festival was celebrated in England and Wales in pre-Christian times is lost, along with the accompanying myths. But Irish Lughnasadh is different.

According to Irish myth, Lughnasadh was instituted by Lugh in honor of his foster-mother Taillte, who died after preparing Ireland for its first sowing.

It passed into the Christian calendar, preserving its Pagan name (in the same way Easter does).

Like the other cross-quarter celebrations (i.e. the festivals which fall mid-way between the solar feasts of the solstices and equinoxes) — Lughnasadh is a fire festival, marked with bonfires.

To this day in Ireland, Lughnasadh is a time of celebration and family reunions, when the priests bless the fields.

Brian Friel’s 1990 play Dancing at Lughnasa captures its essence well.

Unlike some of the other festivals, Lughnasadh has yet to be adopted as a given name in its own right, though with the meaning ‘feast of Lugh’ in Irish, it — or the modern Irish Lúnasa — would make an excellent name. As, indeed, does the English Lammas.

And Lugh, Lugus, Lleu and Loki are all very worthy of consideration, especially at this time of year!