The Blue Edge of Her Green Garment by H. Byron Ballard

Here in the ancient mountains of western North Carolina, there are sweet patches of spring amidst the drear of January. We learn from our grandmas how to plant onion sets in the January thaw, so that we may have tender white onions with our early spring dandelion greens.

Many of us come from hardy--and poor--Scots-Irish stock and we can succumb to the old cultural maladies of too much drink and too much temper. We can be stubborn and isolationist, but we can also be generous and welcoming.

We are a paradox, to be sure.

Many of us cling to the old harsh tenets of a Christianity that is proudly exclusive and no-nonsense: a religion that mourns births and rejoices at funerals. And within that framework is often found the cultural practices of an earlier and wilder people. The physical and spiritual healing techniques of our Celtic forebears blended with Cherokee herbalism to create a unique hillbilly hoodoo, practiced still in the remote fastnesses of rural counties. This wise-woman tradition is a hoodoo that is practiced within the framework of old-timey mountain religion.

We approach the coming of spring with these two patchwork coats around us--our Celtic cultural practices (which include the strange winsomeness of traditional mountain music) and this strong claim of spiritual rightness.

For those of us who practice the earlier forms of Celtic spirituality, it is a time when we examine the effects of the Gaelic diasporas and look towards the spring for this year as well as springs past. We lean on Brigid as we approach Her festival. We look for those first tender greens, we wonder if the path to the well is clear of ice.

For Brigid belongs as much to us as to our sisters in Kildare Town. She is the perfect Goddess for mountain folk. She’s resilient, She knows a lot about a lot of things. She’s the best cove-doctor ever, knowing all the herbal remedies for all the mountain ills. She is fire and water and the broken fresh earth of a hill spring.

She even has a story about making beer--how perfect is that?

Here on the brow of the Blue Ridge, those of us who love Her have dedicated a local spring and ruined springhouse to Her. We go there and do a well-dressing in Her honor, remembering also the land spirits and the Ancestors in the woods around it.

We’ll do a public ritual for Her in her guise as Gold-red Woman and we will tie clouties to a branch and pray our prayers in Gaeilge. There will be fire and water and song and smoke.

For Brigid belongs to Her Celtic people in America, too. Jill Yarnall tells a lovely story that is tied to an older legend. When Brigid-as-saint went to the King to ask for a piece of land, he laughingly told Her he’d give Her all the land Her cloak could cover. And so Brigid Wonder-worker twirled Her cloak--like a matador--from Her shoulders, and it covered acre after acre of the Curragh. There was land enough to build Her double monastery, and more for gardens. The King was flummoxed but accepted that he had given his word.

That is where the traditional story ends but Yarnall adds this grace note:

As Brigid put Her warm cloak back on, She tossed the edge over Her shoulder. And that edge floated on the wind all the way to America, where it landed in the Appalachian Mountains. Thus she gave her green cloak a deep blue hem. Even then, She claimed us and we are Hers. Warts, bad tempers and all. We see Her as a great blessing--whether we see Her as Goddess or saint or another Irishwoman who has the knack with herbs and knows Her own mind.

May She claim you and yours this year and bring you healing and joy. Happy Imbolc!