The Ancestors

An interesting question was raised in a pagan forum recently: When using the term "ancestors", to whom are you referring?

My answer was not complete, but I wrote the following:

Firstly, I refer to those in my bloodline, i.e. direct ancestors such as grandparents, great-grandparents ... to that end, I undertake genealogical research as best I can.

Secondly, I refer to my bloodline clans, i.e. those with a similar surname to myself, and my paternal and maternal antecedents in Ireland, England, America, France, etc.

Thirdly, those who lived on the land of my ancestors, perhaps alongside them, especially when visiting those places.

Fourthly, those who lived on the land, where I currently reside, before me, such as the Britons, the Romans, the Angles, the Normans, and so on.

And, finally, those with whom I may have an affinity. This category I find hard to define. Another response was more erudite, referring to ancestors of "blood, place and craft", but I would redefine it to "blood, place and craft/spirituality". By craft/spirituality, I mean those who have preceded me in my endeavours. For instance, when I undertook Reiki (over a decade ago), which I consider both a craft and a spiritual calling of sorts, I always maintained images of Usui and Hawayo alongside those of my blood relations. Spiritually, I would also refer to those pagans who lived on these isles prior to the Romans. They are my spiritual ancestors. Were I an artist of any sort, I would probably consider those who had gone before as my ancestors, too, but its not really as simple as that. I wish I had the words to explain, but I don't. Perhaps others can provide the definition I find so elusive?

Residential History

Someone posted a question at one of the fora I frequent about the impact where we grew up has had on our present life as a pagan. I have written about the effect of my past on this blog before in "On Revelations", but I have not thought about the areas in which I resided as being significant.

I was raised in the tropics of the southern hemisphere. I did not know what a cardigan, sweater or jumper was until I was eight years old, when we moved to the sub-tropical capital of my state and temperatures dropped below 20 degrees celsius. We had two seasons in the tropics: wet and dry. Even in the dry season, you could count on rain in the afternoon at least once a week - it was daily in the wet season - the type of heavy, hot rain that soaked you through to your underwear in under two minutes.

As a child, my family lived in a tin shed on a remote island in the Gulf of Carpenteria amongst the indigenous people, though I remember little of this, on a tropical island getting about on Mini Mokes (based on the Jeeps of WWII), on dusty, vast remote cattle stations, at my grandmother's house in a railway oasis on the tracks to a distant mining community in the desert and on the edge of suburbia in a large, armed forces town. Mostly, we were never far from bushland and the dangers that lurked within (fears my mother instilled in me), and we had the odd poisonous snake cause concern, plenty of jellyfish to keep us from swimming in the oceans and a few spiders who liked biting people in awkward places.

What I remember most the places we lived was the stifling heat - sticky and draining. I remember we did not have air conditioning and the temperature was frequently over 32 degrees celsius and you could wake up in a pool of your own sweat in the mornings. I don't remember the cyclones, even though I've seen the pictures of me on horseback with the flood waters lapping at my sandals, though I do remember our neighbours losing their roofs. I remember playing in the gutters in the pouring rain, making boats and watching them go down the drain, which was big enough to fit five grown men. How we never went down it ourselves, I don't remember.

When we settled down in the southern, sub-tropical capital, the heat was less intense (we had three seasons); it rained with less frequency and sometimes it drizzled; but the storms increased. They changed to aquamarine-coloured, hail infested, thunderclapping bursts. Instead of the rain lasting for hours, you'd get a flash storm - one caused just as much damage as the cyclone we had experienced in the north and, though our house remained untouched, we had the possessions of neighbours (near and far) strewn about our front and back yards - rather than continous, pelting rain that lasted for hours.

Strangely enough, I come alive during a storm. I used to love watching them roll in over the ocean towards us, counting the time between lightening flash and thunderclap. Eventually, I would clamber home and listen to the tapping of rain on the galvanised tin roof. The smell was awesome, too. Heavy, thick and delicious. I never had a fear of them like others did.

The other place I felt alive was by the ocean. I have a fear of going in the water - the result of someone attemping to drown me once - but being on it or by it revives me. Most of my childhood was spent within 10 minutes drives of the ocean. Down south, there was only a wetland area between us and the beach and, if a storm was forecast, it was a two minute drive to the oceanfront. I still enjoy just wading in the sea, feeling the will of the waves as they hit my legs, listening to the sound of the ocean as it sings is soothing song. True, sometimes its loud when storms rip it up, but mostly its quiet and there is strength in its whispers.

For all of this, I never felt at home in the bush or natural areas of my homeland. Even less so in the cities, even though they have their own energies. I just knew I did not belong to that land; I was an intruder. Having watched many programmes made in the land of my ancestors, I knew that I had to try and emigrate in order to feel "at home". I wanted the experience of four seasons and the different energies of each. I wanted to spend time in those lush, green places and those wet autumnal woods, bursting with colour. I could almost sense the clean, crisp energy of frosty winters and I yearned for them. By the time I was fourteen years of age, I felt the overwhelming draw of the countries where my ancestors once lived. It would be eleven years before I made the journey, and another eighteen months before I found my footing, but I was home. Finally, I could start to seek out my true spiritual connections on the land of my ancestors.

So, did my childhood have an impact? Yes. Whilst I could work with the energies of the land of my birth, I always felt like I was stealing or intruding in some way; I felt alienated. I could never find a place where I was happy. Though there was one spot I felt to which I felt some connection, by the time I returned five years later, it had changed and, once again, I felt abandoned by the genius locii.

Once I travelled to England, Ireland and, finally, Scotland, I found the energies more familiar, and was able to expand my practices. That feeling of not belonging to the bush, the city and, finally, the country in its entirety was gone and I felt free to follow my own path without stepping on the toes of local spirits. Not only did I break away from the beliefs of my family, but I was able to explore my own spiritual leanings without feeling inhibited by place. I found myself opening up simply because of my location.

True, I work in the city, but I feel most at home in the countryside and more remote areas of the United Kingdom. Wild areas near the seas are still a favoured spot for me. If I can hear the waves, I am at peace. So, that connection from childhood remains, but I still prefer moodier weather, such as rain, mist, fog, freezing snow than the sun. Here, though, I am happier outdoors exploring the woods and wildlife than I ever was in my land of birth. The spirits seem to accept me.

I still get excited by storms, like the one of yesterday - so much energy just waiting to be absorbed - and I still feel the pull of the ocean and I know, one day, I will have to move so that I am right on the sea. For the moment, though, I can work with my current location.

My childhood experience has taught me the importance of place. I think I have an understanding of the sacredness of land, and the importance of relationships with the genius loci simply because of the disconnection I felt as a child to the spirits of my homeland. I think, too, that this alienation spurred me on to seek out the spiritual traditions of my ancestors, as well as the traditions of the area in which I live.