It is said…
Tailtiu cleared the timber, creating fields for the planting of that which would feed her people. Tailtiu made this sacrifice. Tailtiu died.
What must you clear, so you may plant and have good harvest? What in you sacrifices so your soul and body may be sustained?
Tailtiu labored. Tailtiu passed. Tailtiu is remembered.
Sometimes we clear too much. Sometimes the sacrifice is too great. Sometimes the sacrifice toward the future devastates us. The clearing and the planting always bring uncertain harvest, yet we are called to risk it, all the same.
Proud Lugh, raised by strong and gracious Tailtiu, declared festival for her memory. Her name would be exalted, her deeds would be sung.
What is in front of you, right now? What did you clear? What did you plant? What does the harvest look like? What do you celebrate? What do you mourn?
Great games were held in her honor. Games of skill, a festival of music, dance, and feasting. A festival in which goods are exchanged, laughter rises, drink is shared. These were her funeral games. The start of every August would see a great gathering. This went on one thousand years.
We are here, living our lives. We are present with today. Time has almost – but not quite! – forgotten Tailtiu. Time will likely forget us. And yet, we are still part of time. We sow our lives into the whole. We cut the grain. We light a fire. We burn.