The Blueberry Moon is full early this morning at 3:54am. Last night’s moonrise was closest, but tonight’s will still be almost full. If you have breathable air, go enjoy the radiance for all of us who are living in perpetual eclipse.
Meanwhile, here is a story for the Blueberry Moon…
I started writing a story based on one of Lugh’s myths, but the more I thought about his stories, the more I wondered what he’d make of the images and ideas we’ve attached to him in the last century or so. This is a tribal deity of craftsmanship and skill. Yet I’ve seen him conflated with everything but that. Most often people say he is a grain god or a sun god. Some force Lugh into that very tired love triangle, battling over control of the land. Now and again, someone will note that Lugh and Odin seem to share some characteristics — often alone, friendly with crows, obsessed with finding out things — but then the focus is always on that spear, not on their wily ways. Never on craftiness. (Neither actually spend much mythic time wielding weapons; they win by wielding words… but we tend to forget that…)
Lugh can’t be a god of craft in our culture because we don’t honor craft sufficiently to merit deities. But if you take craft away from Lugh, there is no Lugh. He’s not a warrior, not a king, not a lover, not the sun. Lugh makes things and does things, and he is the best at all of what he does. But in our culture, that’s not good enough. He has to be a dominator to be worthy of our attention. I’m fairly certain he would be flummoxed our values…
Lugh’s Lament
He feels at odds. After a couple thousand sun cycles with nothing but a few garbled place names to keep him alive in memory, he has been woken from slumber by whispered invocations coming from around the globe. This is strange. Not least because he doesn’t know most of these people. He had resigned himself to falling into the sleep of the gods, yet now he hears his name on the other side of the Earth, in languages that he doesn’t speak. And he speaks so many of them. When he was alive he was the best speaker alive.
He was the best at everything. That was the core of his being. He wrote stunning poetry that pierced hearts, composed masterful music that moved the stars. He forged his own spear and turned the smooth ash handle that carried it into battle. Sometimes he even cast it at an enemy. He gentled the fierce moor horses and brought the wild boar to the feast. He knew the herb-craft to heal wounds of body and mind and to wrest flavor and color and scent from the green world. And he knew how to weave the colorful threads into a mantle that made the moon feel dowdy and the sun look dull. He spun gold and silver into fine torques and braided together arm bands laced with pearl and amethyst and tourmaline. He carved his harp from a fine dark walnut bole and played a king’s hall to joy, madness and then deep, profound sleep. He also played games of cunning strategy and was never once bested. He beat an army led by a fiery eyed giant through trickery and a well-timed toss.
He was the god of craft. Samildánach. All skilled. Best at everything. And yet…
Now, these strangers seem to think him an avatar of the sun. Or a woodsprite. Or… he really doesn’t know what that thing with the horns is supposed to be. They talk of sovereignty and mating with a land goddess, when he was only ever king for one battle. Only so they could win, of course. He would not wear a crown for any length of days. And the one thing he was not good at was love.
Oh, he had his fill. He was the best, after all. But they didn’t want him for long, and in fairness, he didn’t want them either. Not for romance, but for camaraderie. He was happiest when in the company of a small band of his peers. Man, woman, goat, raven. Whoever could challenge his wits. Whoever could match him in craft and creation and wonderful feats. He could not give his heart because his heart was bound to his making and doing and being. It was given to his craft. And the land spirits all knew that. As though they would consent to being secondary in his heart — secondary to every last thing, no less.
Also, they weren’t all goddesses… but that’s a different issue… or maybe part of the same issue of strangeness…
These new people, they seem to think him a warrior or a king. He’s a merry trickster and a smith. A solitary fae with no burden of dominion. He labors for the sake of making, though the work done is care. He’s a cook and a healer. He can brew intoxication, though he prefers a clear head and a wise heart. He will fight when needful, but he finds need can be slippery. Violence is seldom the most effective a strategy even to win a battle. And the whole contest? The mind is a more terrible weapon by far than the blade. And anyway, bloodshed is a messy way to resolve conflict, if that even happens. Is it resolution, if one side is dead? He prefers elegance. And when that fails, chicanery. Much more difficult means and yet ends with all alive and well.
He prefers life. Because there is always another game, another craft, another art, another moment of pure beauty. He does not want to be king or warrior. He does not have the time to be the sun, never mind the inclination or need. The sun is the sun. Any fool can see that. Except these strangers who have called him from slumber and put horns on his head and vicariously mated him to the green fields. He does not understand. And that is a very foreign feeling, indeed.
©Elizabeth Anker 2025
By My Solitary Hearth 