"Caer" (Welsh) - A Celtic Isomorphism for Resilient Societies
Sometimes I feel like a misplaced Celt, dropped into the 21st century by some cosmic mistake. Instead of a wooden staff and a goat by my side, I'm expected to wield a smartphone and be constantly connected. But given the choice, I'd take the goat.
There's a particular joy in simplicity that we've lost. The goat wouldn't send emails or follow me with notifications, but I bet it would be a more joyful companion. Yet here I am, told that this device—a slice of compressed sand and metal—is essential to my existence. It's supposed to keep me connected, but more often it makes me feel adrift.
"The ancient Celts obviously lacked the advantages of electronic
communication, but they had something more tangible: multiple layers of
relationships, providing strength on a variety of levels. Think of the Celtic
relational world as a concentric set of circles: At the outside perimeter was
the village, enclosed within the round walls of the circle fort. Within that
were family homes, also rounded in shape. And at the heart of relational life was the anamchara relationship, two individuals with spiritually bonded hearts." - McIntosh, Kenneth. 2011. Water from an Ancient Well: Celtic Spirituality for Modern Life. Vestal, NY: Anamchara Books.
The Welsh word Caer, which are ancient circular embankments that decorate the landscape in Wales, serve as a reminder of this ancient guiding principle of communal belonging. But interestingly, these firm roots of belonging also enabled them to have a greater appreciation for 'otherness'. The ancient Celts also had this wordless longing, a sense of homesickness for a place they'd never been. They spoke of it in terms of thirst—a deep, unquenchable desire. They saw wells, lakes, and rivers as "thin places," gateways to the spiritual realm. Much like "awel y môr" (a subtle sea breeze), these natural patterns weren't just physical; they were whisperings of something beyond.
When the Celts met Christianity, they found echoes of their own beliefs. The Bible spoke of "living water," of a spiritual nourishment that went beyond the physical. Jesus told the Samaritan woman at the well that those who drank of his water would never thirst again. The Celts understood this. They saw in these words an affirmation of what they already felt: that there was something more, just beyond the veil.
In our modern world, we've built walls against that longing. We've filled our quiet moments with screens and noise. We've convinced ourselves that being constantly connected means we won't miss anything. But in doing so, we may have forgotten how to be alone with our thoughts. We've lost the ability to sit by the well and feel that thirst.
Science tells us that beneath the surface, everything is connected. We're made of atoms that were forged in stars, particles vibrating in fields we can't see. Studies suggest that consciousness is non-local and by implicit definition, may tap into realities beyond our normal perception. It's as if the material world springs from an unseen foundation, a soup of mass, energy and information.
“We know that energy cannot be lost. … In life we store enormous information and organize it into an inner structure—a ‘nonmaterial us.’ This ‘body of information’ is not subject to physical decay; nature, needing all organized energy, will store every fragment back whence it came. No organized energy is ever lost...Memory is forever conserved, though commonly veiled from our waking awareness.” - Bentov, Itzhak. 1988. Stalking the Wild Pendulum: On the Mechanics of Consciousness. Rochester: Inner Traditions International, Limited.
The Celts believed that certain states of mind could open doors to the spiritual realm. Through meditation, song, or simply being in nature, they sought to touch something greater. They didn't need devices to connect; they needed silence and awareness. Recent understanding in science, such as the holographic principle and the nature of time, suggests that tangible existence emerges from a "code" operating on entangled qubits, paralleling the Celtic belief in a spiritual foundation to the physical world. Akin to the isomorphism (corresponding identity of structure) between mathematical patterns and physical patterns, our bodies are ultimately comprised of 'pure active information'.
"Our bodies are made mostly of void, permeated by oscillating fields. This matrix of oscillating fields is easily influenced by outside fields—weather patterns, gravitational effects … Whether it is applied from a distance or directly, through these fields, our being is affected.”
“We can thus extract a common denominator of our objective and subjective realities. Both become 'real' only through rapid motion between two states of rest. Without that motion, there is no perceptible reality.” - Bentov, Itzhak. 1988. Stalking the Wild Pendulum: On the Mechanics of Consciousness. Rochester: Inner Traditions International, Limited.
The Celts had an extraordinary connection with the natural world, allowing them to sense the "otherness" in nature and establish deep communication with animals. They believed in the presence of a spiritual realm permeating the natural world, which enabled them to engage with it in a harmonious way. Much like the account of Balaam and the talking donkey, there are numerous tales of Celtic saints who interacted with animals as friends and equals. Saint Brigid is often depicted with a cow, known as her close companion, reflecting their mutual care and respect. Similarly, Saint Columba was said to have a special bond with a white horse, which laid its head on his chest in a display of mourning for the saint's impending departure. These connections illustrate the Celts' profound reverence for all living beings and their ability to commune with the natural world in a spiritually meaningful manner.
There's a beautiful notion that no memory is ever truly lost. That every thought, every experience, is conserved somewhere in the fabric of reality. John O'Donohue, the Irish poet and philosopher, suggested that in our memory, nothing is ever forgotten. It's hidden, perhaps, but always there. The Celts felt this continuity, a thread that wove through their lives and into the beyond.
“But any life that is vigorous and open to challenge and compassion and the real activity of thought knows that, as we journey, we create many tabernacles of absence within us. Yet, there is a place where our vanished days secretly gather. Memory, as a kingdom, is full of the ruins of presence. It is fascinating that, in your memory, nothing is lost or ever finally forgotten.” (Walking in Wonder, John O’Donohue)
I wonder what we've forgotten in our rush to modernity. We've gained incredible tools and knowledge, but at what cost? The persistent feeling of being born in the wrong century might be a sign. A sign that we've strayed too far from the well, that we've ignored our own thirst for too long. Who knows.
Maybe it's time to embrace this humble pilgrimage and seek those thin places again. To find moments where we can sense the deeper currents beneath the surface. It doesn't require abandoning technology or rejecting progress. It means making space for silence, for reflection, for connection beyond the superficial. Reconnecting with those very things that make us human, the non-artificial intelligence.
Perhaps we can't all be goat herders, but we can learn from their simplicity. We can remember that joy often comes from the unadorned moments. That fulfilment isn't found in the endless stream of notifications, but in the quiet understanding of our place in the world.
The Celts stood at the edge of the visible and invisible, aware of both but confined to neither. In our own way, we can do the same. We can acknowledge the unseen foundations of our world, the connections that transcend time and space.
In the end, it's about finding home. Not a physical place, but a state of being. A recognition that while we live in this century, we don't have to be entirely of it. We can carry with us the wisdom of the past, the awareness of the present, and the hope for something more.