1.  How does this deity relate to other gods and other pantheons?

I have touched on his links across the Irish Sea, with Manannan; I have also touched on his family: his parentage, of deep ocean and bright light, and his lack of obvious corvid connections, in contrast with his brother and sister. In my very personal experience, he is associated with the cormorant (morfran, lit. ‘sea crow’ – and here is something more to ponder, because Morfran Afagddu is the name of Ceridwen’s son). All three siblings seem to have some connection with kingship, or sovereignty: Bendigeidfran is high king of Britain; Branwen marries the high king of Ireland and becomes the pretext for war between the nations; Manawydan is the ‘humble chieftain’ with no lands of his own, but marries Rhiannon, who is sovereignty personified.

But the sea gods of other pantheons seem quite different, at least to my understanding. I spent some time this autumn in the realm of Poseidon, on an island which owed its wealth to his realm and expressed a deep sense of devotion to the sea in its ancient frescoes and mosaics – but it felt like a very different sea, and a very different deity. And, in pondering this difference, it struck me that, for all the songs I sing to the sea, and all the time I spend listening to the music of Bjork, I never use her sea-inspired songs as offerings for Manawydan; they are so clearly referencing another sea, with a powerful deity of its own.

So why, I wonder, do I perceive so much continuity between Manawydan and his Manx/Gaelic counterpart, Manannan, and yet so much difference from his counterparts in other seas? They are all part of the same great body of water, the same great cycles of ebb and flow, evaporation and precipitation.

The answer, for me, lies in the shorelines: Manawydan is not just a deity of sea, but specifically of the place where sea and land meet and merge. When I seek him, I find him on the northern shores of continental Europe, and all around the islands which have once, in one way or another, been associated with the name of Britain – but further afield, in the warm salt of the Mediterranean or the icy arctic depths, the relationship between land and sea changes, and the local deities express this change.

  1. How does this deity stand in terms of gender and sexuality?

Historically (or at least literarily), heterosexual cis-gendered male; but in practice, I would suggest, amorphous. It is certainly not a defining feature.

  1. What qualities of this deity do you find the most admirable, and the most troubling?

The answer to the first question is best summarised with an episode from the Third Branch:

…said Manawydan ‘we can’t go on like this. Let us make for England where we can find a trade and make a living.’

They made for England, until they came to Henford; and took up saddle-making. Manawydan began to fashion pommels, and they were coloured in the way he had seen Llassar Llaes Gyfnewid do with blue azure; and they[even]made their own blue azure, just as the other man had done. And for that reason, it is still called “calch llasar”, after Llassar Llaes Gyfnewit.

And as a result of that work, not a saddle nor a pommel could be sold by a saddler anywhere in Henford, as long as it could be got from Manawydan – until each of the saddlers realised they were losing profit, and nothing was being bought from them, unless it could not be got from Manawydan.

Thereupon, they banded together and agreed to kill him and his companion. Thereupon [the four] got a warning, and they took counsel about leaving the township.

‘Between myself and God,’ said Pryderi ‘I will not counsel leaving the township, rather than killing those peasants.

‘No,’ said Manawydan ‘if we fight with them, we will get a bad name, and be thrown in prison. It is better for us,’ he continued ‘to make for another township and earn a living there.’

And [so] the four went to another city.

‘What craft shall we take up?’ asked Pryderi.

‘We will make shields,’ said Manawydan.

‘Do we know anything about that?’ asked Pryderi.

‘We will try it,’ he replied.

In a word: adaptable, with a certain kind of wise, peaceful resilience. This is the patience of water, which can wear down rock and find any number of ways around an obstacle. It is the constancy of the tide, ceaseless in its rhythms, not resisting the conditions which dictate its flow, but, slowly and surely, using that flow to shape those conditions.

As for troubling qualities, have I ever mentioned my healthy respect (read: fear) of tidal currents? I am a sea-worshipper who fears immersion in the sea.

2 thoughts on “relating

  1. I worship my local river goddess, Belisama, but wouldn’t want to get in the Ribble or even sail on it. I can’t really swim and find just standing in the waves awfully disorientating. So not much good with immersion in water in spite of being a water sign and very ‘westerly’ orientated.

    • I’m exactly the same. One of my earliest memories is of being taught how dangerous the local sandbanks were, and how easily you could be stranded by the tide. A couple of years ago I decided to get better at swimming and enrolled in adult classes, but felt so emotionally drained by them that in the end I stopped going.

      I wonder whether that fear is part of the relationship with deity, in some important or significant way. Perhaps it isn’t necessary or universal, but it must be significant somehow.

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