But I've also heard since Ireland doesn't have an "Independence Day," St. Patrick's Day is when Irish people not only celebrate their nation, but everyone in the world can celebrate everything Irish, including the millions of people of Irish descent in the diaspora. I'm sure I will celebrate St. Patrick's day differently when I return to California.
These days, I celebrate St. Sheela's Day. In earlier times, Irish people celebrated St. Patrick as part of a three-day festival close enough to the sun-holiday of Spring Equinox that St. Patrick and his snakes was the usual Christian imposition.
The entire month of March celebrates women. I celebrated International Women's Day with Resisting Captivity presented by Countess Didn't Fight for This, and a conference by Ireland Women's Lobby. The Irish Mother's Day is the 2nd Sunday of March.
And then there's St. Sheela's Day.
I know what you're thinking. She's going to say St. Sheela has something to do with her obsession with sheela-na-gig. (See "figurative carvings of naked women displaying an exaggerated vulva" and Kissing the Ballyvourney Stone. )
Yes, she probably does, but that's not what I'm writing about today. You can read all about everything to do with St. Sheela in this excellent article by folklorist Shane Lehane in the Irish Times.
Today I'm writing about the Sheela-na-gig festival of March 2018. When we heard about it on social media, like everyone else in Ireland, we felt we had to be there. Who wouldn't want to gather with every other sheela-na-gig fanatic in the country? We couldn't get much information on what to expect, but organizers promised archeology, folklore, poetry, and crafts.
A friend from America was visiting that weekend, so we rented a BnB that accepted dogs and drove 4 hours to The Burren in Co. Clare.
Folklore tells us is that there's often a snow storm after St. Patrick's day known as "Sheela's brush." That year she didn't spare us. Dublin woke up under six feet of snow and they are still giving out about it. Several festival organizers couldn't drive to the festival, and lucky for us, half the people who signed up couldn't either.
The remaining organizers gamely carried on because double the expected visitors showed up that morning. First thing, they fed us hot tea and biscuits. The spirit of the festival started there, with everyone decorating their biscuits with their own sheela. 
Like many villages, Kilnaboy’s post office was closed by An Post years ago. Someone bought it and it became “X-PO” a community gathering place, because a village Post Office was the community gathering place.
X-PO celebrates the last postmaster with this portrait.
Although this one held pride of place that day.
Once warmed and sugared, we gathered at the ruined church across the street to learn about Kilnaboy's sheela-na-gig.
We learned general facts about sheela-na-gig, which you can find online if you're so inclined. The folklore around this particular sheela is that she represents the founder of this abbey here, St. Inghine Baoith, which means the same thing as the town, Daughter of Baoith, and most sources simply say Baoith is a personal name. But someone told a story about the goddess of a sacred well at the shore of a lake about a mile away, at Lough Inchiquin. The story concerned a woman—perhaps her name is Baoith—and her daughters.
Long ago a chief ruled over the lands of Inchiquin. He was very handsome but was unwed. Not far from the tower there was a cave near the cave was a bubbling well.
The water in it was pure and fresh yet people shunned the spot, because it was said that a lady dwelt within the cave and each morning at daybreak she came to drink the water. This lady was of fairy birth.
One morning when the chief had been caught by a mist while out hunting and when he was returning to his castle, at dawn, he caught sight of the lady. She was running, but the chief leaping from his horse caught her ere she reached the cave, and he besought her not to leave him. She said to him, "never bring friend or stranger as guest into our home."
The chief kept his word.They lived for many years together and two children were born to them. The chief grew weary and longed to be out hunting once more. There were to be races on the Plain of Flood, and he wished to be there.
The lady made no complaint. "Come back alone if you love me" was all she said. The chief rode forth with a fine racehorse and he won the race and that he did as she desired. He rode forth the second and third day and won the race.
Many men flocked around him, some in envy and others in praise. The lady of Inchiquin will be of her lord" one said, if there be such a lady said others. The chief was angry and said, "My wife is the loveliest in Erin."
They asked him to show her to them. So they rode on until they reached Inchiquin. In the courtyard by the old fairy well the lady and her children stood, she stood and gazed at the strangers in anger.
The chief ran towards her, but he was too late.
Hand-in-hand the three retreated before him and sank in the waters of the well. The waters began to overflow, and in a short time the tower was covered. The waters spread rapidly over the woods and fields and in a short time formed the lake of Inchiquin —Duchas.ie
(When I hear a story like that, I wonder if I should be talking about sheela-na-gig as much as I do.)
We returned to XPO, warmed up, and created our own sheela-na-gig from clay.
While our personal sheelas dried on the window ledge, we watched a slideshow from a project that aims to preserve the remaining sheela-na-gig of Ireland using 3D digital imaging. You can see their work here. Be patient, the page loads slowly.
At the end of the afternoon, we all went on the best scavenger hunt of my life. We were instructed to form teams, walk around the fields and forests near the X-PO, and find examples in nature inspired by this poem.
I took a million pictures, but these two are the best.
As night fell, so did the temperature, and we (mostly women) gathered in the ruined church with frame drums, incense, candles; wearing every single item of clothing we had arrived in.
While I still consider myself a pagan, I'm an atheist pagan, and either my atheism or aesthetics leaves me little patience for
caterwaulic songs and lamentable poetry. At the first opportunity, I signaled to our friend: was she ready to leave? She signaled back her relief. (Artemis had already bailed.)
We stopped in at XPO, where a cabaret had started. I've come to understand that "a cabaret" in Ireland is something Americans might call "a talent show."
Everyone was amazing and I didn't want the night to end. I don't remember any of it except I sang my Party Piece, and this woman sang a original song while wearing a vulva as a headdress. I envied her. It looked so warm.
After that afternoon, looking for sheelas among the natural elements, I have never stopped. A few days later we visited Glenveaugh Park, and Slieve Laig on the coast, and I saw her everywhere.
