Re-Introduction

[Guest guest]

Dear Friends and Family:

Some of you know of the magical and synchronistic

events that started my journey on the path of my

ancestral past. These events, meetings, discoveries

and surprises have given me a deep and fiery

connection to my gypsy harp playing ancestors, the

es. These ancestors, are a family of renowned

harpists who kept the tradition of harp playing alive

in Wales for over six generations and are now a part

of Welsh folklore. I have attached a copy of this

story for those of you who wish to read it in its

fuller version.

Their story has already brought me so many gifts and I

shall name a few: a new home, new friends, celtic and

Welsh music, storytelling and performance. But most

of all it is the gifts of their wisdom that I

treasure.

Now that my divorce is final, a new journey with new

visions and new vistas beckons, and I look ahead to my

future with courage, enthusiasm, a vivid sense of

wholeness and renewed aliveness.

And so, with the greatest of respect for my ancestor's

gifts, I would like to inform you that I have decided

to change my name.

Sincerely,

Frances

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This story is a living manuscript. It is a narrative

that is always being amplified by synchronicities and

the larger stories of the culture we call myth as

these intersect and reveal deeper meaning. It is my

story of homecoming and it is magical and wonderful,

moving and inspiring. What is about to be told is

true.

When I was 8 years old my dotty aunt Stella took me

aside and showed me a picture. It was an old picture

from the London Illustrated News of the 1890's, hand

engraved showing 8 harpists playing before Queen

. She said, " there were seven brothers and

their father . This is Queen

whom they played for. Now you must always remember

that this is your family and you're a somebody! " So I

grew up hearing stories about my harp playing

relatives who were also gypsies and bards that went

from town to town in Wales providing musical

entertainment for weddings and dances in the mountains

and valleys of North Wales.

1997 to 1998 was a year of great turmoil and

disturbance for me. My marriage ended when my husband

of 17 years told me he didn't love me anymore and

wanted to start a new life without me or our family.

As well, my 19 year old son was ready to leave home,

midlife was catching up with me, I was also career

changing; everything that was no longer relevant was

now crumbling, leaving me feeling devastated with

absolutely no choice but to move on and rebuild.

In the midst of this harrowing feeling, when a friend

invited me to a Good Friday service at a Welsh Church,

Dewi Sant in Toronto, I accepted, gratefully. We

decided to have supper between services. I was

sitting close to a woman whose appearance was very

familiar, she looked like all my relatives. Her name

was Olwyn, a retired schoolteacher from Angelsey the

island off the Northwest coast of Wales where the

ferry leaves for its crossing over the Irish Sea. We

had been singing Hymns in Welsh and some flicker of

memory of that language was returning. So I leaned

over to her and asked her to translate some Welsh

words I had heard spoken as a child. What does " Noys

da " mean I asked. " Good night " she answered. Then she

asked me if I was Welsh. " I am from a Welsh

background on my father's side " I said. " We were

gypsy harp players who lived in North Wales at Bala.

At least that is the story I was told as a child. "

Truth be known, as an adult I had always thought the

story was a fairytale, and I felt not a little

embarrassed to be repeating it to this stranger. Our

casual conversation turned into a Good Friday

revelation, when I was shocked to discover that all

the stories I had heard as a child about my gypsy harp

playing relatives were true. Olwyn confirmed for me

that accounts of my great great grand father,

and his seven sons who played the harp for

Royalty, were recorded. The Royal Harper and the

Romany Harper were his epithets. Olwyn went on to

tell me that my Celtic ancestors had been loved and

applauded in Wales. The es were quite renowned

for their harp playing, so much so, that Olwyn had in

her possession a book that told the es story.

She gave me her phone number and asked me to call and

come over for tea to see her and look at the book.

Two days later I was sitting in Olwyn's comfortable

living room. When she handed me the book, I gasped.

In my hands was the picture I had last seen when I was

8 years old. " Now " , she said looking at me in a

direct grandmotherly way, " you have a clan and a clan

name. So when you go to Wales if anyone asks you,

tell them you belong to Teulu Owen Brand. " I repeated

her words slowly. " Teulu Owen Brand. " " That's who

you are! " she said. " And there's a Canadian

connection. on Davies is from the same

family. " I remembered that Davies is my grandmother's

maiden name on the matriarchal lineage, so it made

sense to me that the combination of and Davies

would be his name.

Needless to say I read the book with great intensity.

I discovered that Owen Brand is the original gypsy who

arrived in Wales in the late 1600's. He was a

renowned gypsy fiddle player and teller of Romany

stories who is attributed with introducing the fiddle

to Wales. When Abram's granddaughter, Wood

married a Welshman named she was the

first gypsy to marry outside the Teulu (clan) which

meant that the Romany language had remained pure for

150 years. When they married, and

had many children, one of whom was .

The gypsies had taken to the Welsh National

instrument, the harp and played both harp and fiddle

so grew up amidst this music. I also

learned that their music is an unbroken tradition

(unlike the Irish and ish Harp traditions) that

has been handed down through seven generations and is

still being played today. But more about that later

on in my story.

I had not heard the harp playing as a child, though I

began to remember one in Auntie Stella's house which,

my father told me, was sold to pay for the alchohol

upon which she depended. My father too began to

remember his grandmother playing the harp in the

kitchen of the Welsh farmhouse when he was a child.

Though for him there was much pain remaining from his

childhood, so he couldn't go much further with his

remembering.

Then in September of 1998, whilst I was looking for

some music in a haphazard and disorganized record

store, I was directed to the wrong section. As I was

about the leave, when my eye caught sight of a picture

of a harp on a CD of Welsh harp music by Robin Huw

Bowen. So, with nothing to lose, I purchased it.

Back in the office, I opened the CD and discovered

three tracks were directly attributed to the

family. One track, Piddawns y Gof, a hornpipe, had

been passed down through the family for over six

generations without ever being committed to paper. I

read from the liner notes that Robin Huw Bowen, the

performer on the CD, had single handedly sought out

the last remaining harp playing members of the family

and learned the music orally, the traditional way. He

had also written down this music which is now kept in

the National Library of Wales in Aberyswyth along with

the harp won (one of many wins) at the

Welsh National Eisteddfod. Hearing Robin playing

their music was a thrilling experience - sparkling

harp music, dance music - a fabulous Gypsy fire lit on

the Welsh earth, fusing gypsy dance with Welsh Celtic

airs.

Nearly a year had gone by. A very painful,

frightening and sorrowful year of endings. I was

about to make the physical move out of my old life and

into the new unknown life that lay ahead. Looking for

somewhere to live in a city where the rental rate is

1% there were many disappointments. so when I called

the number from the classifieds for a darling coach

house, I didn't hold out much hope. And yet, the

anonymous voicemail spoke. " If you are interested in

the coach house or harp lessons, please leave a

message. " Well, I did, of course, with all the

mundane details about job and salary. Then I added

how this was an interesting coincidence as my family

were Welsh Gypsy harpists.

called me right back. We talked about the harp,

her teaching, my history and about the coach house.

When she told me she too was from a family of

harpists, something inside, a voice wanted to rejoice.

The next day I was to view the coach house. On my

walk there, I consciously hold the image that I am

walking the labyrinth. A labyrinth is an ancient

pattern of a maze like the one carved on the rock at

Ireland's Tara, denoting the gateway to the

dreamworld. I walk with intention and readiness for

the unexpected. When you walk the labyrinth, at any

given turn you suddenly enter centre. Well, it was

just like that. When I walked into the coach house, I

left my " dark night of the soul " and entered my

centre. But again details, all very mundane, all very

important; hydro bills, parking space, pets etc. Yet

also a magic, a chord struck - an accord - that played

between and I, like we are both " in love. " As

we spoke, I hear a harp playing music.

's parents are to be my landlords. I must go

over to their house to sign a lease. At their house,

's mother's harp (Judy Loman is the Toronto

Symphony's Prinicipal Harpist) has come to occupy a

special place. Beyond the hall, beside the dining

room is a glass room. Inside the harp has a tall,

dignified, refined, beautiful and regal presence.

It's the first harp I have seen in the " flesh " so to

speak and I am overcome with a feeling in my throat

that if I were not to be so polite, it would sound

like a long " aaaaaaaaah " of deep pleasure felt only

and very rarely in ecstasy. I meet 's mother,

from whom I learnt that four generations of women in

her family are harpists. I tell her about my great

great grand father and his seven sons who were also

harpists. There is something wonderful about our

stories that intermingles the males and females coming

together. I am really surprised. She is in awe of

me?

The business completed, I leave with the keys to the

coach house in my eager hands. Aglow from our very

intense meeting, I hop into a cab and go straight to

the coach house. And there my new coach house sits

behind the big house at the end of the driveway, at

the bottom of the garden surrounded by evergreens,

nuzzled in a blanket of snow; small and perfect and

mine. A place to begin my new life.

That summer of 1999 I was gifted with a harp and

became my harp teacher. I took to playing quite

easily as I had already learned the piano and flute.

My father had been an accomplished operatic tenor and

I had accompanied him singing his Verdi and Puccini

arias on the piano as a child..

A few months later when I learned that Robin Huw Bowen

was coming to Ottawa, Canada to give a harp workshop

and a performance. I put my harp in the car and drove

5 hours Ottawa. I settled into Robin's workshop and

played the piece he taught us orally, with ease. In

the break I showed him the book on the ' family

and said that I was a descendent. " Well, " he said,

" then we are cousins. " When I played again in the

second half of his workshop he put his face close to

mine and said in a mentoring tone " now, Frances, play

with that gypsy blood in your veins! "

My ancestors' story is part of Welsh folklore, the

myth of the Welsh community. It is my direct

connection in the larger narratives of the past: to

celtic mythology; the Druid bardic tradition; stone

circles; ancient Welsh poetry and the Mabinogian; the

mysticism of the Merlin and the Arthurian myths; the

Romany storytelling and occult traditions; as well as

the musical traditions of the tribes and celtic

nations of Ireland and Scotland.

This beautiful story is one I can hand down to my son,

who can hand down to his children and so on. In fact,

this summer at a Celtic Music Festival in Goderich,

Ontario, I shared my story for the first time,

publically. In that tribal gathering I was surprised

that my story moved many people to tears. And for the

first time in my life I experienced the feeling of

self-esteem and respect for my direct link back to the

collective celtic soul, its folklore, myth and

history. And yes, I felt like a somebody.

I believe my ancestors have watched over me and taken

care of me during this life crisis, my " dark night of

the soul " , that is to say my life's journey from one

old meaning to another new meaning. I've left behind

my old patterns defined by roles as mother, wife and

mate to an academic and ordained minister. I've

accepted the many new perspectives whose riches and

deeper patterns I am only beginning to excavate,

uncover and own as mine. On a personal level, they've

awakened latent abilities and talents that support me

with that special light called the Self that I use to

navigate the vicissitudes of life. My creativity is

blossoming out into other arts, I am writing a

collection of poems, becoming a storyteller, painting

floorcloths and composing songs whose archetypal

themes are infused with my new voice. Sitting on this

branch of the family tree, I can see that their story

has healed my father and my relationship with him and

my whole family. And now we can all share the fruits

of wisdom.

On a transpersonal level, my new life is seeded within

that ancestral " significant soil " as T.S. Eliot calls

it, where I imagine the roots of the world tree grow,

conduits of the eternal flame. I can now face the

future knowing that there is a source from which a

deep flow of love feeds those roots. All the

synchronicities, providential meetings, new

friendships, opportunities and new perspectives that

are carried in that flow are available to anyone who

sinks their taproot into this strata of the world's

ancestral soul. For as Jung says, " life (is) like a

plant that lives on its own rhizome. " He " never lost

a sense of something that lives and endures underneath

the eternal flux. "

Many a night the harp music of my house drifts over

gardens and onto city streets. Neighbours have been

known to remark that they can hear an angel. But I

know it's my Welsh Gypsy Celtic ancestors sharing

their music once again, bringing back to this earth

their beauty and mystery to create a place that my

soul now rightly calls home.

Frances

(formerly Frances )

February 1998

Revised March 1999

Revised December 1999

Revised: September, 2000

Toronto, Ontario

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