‘Lughnasadh’ Was it always about goddess Tailtiu? August 1st 2025
- Danielle Baker
- Jul 29
- 8 min read
Welcome,
For all in the northern hemisphere we are approaching Lughnasadh, I hope this blog offers some inspirations and a path back to the goddess.
Lughnasadh, also known as Lúnasa, is an ancient Celtic festival marking the first harvest, held around August 1 in the Northern Hemisphere. Though named after the god Lugh, a radiant figure of skill, art, and leadership, the deeper roots of this celebration lie in honouring his foster mother, Tailtiu, a queen or earth goddess who died after clearing the land for crops.
Lugh established the festival in her memory, blending mourning with joy through gatherings, games, and gratitude. Tailtiu represents the spirit of the land itself , the quiet, often unseen labour that sustains life.
Lughnasadh invites us to pause and reflect on what has been given, what is ripening within us, and what must now be returned to the earth. It is a time to honour sacrifice, to celebrate abundance, and to remember that every harvest is part of a greater cycle, of giving, receiving, and beginning again.
The Energy of Lughnasadh
At Lughnasadh, the energy is full and heavy with ripening. The land swells with grain, fruit, and seed — yet nothing is promised. It is a threshold moment, where gratitude meets uncertainty, and the first signs of change are felt in the air.
This is the time when the labour of the growing season begins to bear fruit, but the full harvest is still to come. There is joy in the gathering, but also awareness of what has been lost along the way, and what may still be at risk.
Spiritually, this season carries the imprint of grief and honour, echoing Tailtiu’s sacrifice, the effort behind abundance, and the lives that sustain us in ways we often overlook. The goddess at this time is not just a giver, but one who has given everything, and asks us to remember her not with pity, but with presence.
Lughnasadh reminds us that harvest requires effort, that sacrifice is part of creation, and that every season carries both its gifts and its letting go.
Lughnasadh: What This Season Holds
A time of first harvest — grain, fruit, and early crops begin to ripen.
The energy is full, tense, and transitional — not the peak, but a threshold.
Labour and sacrifice come into focus — what was required to bring growth this far.
Joy and grief walk side by side — honouring both what we have and what was lost.
A moment to pause and give thanks before the deeper harvest and darker months arrive.
The land begins its slow exhale — light shifts, plants prepare to seed and return.
Spiritually, a call to remember those who gave before us, like Tailtiu, and to ask what we are offering in return.
Traditional Lughnasadh rituals
Traditional Lughnasadh rituals come from a mix of ancient Celtic customs, agrarian practices, and folk traditions that evolved over time. While we can never know every exact detail, several core elements were widely practiced, especially in Ireland and Scotland, and many of them survive in folk memory and modern revivals.
Here are some of the most traditional Lughnasadh ceremonies and rituals:
1. The Tailteann Games
Athletic competitions, foot races, wrestling, and feats of strength were held in Tailtiu’s honour.
These were communal events — a way to honour life, skill, and vitality while grieving her death.
Think of it as an early harvest fair filled with celebration, competition, and kinship.
2. Communal Gatherings and Storytelling
People came together for music, bardic poetry, ancestral tales, and matchmaking.
It was a time of renewing bonds, sharing knowledge, and passing stories forward.
Some rituals included handfasting (trial marriages) or honoring sacred oaths.
3. Offering the First Fruits / Grain
The first bread baked from the new grain would be offered back to the land or the gods.
Sometimes placed on altars, burial mounds, or sacred hills, the offering gave thanks to Tailtiu and the spirits of the land.
People would bless grain, fruit, or ale and eat together with intention and gratitude.
4. Hilltop Pilgrimages and Bonfires
People climbed sacred hills or mountains — often associated with Tailtiu — to make offerings or hold games.
Bonfires were lit to mark the turning of the season and as protection rituals for the coming darker months.
5. Honouring the Land and Ancestors
Lughnasadh was deeply tied to the cycles of land, death, and return.
Offerings to Tailtiu, local deities, or ancestors were common — sometimes in the form of flowers, songs, or grain buried in the earth.
✨ Modern adaptations could include:
Baking bread or cooking with local, seasonal food
Writing a letter to your ancestors or to Tailtiu, then burning or burying it
A solo pilgrimage — walking to a natural place with prayer or song
A gratitude ritual: naming what you’re harvesting in life, and what you’ll release
Lughnasadh Ritual
You’ll need:
A small piece of bread, grain, fruit, or seasonal food
A candle (or small fire if outside)
A bowl of water or earth
Something to offer (a flower, a few seeds, a written note, a breath)
1. Set Your Space: Find a quiet place — outdoors if possible, or near a window. Light your candle and take a few deep breaths. Let the land around you be part of the ritual, even if only in your imagination.
2. Reflect on the Season:Say aloud or silently:
“The earth is heavy with what is ripening. I stand at the threshold — between what has grown and what is still to come. Between gratitude and grief. Between light and the coming dark.”
3. Honour Tailtiu: Hold your offering. Imagine Tailtiu — the one who cleared the land, who gave her strength so life could continue.
Say:
“Tailtiu, earth mother, forgotten one, I remember you. I honour the work, the giving, the loss. May I carry your spirit with reverence.” Place your offering into the earth or water, or beside the candle.
4. Offer Gratitude: Take a bite of the bread or fruit, and pause to feel what it took for this food to reach you — seed, soil, hands, sun, time.
Whisper:
“I give thanks for this harvest, and for all that made it possible — seen and unseen, human and more-than-human.”
5. Personal Reflection:
Ask yourself:
What am I harvesting now?
What has been given — by me, or for me — to make this possible?
What can I return to the earth?
6. Close the Ritual Blow out the candle with a simple promise:
“May I remember. May I give. May I grow with care.”
Sit in stillness for a few breaths, then return gently to your day.
Lughnasadh Altar
1. Ground the Space: Lay a cloth in warm, earthy tones — gold, rust, wheat, or deep green. Let it reflect the fullness and richness of late summer.
2. Centerpiece: The Offering of the Harvest: Place a small loaf of bread, a bundle of grain, or a seasonal fruit or vegetable in the center. This symbolizes the first harvest and what has ripened in your life.
3. Honour Tailtiu: Add something to represent Tailtiu, the one who laboured and gave herself for the land:
A small stone or carved figure
A sprig of dried grass or a hand-drawn image
A simple handwritten note: “I remember you.”
4. Flame and Light: Place a candle to represent the waning sun and the light of remembrance. As the light begins to soften in the outer world, this flame holds the inner fire.
5. Bowl of Earth or Water: Include a small bowl of earth or water to symbolise the land that received her, and the cycle of return. This can also receive offerings during your ritual.
6. Symbols of Your Own Harvest Add something personal:
A photo, object, or word that represents what you’ve been working toward
A written reflection of what you’re grateful for
Something that represents what you’re ready to release or compost
7. Seasonal Touches: Decorate with dried flowers, seed heads, wheat, herbs, berries, sunflowers, or anything from the land around you.
Guided Meditation: A Journey to Meet Tailtiu
Honouring the harvest, the grief, and the return
Begin by finding a quiet place to sit or lie down. Allow your body to settle. Let the weight of gravity draw you gently toward the earth. Close your eyes. Take three deep, full breaths. Inhale through your nose... exhale through your mouth...
Feel the air around you. The space you’re in. The way your body is held without effort.
Now begin to bring your attention to your breath, slow, steady, and rhythmic. Let the breath anchor you. Let it soften your thoughts. Let it carry you inward.
Imagine now that you are standing in a wide, open field. The air is warm, but not sharp. It is late summer. The time just before the first leaves begin to fall. The light is golden. The grasses are tall, dry at the tips, bowing to the ground under their own weight. There is the scent of grain, of sun-warmed earth, of something ancient in the air.
You begin to walk. Slowly. Barefoot. You feel the ground beneath you, dry in places, damp in others. This land is alive. It knows your steps. It remembers every footprint that came before you.
You walk toward a hill in the distance. There is something, someone - waiting.
As you move closer, you begin to see her.
A woman kneels in the soil at the base of the hill. Her hands are deep in the earth. Her nails are dark with dirt. Her body is tired, worn, not broken, but deeply worked. She is not adorned in gold. Her beauty is of another kind, the kind that is shaped by endurance, by devotion, by quiet sacrifice.
This is Tailtiu.
The one who cleared the land so others could eat.
The one who gave herself so something might grow.
The one who has been forgotten by name, but not by act.
You move gently toward her, and she lifts her head.
Her eyes are not soft, but clear. She sees into you. Not with judgment, but with recognition.
You kneel beside her. The ground is still warm from the day. You feel the labour in the land. You feel it in yourself.
Tailtiu speaks without words at first. You feel her question in your body:
“Do you know what it takes to feed a people?”
“Do you know what has been lost to keep this world spinning?”
“Do you know the weight of giving everything and being remembered only by absence?”
And then she speaks aloud, her voice is low, firm, and full of breath:
“They named this time after my son. But I am the one who gave the land. I am the one who broke my body to bring the harvest. And still, I am not angry. I am here. I am always here.”
She reaches into the earth and places something in your hand — a seed, or maybe a grain, or maybe something you cannot name. You look down. It is small. But you know it carries the memory of her work. Her grief. Her love. Her promise.
She looks at you once more and asks:
“What are you growing with the life I gave you?”
“Will you remember me through your hands, through your choices, through how you love and give and return?”
You sit with her. You let the question move through you, not just for yourself, but for all those who’ve forgotten what it means to be in right relationship with land, with labour, with the feminine, with each other.
You let your breath settle. You feel her presence in your bones.
You may offer her something - a word, a tear, a vow. Let it be enough.
Now, slowly, begin to rise. The field is still there. The hill behind you. The golden light shifting. The wind soft.
Begin to return.
Feel your body again, the weight of you in the room. The support beneath you. The breath in your chest.
You can place your hand on your heart or your belly.
Know that Tailtiu walks with you now, in your remembering, in your daily offering, in the way you bring yourself back to what truly feeds life.
Take one more breath.
And when you are ready… open your eyes.
Thank you for reading. Sending love, Danielle
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