Bright Golden Grain

There’s a story told, perhaps it’s true, of barley growing from the graves of soldiers. It comes from the Uprising of 1798 when a group calling themselves the United Irishmen came together to fight for freedom against oppressive British rule.

Inspired by the revolutions in America and France, this collection of common folk, shopkeepers, farmers, and herdsmen, rose up against the strongest military of the time. Despite some early victories, this quixotic venture was doomed from the start. Light on equipment and provisions, the rebels carried their food, grains of barley, in their pockets.

It was at the battle of Vinegar Hill that the hopes of the rebellion were crushed. A ragged band of Irishmen armed with pikes, ax handles, and farm implements fought a British force of trained troops. No match for muskets and canons, they were slaughtered like sheep and their bodies, perhaps a thousand, buried in shallow graves. A month later, waves of golden barley sprouted from their pockets, flourishing on the field where the rebellion could not.

This is the story passed down in Irish lore. To this day, the sight of wild barley in the spring is seen as a symbol of the eternal strength of the human spirit, a reminder that noble effort is always worth the cost. From the folk song “The Wind that Shakes the Barley” to Seamus Heaney’s “Requiem for the Croppies,” we’re told that fresh life rises from what has died.

No one tells a tale of pathos like the Irish.

The imagery is compelling, but the story romanticizes war too much for me. I take the symbolism more broadly. There are oppressive circumstances everywhere. Yes, in government, industry, and every slice of human endeavor, but also in the darker shades of greed and fear we all carry. It takes courage to oppose the force of evil, never more so than when we exhume our hidden demons and bring them to the light of day. Those also have to die to birth the life we want. That, too, is noble effort worthy of the cost.

What elements of oppressive rule exist today, inner and outer, that cry for my attention? How can I find the double courage to speak out even as I look within? What bright golden grain will flourish when I do?

Photo by Henrik B. on Unsplash