There comes a point in any long spiritual life when inherited language no longer quite fits, yet still refuses to be discarded. Druid is one of those words for me.
I do not use it lightly.
I do not use it romantically.
And I do not use it because I believe I stand in an unbroken line reaching back into prehistory.
I use it because, after many years of practice, study, and lived experience, it remains the most honest word I have for the kind of spiritual work I do — and the land from which that work arises.
The problem with lineage
One of the quiet difficulties within modern Druidry is the question of lineage. It is understandable that people want continuity. Roots matter. Tradition matters. But honesty matters more.
The simple truth is this: there are no provable unbroken Druidic lineages.
What we know of the ancient Druids comes from fragmentary sources — Roman observers with political agendas, later Christian writers looking back through unfamiliar eyes, and much later romantic reconstructions shaped by the needs and imaginations of their time. There are no Druidic scriptures, no ritual manuals, no priestly handbooks handed down intact through the centuries.
That does not make modern Druidry false — but it does mean we should be careful not to pretend certainty where there is none.
To my mind, Druidry does not need imagined continuity to be valid. It needs integrity.
What we actually know
What we can say, with reasonable confidence, is that the Druids were the learned spiritual class of these islands. They were poets, ritual specialists, advisers, judges, and custodians of myth and memory. Their work was rooted in land, season, story, and the unseen dimensions of life.
That function matters more than any fantasy about robes or rites.
And if we are looking for traces of early Celtic spirituality that can be studied with some confidence, one of the richest places to look is early Celtic Christianity — not because it “replaced” Druidry, but because it absorbed and re-expressed much of the spiritual sensibility of the land.
Early Celtic Christian prayer, poetry, and monastic practice retain a deep attentiveness to place, rhythm, presence, and the nearness of the divine within everyday life. This is not conjecture or romantic invention; it is preserved in texts, prayers, and lived tradition. It offers us something solid to work with, rather than speculation.
Myth is not history — and that’s not a problem
Another area where clarity helps is myth.
Myths and legends are not historical accounts. They are not factual records of what “really happened”. But neither are they lies.
Myth is a different mode of knowing.
Myths shape perception. They form imagination. They carry pattern, meaning, and orientation. They speak to ethe soul rather than historical accuracy. Treating them as literal truth weakens them; dismissing them entirely impoverishes us.
For me, myth and stories belong at the heart of Druidry — not as belief, but as working material. Something we enter, learn from, and step back from again. Myth becomes dangerous only when it is mistaken for history or identity.
A modern Druidry
The Druidry I practise — and increasingly feel called to articulate — is unapologetically modern.
It is shaped by:
- Celtic myth and what is known of early Celtic spirituality
- The spiritual character of this land and its seasons
- Modern occult practice, honestly acknowledged
- Disciplined work with attention, presence, and change
- Lived mysticism — the everyday awareness of the divine, not confined to any one religious house
It makes no claims to ancient purity. It does not pretend to revive something lost. It does not require belief in gods, spirits, or stories as literal fact.
It asks instead: how shall we live, attend, and act in this place, at this time, with depth and responsibility?
Why I still use the word Druid
So why still call myself a Druid?
Because historically, druid was not a lineage — it was a role.
It named those who worked with the spiritual, poetic, and mythic life of the land. Those who held presence, mediated meaning, and stood at the threshold between worlds. That is the work I recognise myself in.
I do not claim to be an ancient Druid reborn.
I do not claim inherited authority.
I do claim responsibility for the path I walk and teach.
In that sense, calling myself a Druid is not an assertion of status — it is a declaration of function.
An honest inheritance
Perhaps the deepest loyalty we can show to the past is not imitation, but honesty.
We honour the ancient Druids not by pretending to be them, but by doing what they did: working with what is here, now, with skill, restraint, imagination, and reverence.
That is the Druidry I stand in.
Not reconstructed.
Not defended.
Not inherited.
Lived.
Ancient Whispers 
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