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It is a question that has echoed through schoolyards and public houses for generations, a simple riddle that seems to tie our logic in knots. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The question itself feels like a perfect closed loop. A chicken hatches from an egg, of course, but that egg had to be laid by a chicken. So we find ourselves trapped, pacing back and forth along a straight line of cause and effect, with no clear beginning.
It is a puzzle that has been debated by philosophers and scientists alike, each offering their own intricate explanations, often involving evolutionary biology and genetic mutations. But what if the problem is not with the chicken or the egg? What if the problem is with the line itself? The way we frame the question, demanding a single starting point, forces us into a corner.
We are conditioned to think in terms of beginnings and endings, of first and last. This linear thinking is a hallmark of our modern world, a world of timelines, progress charts, and definitive answers. It is how we build our histories and plan our futures. It is a useful tool, certainly, but it is not the only way to see the world, and perhaps not the most profound.
Long before our modern debates there were people who saw the world not as a straight line but as a great unending circle. The ancient Celts who inhabited Ireland lived their lives in tune with the rhythms of nature. They did not see time as a relentless march forward, instead they saw it as a cycle
forever turning like the great wheel of the seasons. Winter would always give way to spring, night would always surrender to dawn, and life would always emerge from what seemed like an end. For them, a question like which came first might have seemed wonderfully strange. To understand their perspective, we must try to step outside our own way of thinking. Imagine standing on a misty hillside watching the sun rise.
For the Celts this was not just the start of a new day, it was part of a continuous story, a dance of light and dark that had no true beginning and no final end. Their beliefs were woven into the very fabric of the landscape around them, in the turning of the tides and the phases of the moon. They saw connection everywhere. The idea of a single isolated first event would have been foreign to their entire world view. They lived inside the circle, not outside it, looking for a starting line.
The Celtic understanding of existence was profoundly different from our own. They saw life, death, and rebirth not as separate events on a timeline, but as interconnected points on a never-ending circle. This idea is carved into their most sacred symbols. Look at the triskele, with its three swirling spirals flowing into one another.
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It represents the perpetual motion of life, the constant flow between states of being. There is no start or finish in that design. Each spiral emerges from the other and flows back into the next. It is a visual representation of a world where endings are simply new beginnings in disguise. This philosophy was not just an abstract concept, it was a lived reality. The changing seasons were the most powerful teachers.
They observed the land dying back in the autumn, lying dormant and seemingly lifeless through the harshness of winter. But they held a deep-seated trust that life was not gone, merely sleeping. They knew with certainty that spring would return, bringing with it an explosion of new growth.
The first green shoots pushing through the cold earth were not a surprise, but an affirmation of this eternal cycle. Death was not a final stop, but a necessary part of the journey towards renewal. This belief extended to the human soul. The Celts held a strong conviction in reincarnation, the idea that the soul would pass from one life to the next. This was not a frightening prospect, but a comforting one.
It meant that life was a continuous journey of learning and experience, stretching across many lifetimes. The other world, their term for the realm of spirits and deities, was not a distant heaven or hell. It was a parallel existence intricately woven into our own, a place one might slip into and out of.
This constant interplay between worlds reinforced the idea that nothing ever truly ends. So, when we bring our chicken-and-egg paradox to the Celts, we are bringing a linear question to a circular worldview. They would not seek to break the circle to find a starting point. Instead, they would celebrate the circle itself. The chicken and the egg are not in competition for first place.
They are two parts of a single miraculous process. The chicken is the potential of the egg made real, and the egg is the promise of the chicken yet to come. They are partners in the dance of life, eternally chasing each other around the great wheel,
Within Celtic tradition, the egg holds a special place, imbued with powerful symbolism. It is a perfect vessel of potential, a small, self-contained world holding the promise of new life.
One of the most fascinating stories, recorded by the Roman writer Pliny the Elder, speaks of the druids and a mystical object they called the serpent's egg or glane. This was not a normal egg laid by a bird, it was said to be created from the spittle and froth of a mass of writhing serpents formed during the summer months.
The serpents would toss this magical orb into the air, and a druid had to catch it in a cloak before it touched the ground. This story, though perhaps fantastical to our modern ears, is rich with meaning. The serpents themselves are powerful symbols of rebirth and transformation. They shed their skin, emerging renewed, a perfect metaphor for the cycles of life and death. The creation of the egg from a tangled mass of these creatures speaks to a beginning that emerges not from a single source.
but from a collective, chaotic and creative energy. The egg is not the start of the process, it is a manifestation of the cyclical power of the serpents. It is a product of the circle, not the start of a line. The story continues that the druid who secured this serpent's egg had to flee on horseback, pursued by the enraged serpents, until he crossed a river.
Water, for the Celts, was a sacred boundary, a gateway between worlds. By crossing it, the druid secured the power of the egg. This magical object was believed to bring victory in disputes and grant favour with powerful leaders. It was a charm of immense power, a concentration of life's cyclical energy. The egg was a symbol of cosmic potential.
a key to understanding the very workings of the universe. In this myth, the question of which came first, the serpent or the egg, becomes irrelevant. The serpents and the egg are part of the same magical cyclical event. The egg is born from the serpents,
but its power is linked to their eternal nature of shedding skin and being reborn. One cannot exist without the other. This ancient story provides a framework for looking at our own riddle. The chicken and the egg, like the serpent and its mystical orb, are locked in a creative dance. They are two faces of the same eternal process of life unfolding.
So what can we take from this ancient wisdom today in a world so far removed from that of the Druids? By looking at the chicken-and-egg paradox through a Celtic lens, we are given permission to let go of the need for a simple, linear answer. We can see that perhaps the riddle is not a problem to be solved, but a truth to be embraced. The paradox exists only because we insist on a starting point.
The Celtic perspective invites us to admire the beautiful, self-sustaining circle of life that the chicken and the egg represent. It is not a flaw in logic, it is a feature of nature. This way of thinking can be applied to more than just old riddles. In our own lives, we are often obsessed with beginnings and endings.
We worry about starting a career on the right path or fret about the finality of our mistakes. Celtic wisdom teaches us that life is more fluid and forgiving than that. An ending can be a fallow period before new growth. A mistake can be the unexpected beginning of a new and better journey. It encourages us to see ourselves as part of a larger ever-turning cycle rather than as protagonists in a story with a single irreversible plot.
These ancient stories and symbols matter because they offer a powerful counter-narrative to our often rigid and stressful modern worldview. They remind us of our deep connection to the natural world and its rhythms. In an age of digital clocks and tight schedules, the idea of cyclical time, of seasons, of moons, of life and rebirth is a profoundly calming and grounding one. It reconnects us to a sense of permanence and continuity that transcends our own brief lifespans.
It tells us we are part of something much older and more enduring than ourselves. Ultimately the Celts would not answer the question of which came first. They would simply smile and point to the circle. The chicken and the egg exist together, in a perfect unbroken loop of becoming. They are a testament to the endless cyclical magic of life itself.
And in a world that constantly demands answers, there is a deep and quiet wisdom in learning to appreciate the beauty of a question that contains its own eternal reply. The riddle is not a puzzle to be cracked, but a small window into the profound mystery of existence.
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