The Pathless Path

Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.

Traveler, there is no road,

you make the road by walking.

                                   - Antonio Machado

There is a longing in me for a way, a home, a way home, for a container full of meaningful ritual passed down from the ancestors and the companionship of others.  And yet, every time I have come close to that, I have balked, left, rejected it or ejected myself.   This life has been one of el caminante quien sabe que no hay camino. 

Machado understood the pathless path.  He must have had similar longings. (http://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/208676-sept-12--last-night-as-i-was-sleeping---antonio-machado)  He dreamed of water, beehives, fiery suns and God in his heart.  He chose to see these dreams as illusions.  But what if they aren’t and the dreams really are delivering the goods?

There is no road, no path to lead you into your heart to find these things.  And perhaps no path is needed – only an opening.  It is as though you – I - wander around looking for what we have all along.  Don’t all the mystics say that?

But we are caught in a concept of walking a path, stuck in a construct of linear time.  If only we could lay that all down at the altar of the heart.  If only we could de-throne the mind.  If only the mind itself would abdicate its rule, saying, “Here is the orb and the crown.  Heart, I bequeath them to you.  You are much more fit to rule.”

And the fountain in the heart would flow without end.  The bees would work at their honey-making.  The sun would radiate warmth and bring tears to our eyes, and God (Goddess, Source, the Mystery) would be there.  The pathless path would meander in and around the gardens of the heart, circling, spiraling, not needing to go or arrive anywhere.

And the heart would say, “Come home!  All is forgiven!”  And you would.  You would dwell there, not needing to seek anymore.  Only to lean out and look at the colors and waves and people and trees.  To know that where you are is where the worlds touch, where all is possible, and nothing needs to be done.

It may not be obvious from this post, but I am beginning to ferment ideas for this Spring's Persephone event for women.  Things are bubbling away in the dark.  We will see what emerges. 

Borderlands

I've been thinking a lot about living in the borderlands (continuing on from recent posts).  I think I may be sticking with this theme for a while.  And it relates to the theme of the importance of place that Deena Metzger raised in the workshop I went to this fall.  Today, out of the blue (which is often how poems come to me), I wrote the following:

Once,

feeling untethered

and unraveling,

I found myself

at the edge

of a great void,

toes jutting out

into emptiness,

breath caught

in my chest.

I couldn’t help

but peek over.

All I saw was

nothingness, and

fear gripped my heart

and squeezed.

Slowly and carefully,

I exhaled and

forced my feet to

shuffle back

onto solid ground.

Since that time

I have mostly

stayed safely away

from the edge.

I knitted myself

back together.

But I live now

on the fringes,

not far from

the precipice.

Why do I do this?

Living close to my fear is also

living with the brightest, deepest,

most vibrant colors.

This is where

my people are.

This is where

I have made my home.

This is where

the intensity of living

beats most clearly.

Living in the

borderlands requires

all we have and

all we are.

Where else

should I be?

Putting Pieces of the Puzzle Together

While delving into Deena Metzger’s Writing for Your Life as I sat to write my morning pages, I ran across this statement:

The underworld, the realm of soul making is the site of the chthonic creative forces.  One descends to the underworld in order to gain wisdom through encountering the dead and the most primal powers.

Deena’s work continues to inform me; not only the book, but also the workshop I went to in October.  You can tell that a workshop has been worth your time when it’s still working on you several months later.  I feel as though there are a number of puzzle pieces that are starting to fit together for me(and, boy, that always feels good). 

One of the exercises Deena gave us (after doing a lot of other writing) was filling in this blank, “ I am the woman who______________.”  What came for me was: I am the woman who lives with pollution and beauty.  Nothing like sitting in the tension of the opposites!  (There’s a lot I could say about this, but this is a blog and that would be a long discourse.)  Another piece Deena had us consider was:  What is the story you’ve been given to carry?  Well, the Persephone story has been with me for most of my life.  And who is she but the one who must travel between realms and find some balance?  She certainly lives in the tension of the opposites.  Puzzle pieces fitting together.

And here is another one.  My dream group periodically invites Jeremy Taylor to come and speak and work dreams with us.  He came in December, and it was my privilege to be the one whose dream we focused on.  I won’t relate the whole dream, but it had to do with potential travel in small boats, a deep lake in a quarry, and a talk with a friend about our sadness over Angeles Arrien’s death.  Jeremy eventually interpreted the dream as my being in the borderlands and receiving an invitation to visit the land of the dead.  Not a literal death for me, but rather a shamanic call.  I’ve been chewing on that one ever since.  Of course, it relates to Persephone, but otherwise I couldn’t really get a grip on it until I went for a psychic reading and asked about it.  She said that that we might call it death or simply a different reality and transition point, that I am able touch it to get some of its wisdom and also to connect with some of the brilliant beings that have left the physical world, who are still there and who have wisdom to offer. It is an invitation to find a different way to connect to that place, not just look at it from afar, but be close enough to it to sense what it is trying to offer me.  Now this is beginning to make some sense.

Then, this morning, I began to write about this idea – and the name of the blog – of hanging out with Hecate.  Hecate is certainly a borderlands figure, the only one close enough to hear Persephone’s cries as Hades took her down.  Hecate is the one who eventually chooses “to precede and follow” Persephone as she travels between the worlds.

Hecate has three faces in Greek artistic representations.  She stands at the crossroads.  Ever since the move to Oakland and all the big changes in my life, I’ve used this image of hanging out with Hecate as one of waiting, of not knowing which road to take next.  Today, I thought - what if it isn’t that at all, at least not now?  What if it’s an image of hunkering down in the borderlands, of being okay with staying there?  Maybe hanging out with Hecate isn’t waiting to choose a path.  Maybe sitting here, in the tension, IS the path.  In other words, I don't need to wait for the time when Hecate gives me the sign to go one direction or another.  It is perfectly okay to be in this place, with her.  

If Jeremy is right and I have received an invitation, I need to decide whether or not to accept it.  When enough pieces of the puzzle come together that the picture begins to come into focus, it makes sense to acknowledge the aha.

Okay, here’s an aside.  This work, this writing, really bespeaks the mythopoetic to me.  Barry and I got into an interesting discussion the other night.  He had just come back from a storytelling house concert that he thought was wonderful.  We love going to storytelling festivals and events, but one thing we’ve noticed is how little overlap there is between attendance at storytelling gigs and mythopoetic ones.  We enjoy both, but apparently we’re in the minority. Both forms fall into the category of oral tradition, so why do proponents tend to gravitate towards either one or the other?

One of the answers we came up with is that storytelling, although it may be instructive or inspiring, is meant to entertain.  Nothing wrong with that!  The intention of mythopoetic work, on the other hand, is to deepen, to take us into the realm of soul-making.  I should probably define what I mean by “mythopoetic.”  It’s not in common usage, I realize.  I could say that it’s what Michael Meade, Robert Bly and Clarissa Pinkola Estes have given us, and what we will be doing this weekend at Rumi's Caravan, but that doesn’t define it.  What I mean by it (others may have their own definitions) is the use of myth, story, poetry to open and inspire the imagination for the purpose of inner exploration and soul-making.  As Deena says, to gain wisdom.  

 (My Hanging Out with Hecate SoulCollage® card)

The Light Returns

How curious

that when winter

begins,

and it is

the darkest and coldest time,

the light

is returning.

At our house

on the hill,

the sun cannot touch

our door or backyard

from November

to February.

We will not receive

the light these months.

The days must lengthen

before the sun’s reach will

extend to where

we and the chickens

live.

This year,

in the peculiarity

of weather and

climate change,

my flowering ginger

continues to burst

into bloom throughout

the dim month of

December.

The little stalk of  plumeria

I brought home from

the Big Island of Hawaii

and nursed for

so many years,

has also chosen to

flower abundantly

for the first time.

So, here,

in this dark season,

in this dark time,

when helicopters fill

the night sky of Oakland,

and my friends say

they, too, have trouble conjuring

the Christmas spirit,

my endarkened house

is filled with

the scents of paradise,

and the light

returns.

Winter Solstice, 2014

Visiting the Village of Teotitlan del Valle

Many of our travels over the last twenty-five years have been pilgrimages, trips to sacred sites that have had deep meaning for us.  For me, our recent trip to Mexico was not one of these; it was a vacation (Barry saw it differently, as you can see if you check out his blog).  We did visit many ancient sites such as Teotihuacan and Monte Alban, and fabulous museums (Mexican museums are fantastic) full of ancient artifacts. I was impressed with the number of goddess figures, and I loved seeing all of it, but I didn’t experience a personal connection to pieces or to ruins the way I have, say, in Greece or Malta. 

What remains with me most clearly, though, are impressions, colors, and the depth of culture (or more accurately cultures).  People have told me that they wouldn’t travel to Mexico because they wouldn’t feel safe.  I have to say that where we went I felt perfectly safe.  Even in Mexico City (staying in the Condesa neighborhood was great).  Where I felt most connected and was touched profoundly was the village of Teotitlan del Valle, where we spent the final days of our trip.  I am so grateful that we didn’t go to the coast, which is what we had intended.  Not that we wouldn’t have loved some time by the ocean.  But being in the village was special.  Our timing was great.  We arrived on the 20 November holiday, and that evening there was a big village fiesta full of good food and folk dancing performances.  There were several hundred people, and I only saw two other anglos in the crowd.  It was not a tourist affair.  The Zapotec people are tiny, and many still dress in traditional garb, especially the older women.  We definitely stood out, but never felt unwelcome.

Teotitlan is the Zapotec weavers’ village.  It seems as though every family weaves, if not every member of every family.  Some still card and dye their own wool.  We stayed at a B&B an American ex-pat helped two widows open in order to earn money to feed their children after their husbands died.  It felt good to support them.  Of course, we had to purchase several of their small weavings.  

From the rooftop patio outside our 2^nd floor room we had views of the surrounding mountains and of other nearby family compounds - yards with turkeys, chickens and goats, and stables of burros that woke us up each morning.  The area is lovely, with streams running through town and brightly painted buildings.  One nearby mountain peak stood out.  I had the feeling it must be a sacred mountain.  I asked our host and it turned out to be true, and still the site of annual rituals.

Elders here are treated with respect (imagine that!).  Barry witnessed a young man walking down our street who purposely crossed over to the other side to greet and take both hands of an old woman walking the other way. 

No one walks around here without being wished a good day.  Barry went out for a walk one evening and wound up at the church at the end of a mass.  People came up to him as they left and wished him peace, many hugging him.  He came back glowing.  We miss this, don’t we?  The simple courtesies and neighborliness that I imagine used to be the norm, not the exception.

I don’t want to paint life in the village as idyllic.  I’m sure there are plenty of problems, and it’s not realistic to think I could “get” the place in a few days.  But it was a wonderful few days that I will remember.

I’ve been writing and thinking about the importance of place ever since the workshop with Deena Metzger.  Teotitlan del Valle gave me a glimpse of something we’ve lost – a place where people have lived and worked and made art for many generations, where traditions run deep and the ancestral is very much present. 

It didn't hurt that the B&B is called Las Granadas, or The Pomegranates, which of course are sacred to me!