A New Rumplestiltskin Story

She was a good child, a dutiful child.  Oh, she had a spark of rebellion in her, but it was not a hurtful thing, but rather it was based on a keen sense of the ethical.  No matter.  Her parents kept her flashes of spirit reined in, and for the most part she kept herself under wraps in order to be the daughter they wanted.

And so, she learned not to risk very much, reach very far, or open to the world in ways that her family and culture would frown upon.  In fact, she grew rather fearful.  She learned that the world was not safe.  Her compliance made things simpler for her and provided a sense of security, but it also damped her down in ways she could not and would not understand.

When it was time to go to university, she chose a state school not very far from home, a place ordinary students attended.  Her advisor told her that she would be a fine, average student.  The small flame inside of her flared at that; she knew she was intelligent.  But then doubt crept in.  After all, what did she know of the rigors of academic life?  The university was new to her, and maybe it would be harder than she thought.  But the spark refused to fade, and a little voice inside spoke up and claimed that she was not average or ordinary.  She could do this.  She would prove him wrong.  And she did.

She realized that the strong voice in her head had been there all along.  She had just refused to listen to it most of the time.  It began to help her meet the challenges with more courage, but it also demanded something from her.  Like a dwarf confined to the deep mines of her consciousness, it began to seek more daylight.  Soon, a war raged inside her, between the voice that told her that the establishment lied and that she was, indeed, strong and bright, and the voice that kept her protected and in her so-called place.  This latter one knew how to engage her fears.  She knew it had always controlled her, ruled her; it kept all in order, and made her believe that safety was everything.  The other voice gave her freedom, but wanted a lot from her.  It had skills, but because it had been kept down it was greedy and didn’t give a damn for safety or social conventions.  She suspected that if she gave it all it wished for, she could grow resentful and isolated.

Finally, one day she decided that if she could name them, perhaps she could release them both and walk away from the battle and be her own self.  The one she knew longest was simple to name.  She named it King.  The second was more difficult.  She owed it some gratitude, for without it she knew she would have sunk into a death-like life.  But now that she recognized it, she understood that clinging to either meant living with both, for they were locked in eternal struggle.

What was its name?  Rebel? Hope? Skill?  A new voice inside her cried, “Name it!  Name it!  Name it!”

“I call you Resistance,” she said.  And it sank away.

“I need neither a king nor a fighter,” she decided.  “I refuse to grow bitter and I refuse to cave in.”

 “What I need is the Queen who is myself.”

A Three-Card Story

I love the process of SoulCollage®.  One of the joys of making enough cards to have a deck is the chance to do readings with them.  Another is to use them for writing prompts.  Pulling  three cards and telling the story they make is sort of both reading and writing prompt.  Here is a recent one of mine.

The many-armed goddess dances on the skull of death and time.  She shines in the darkness, images flickering around her – of comfort, partnership, travel, sailing over dark waters into the light – all dreams of humankind.  These do not concern her; they are fleeting, time-based, mortal images of passing fancy.  Neither is she bothered by the myriad of bats that hang over her head in the darkness.  They, too, are temporal, and short-lived, at that.

What does interest her are the human perceptions of the items held in her six hands, the choices she offers to those embodied in space and time.  These appear as material objects, but in truth they are ways of looking at reality.  Or should we say, of coping with it.  Is life a glowing egg of possibility?  An enemy to be slain?  A flight of joy and hope?  A challenge? 

The immortal one turns her gaze to one who acknowledges her and offers her prayers.  This one wears the body of an old woman, her face lined and her eyes calm and wise.  She sees the dancing goddess in her dreams and recognizes the celebration of life, death and eternity.  Even now, she understands how she herself is walking towards the darkness, nearing the time of dissolution that is bound to come.  And yet, while she recognizes this, she is also content to live fully on the earth.  She wears flowers and adornments because she and life itself are beautiful. 

She sees all of the choices and accepts them all.

The old one is known as the wisdom keeper by her people.  She accepts the adulation of the younger women.  She knows that if she can be a clear channel, they might sense the goddess through her.  She may, at times, provide a glimpse of She Who Dances.

Her people often ask her for teachings.  They want to learn from the wisdom she has accumulated through her many years.  And so, she tells them to take time alone, to respect their solitude. She says that time spent in contemplation is invaluable, even when it appears to come from sadness, grief or depression. 

The tides come and go.  The sea rises and falls, like the breath.  Attuned to these rhythms, one might almost feel the beating pattern of the goddess’ feet, dancing the dance of all being.  That is what the wisdom keeper says.

*********************************

The middle card is actually one I call Wisdom Keeper.  I always pull a card for each season and a card for the year (this can be a challenge since you have to look at it all year, and mine's a doozy this year - it's called The Wounded Masculine).  I made the Wisdom Keeper card after I turned 65, and I realized at some point that it would be my guide for the next 5 years.  I love that she turned up in this 3-card story/reading.

Images on my cards come from magazines, cards and calendars.  Thanks to all the wonderful photographers and artists whose images inspired us to recreate and discover our inner and outer worlds.  My cards are for my own use and will not be sold or bartered.

Invoking the Muse

Yes, I changed the blog format.  Got tired of the white text on black.

The writing prompt (from Deena Metzger) is:  Picture your muse, and invoke her.

My muse is fickle.  She flies in and out and flits about at her own whim.  She laughs at the idea that she is my muse, belonging to me, meant to come and inspire at my beck and call. Her job may be to inspire, but she has her own existence and doesn’t just wink into being when I choose, remaining dormant in the in-between times.  She is a being with work and purpose, and with a life of her own.

And so, she visits me when she desires or deems it necessary.  Or not even that – when she just plain decides.  She has that edge to her, a snittyness, a self-absorption.  She is fairy-like, ephemeral, arbitrary, spontaneous, even a bit reckless.  Sometimes she tosses just a glimmer of an idea my way, as though sprinkling a dash of fairy dust.  If I catch it, I might shape it into a poem, or jot down a seed of an idea to examine later.  (Or never.)

There are times, though, that she settles down with me for a little while, opening my eyes and my mind to something new, intriguing, beautiful.  She is a muse who loves beauty and surrounds herself with color, light and fragrance.  Does it help me at all to solicit her aid, to pray for her to visit me?  I really don’t know, but it can’t hurt.  The old stories all tell us that the gods want our attention, our offerings.  And really, we do need them, our muses.  Is there anything more valuable than creativity?  Creativity is life.  Even at night when we sleep, we get to visit our own dream theaters, where creativity reigns.

Right now I feel her hovering nearby.  I crave her magic.  I am not happy when, as Rumi says, “I’ve been so woven into the mesh of my trivial errands.”   Where she goes when she is not here I do not and cannot know.  I guess it’s none of my business.  All I can do is entreat her to visit me as often and for as long as she can.  And so I am offering her now the aroma of citrus and peppermint.  I hope that will call her to me.  Muse, please come and enrich my life!

P.S.  SoulCollage® often functions as my muse as well.  This morning I did a little birthday reading, 3 cards (body, mind, spirit).  What an inspiring little blessing of a reading!  The second and third are probably pretty obvious; they are called My Exuberant Child (what my mind needs - more play!) and Hummingbird Child (a spirit gift, for sure).  The first, for my body, I call Omen, and it represents my instinctual self paying attention to the messages of the natural world (the shooting star).

  

Finding Our Way Home - My annual Persephone ritual (March 28th) and a new poem

I've written a bunch of poems since my Persephone book came out in 2010 (check it out here), but none about her (that I can think of, anyway).  Some Hecate ones, for sure.  But the other day I was preparing for my annual Persephone ritual for women (check it out here; there are just a few spots left) and a new one came in her voice.  There are so many themes we could focus on with this story.  What I usually do is work with whatever theme has been up for me.  Lately that has been issues around the importance of place, and more specifically of home, with all that the word implies.  Anyway, here's the poem as it now stands.  I may edit some more, but here goes:

Home

Home was always

Mother.

Where she was

I was, and

I felt safe

and loved.

I know that

every child

must leave

home, leave

her mother.

But I –

I was not

ready.

Now,

in the times

that I am with her,

the place is

familiar, but

no longer

comforting or safe

in the old way.

I have become

her equal.

Now,

I don’t know where

home is

for me.

Her home? His?

In the mortal middle ground?

I begin to suspect that

I must carry

home within me,

that I must find home

wherever I am.

After all,

All places

are my place.

All realms are

my realm.

They were given to me

in the exchange.

Here is what

I realize:

I must find a way

to welcome, and

to be welcomed.

Only then

will I know

where – and to what –

I belong.

Finding Our Way Home

When I begin to plan my annual Persephone Rising event, I spend a lot of time thinking and writing about what has been up for me.  One theme has been the importance of place.  Deena Metzger (yeah, I know - I'm stuck on the work I did with her) said that the 20th century was one of exile and displaced persons.  Being rooted in a particular place is not a given for us.  Most of us do not live where our ancestors are buried and do not have that long history of being steeped in place and rooted in the land.  So, this idea will definitely be part of the focus this year.

Here's a new poem.  It's called Olly Olly Oxen Free

Olly olly oxen free!

Come home –  you are safe!

It is time to set foot

            on the sacred ground

            of your home place.

Your place is here.

Your time is now.

You have walked, ridden,

            tramped, traveled,

            run, flown and sailed

a long while and

a long way to get

            to this place.

Here you can rest,

            sink down roots,

            plant trees for future generations,

            surround yourself with whatever security

is possible in this life.

Yes, you have had to

            find it yourself.

There is no map, no manual,

            no guide, no GPS to get here,

            no matter what you were told.

But, come!  Touch base!

This is the seat of longing

that has been summoning you.

You may call it home.