Goddess Figurines

We're getting ready for another Rumi's Caravan tonight, part of Bolo's new album release celebration.  I was thinking this morning about one of Rumi's most famous poems, Love Dogs.  I've always questioned what it says - how is one's longing actually the connection to spirit?  I didn't exactly come up with an answer, but while writing and looking up at my goddess figures, I did come up with a poem that leans in that direction.  Here's a picture of some of the figurines (and yes, I really did schlep them and more home from Greece in my suitcase), and the poem.

Goddess Figurines

It is all

right here

before me.

The figurines –

goddesses or priestesses,

            from Crete,

            from Eleusis,

            from Mycenae,

bird-headed, or

crowned with snakes, cats, diadems –

all with arms raised –

            in prayer,

            in praise,

            in supplication,

            in blessing.

I carried them all

home from Greece

wrapped in clothing and paper,

nestled in my carry-on bag,

not a one broken

or hurt.

For fifteen years

they have stood

on my altars,

on my writing table,

eyes wide open,

gazing at me.

It is only now

that I grasp

the message 

of their stance:

Lift your arms,

they say.

Your connection

to spirit begins

with your own effort.

Lift your arms.

The Mandate

Thankfully, I am still processing what transpired in the intensive.  I am glad and grateful to still be working on it (thank you, Deena), despite the craziness of life these days.

The words spoken

were more

than words.

They were

an imperative,

seeds thrust

into the fertile soil

of the soul.

The sound,

tonality, gesture,

accent, passion

all dissipated

on the wind.

But what was implanted

gives way to sprouting,

demanding to

unfurl into the

light.

It requires water –

tears or intention -

to truly

take root and

grow.

So far,

nothing visible

has emerged.

Without an application

of trust and

fierce determination,

this potential life

will die before

branching or

bearing fruit.

But what is invisible now

remains resolute and

doggedly digs in.

So, fall into

the usual pattern

of disregard and

disbelief, or

accept the charge,

tend this garden,

and let the words

do their work.

Hecate's Version of the Story

Since I claim to be hanging out with Hecate, I owe her some air time.  So, here is a tale she and I wrote (which will hopefully make sense to those of you who know Persephone's story):

            Those Olympians!  They think they have the corner on the market.  Well, power will do that to you.  Those of us who are older and who have been there know that power is like the tide – it comes and goes.  And when it goes, you’d better have something else to hold onto.

            Me?  I watch a lot.  I’m an observer, you might say.  I get very quiet.  My power, such as it is, comes from that.  I’ve grown comfortable with the dark.  No one else seems to want it, so I’ve claimed the territory.  Even Selene, who reigns in the dark, is the light there.  I am the dark in the dark.  When travelers reach the place where roads diverge, I am there to insist that they choose: the way of authenticity or the way culture prescribes.  You can see why humans have come to fear me.

            You wonder what happened with Persephone.  I use her name, her own name, notice, while others call her “Demeter’s daughter.  I did that, too, before it all happened.  Not now.  She’s earned the right to her name.  Many say it means “The Destroyer.”  That’s nonsense.  She destroys nothing.  That’s simply mortals’ fear of death speaking.  I prefer “She Who Shines in the Darkness.”  She has grown into power and continues to do so.

            Well, I was going to tell you what happened.  It started in the borderlands.  You see, I live on the edges, the borders.  It is where I have to be.  In my cave, I heard a cry but was too late to see anything when I went out to investigate.  Some days later I saw Demeter out searching.  She looked wretched – not her usual state, for sure – and I finally put two and two together.  I suggested to her that Helios would have seen something.  In her distress she wasn’t thinking clearly and it hadn’t occurred to her, so I took her to him.  I don’t think he meant to be hurtful, but, as I said, those Olympians are so full of themselves that they don’t think.  When he told her that Zeus had allowed Hades to take her daughter away to be his bride, she was furious and ran off.  I let her go.  There was little I could do for her at that point, and I knew she had to work things out for herself.

            When I saw the earth begin to dry up, I realized what had happened.  It was the perfect response, Demeter removing all fertility from the green world.  I disliked the suffering, though, and also how dusty and ugly everything became.  She forced Zeus’ hand, and I was secretly happy to see it.  It isn’t my way to blatantly challenge those male power-hoarders, but, oh, I am glad when they receive some comeuppance.  That’s a little petty of me, I guess.  Oh, well!

            So, I waited to see what would happen.  When Persephone returned, I went to see them, mother and daughter.  I don’t ordinarily meddle, but I did feel I had a role in this series of events, albeit a small one.  And I had been terribly concerned for the girl.  For Demeter, too, but I knew she would eventually find her way.  I’m pleased to say they both welcomed me.

            I didn’t know the child well before, but I could see the shift in her, and I could foresee the changes to come.  She was moving into her own power.  Demeter may not have noticed – she was just glad to have her daughter back, even if it wasn’t permanent.  But this young woman (not a child any longer) was going to assume great and grave duties (no pun intended).  An idea struck me and I voiced it without hesitation.  I offered to precede and follow her.  I had, have, things to share, things to teach, about dark and light ways, and companionship to offer.  You could call me her mentor.  Yes.  I won’t speak of what passes between us – that is between us.  Suffice it to say, I have taken on this role, and I believe it has served her.  And, if I am completely honest, me, too.  it has served me, too.

Why This Is My Grief

            Loss, exile.  We stood at a crossroads and didn’t know which way to go, and whichever way we chose didn’t matter.  Neither way led home.  Home, such as it was, was behind us.  Home was no more.  Well, that was nothing new.  This pogrom was only the current one.

            Before this, there was more loss.  More exile.  The warm, dry valleys, the rocky peaks, the welcoming seas had all been left for the cold, forested, embittered land of looking over our shoulders.

            Always, the men carrying the Torah, trying to appear competent and strong, insisting we were the chosen people, all the while feeling emasculated, incompetent, ashamed.  All the wisdom of the holy books could hardly make up for this.  Even the rabbis were speechless.

            And the women?  Frightened, feeling like the beasts of burden and the outcasts that they were.  And, even more, in their blood and bones (if not in conscious memory) was the knowledge of how much loss there had truly been.  Prior loss.  Asherah buried among the trees they would never in their lifetimes see.  They had long ago forgotten what it was like to dance and pray in the sacred groves, to bare their breasts and proudly cup them in their hands to honor the holy one's fertility and nurturing, and their own by association.  Yes, loss and exile and grief permeated their blood, endlessly cycling in their bodies, becoming so ingrained so much a part of who they were that they could no longer remember.

            So, if you ask me why this is the grief I carry, I can tell you that the blood has been singing to me, calling to me, whispering to me that grief is the response to life in this body.  Only now am I beginning to hear its message and understand.  Only now am I beginning to allow myself to feel it.  Numbness made sense as a survival strategy before, but one cannot be both numb and awake.  Feeling the grief is necessary, and only the first step.

            Long ago I left the ways of the men’s religion, of the Torah and the rabbis.  But I cannot leave what lives in my bones and blood, nor would I wish to.  I honor them.  I bow to them.  I thank them for the gift of this life.  And I say, “I will draw on the origins, of the oldest of the old ways.  And I will bring in other ways and make my own way.  But this is the story of my grief.  Well, at least it is one of the stories.  The beginning one.”

What Would an Indigenous Grandmother Do?

Just back from the Healers and Healing Intensive with Deena Metzger on her land in Topanga Canyon.  A deep and soulful week in a circle of 18 (sometimes 19) women, two dogs, and lots of animal and ancestor spirits.

Deena worked very hard to help us begin to divest ourselves of our acculturated minds and to inquire into how we might live authentic and healing lives in a corrupt culture and a world in such trouble.

Many realizations, some profound personal healing, and many things to consider going forward.  For now, a poem:

I don’t want to change

my thoughts.

I want to change

the way I think.

I want to think

in images, in stories

spun as threads

arising long and slow

out of culture and

out of the Grandmother Spider

of indigenous mind.

I want to learn

to live in the old ways,

the ways of spirit.

I want to see

the signs and the

deep, precise wisdom

of the true ones –

ancestors, elders, any and all

trying to inform us that

there is a way -

there is a way

to heal,

there is a way

to see,

there is a way

to change direction,

there is a way

to give the children

what they need

to be safe

to be listening

to be healthy

to be whole.

I, too,

want to be whole

all the way into

death and, yes,

I’ll say it,

beyond death,

beyond it but not beyond

the cycle of being -

the ring, the hoop of

being together.

This is the place where

Love remains, where

Love sustains, where

Love comes

into and through

all things.

Love is spirit

flowing into the life

of the world.

Knowing this

I am left with a question

to pose to myself:

What would an

indigenous grandmother do?

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.”