The Stages of Cronedom

We're starting to plan this year's Day of the Dead ritual, and boy, does it seem like the community needs it this year!  Between the fires, the drought, climate change, the crazy state of the world (and this presidential election insanity) and the endless stream of school shootings, not to mention personal  losses and griefs, reasons for needing a grief ritual abound.  So, consider coming if laying down some of the heaviness and burden of grief you're carrying would be of benefit to you.

The season's inward focus and the rapid approach of the year's end brought a poem this morning.  Oh,  I just can't seem to help but be immersed in mortality issues these days.  In my morning pages, I wound up musing about our elder years.  It's becoming clear to me that "old age" isn't just one concise period toward the end of life.  There are stages that I, at least, am moving through.  So, here it is... as usual, a little raw and most likely in need of revision (that's what I love about blogging - you get to experiment without feeling as though it has to be perfect).

First, you are a novice elder.

Monthly bleeding finally ends,

bringing both relief

and sadness.

If you are lucky,

you receive a crone initiation

and a welcoming.

You begin to look at older friends

in a new way.

You study how they move,

how they rest,

how they persist in their arts.

Then, you move into

early cronehood.

You stop coloring your hair.

You grandparent.

If you are lucky,

you retire from your day job.

Because you live within youth culture,

you become invisible to many.

You wince at your image in the mirror,

hating the new lines etched

into your face and your sagging skin.

Then, you exhale deeply

and promise yourself to

accept it all.

Next, you surprise yourself

by finding that there is a

middle-elder phase.

You begin to identify yourself

as old.  Sometimes.

Inherent weaknesses in the body

begin to clarify themselves

into symptoms.

It is easy to get lost 

and discouraged now.

You realize that you will never

go backpacking again.

You visit your acupuncturist and

chiropractor.  Often.

If you are even a little wise,

you turn inward and to

whatever gods or spirits

call you.

You allow your gifts

to flow unobstructed.

You care less and less

what people think of you.

You begin to lose 

(or lose more) people.

You understand how much grief

there will be from now on.

You wonder how you can

bless and serve the young.

Later, you move into

true old age.

Not having arrived there yet,

I cannot speak of it

with any authority.

I suspect that the work 

will be to learn more

about  acceptance and

about staying open-hearted,

should I reach this  stage.

That opening to the life-force

and also the death-force

will be what is required.

I hope that I live long enough

to hold all things –

to love my beloveds -

to bless the youngers –

and to meld into the earth.

In the Time of the Mysteries

The season turns, the days grow shorter, and I feel myself turning inwards as Persephone descends to the underworld.  It's funny how quickly it can happen.  Last week we had the hottest weather of the summer; this week is feeling like Fall.   (And may the blessed rains that are just barely beginning to sprinkle come and soothe this parched and fire-ravaged California earth.)

This is the time of year when the Eleusinian Mysteries were celebrated for several thousand years in Greece - initiation rites honoring Demeter and Persephone.

Last June, I made a promise to write four poems to Persephone this year.  Here's my second (still not happy with the first - I'm working on it).

There are a lot of poems where kindness is the theme.  I think of Naomi Shihab Nye's, for instance.  I'm just beginning to understand what treating myself with kindness really means.  Is that odd, at this late stage of the game?  I think to myself, "Well, duh," but that response demonstrates exactly the point - how easy it is to slip into self-talk that's anything but kind.

Here's the poem.  To you, Persephone!

The Way Through

Head tilted back,

Gaze lifted to the heavens -

The posture, in and of itself,

Causes spirits to rise.

But the One I honor

Is not in those realms above.

All the stories tell us

That She reigns below.

Under the earth?  

Not only that, but also

Beneath the surface

Of one’s own being -

The deep place which is

Hard to remember, hard to find,

Hard to acknowledge,

Hard to face.

The pulls of the surface world

Are strong and compelling.

Ascent into light is

A magnetic draw.

But following this goddess

Means agreeing to go into

Dark and buried places.

There is no escaping it.

I muse, is there no way

to both rise and descend? 

Are spirit glory and soul wisdom

Mutually exclusive?

“No!” She says. 

“The way of the life dream

Is to go deep and to rise,

To dwell and thrive

“In the paradox.

Come to the Dark One, 

And find the light.  After all,

I am the one who travels

"Between all the worlds.

 And one more thing –

the trickiest task of all -

Kindness must be the way through.

“To others, yes,

But above all, to yourself.

When you learn this,

You will truly find your way.”

 

My SoulCollage® card of Persephone

Wings

          In memory of Leona Tockey and Fay Distiller 

          I never saw wings on a person before.  Never even knew we had them.  And then I went to visit my friend who was dying.  Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a gentle waving motion and something delicate and ethereal emerging out of her back.  By keeping my focus soft and my head moving from side to side, I could see that there were actually two configurations, one on each side of her body.  They were translucent, many-colored, segmented and beautiful.  They were large, I realized, but incomplete, unfinished. The furthest edges were fuzzy and faded away, but they grew as I watched; bits were joining onto the ends. 

            They appeared to be wings that were in the process of growing, but not by pushing out fully formed from the shoulder blades; they were being added onto at the tips. 

            I realized at that moment that my friend’s death would come when her wings were complete.  It would not be long.

            From then on, I have been able to see people’s wings, emerging from their backs.  The wings’ stages of development are completely independent of an individual’s age. But no matter the size, they are all beautiful and unique.

            I have since come to understand that a person’s wings are invisible to most people because they belong to the soul, which is also invisible, and whose true home is in the otherworld.  Every now and then someone’s vision opens up or refines itself in some unknown and unknowable way, and that person can see the wings.  Why, and why me, I have no idea.

            Apparently, the work of the soul in this world is growing these wings.  The soul then uses the wings to fly back into the otherworld at the end of the person’s life, and to display the beauty and particularity of this incarnation when it gets there. 

            Some babies have mostly-formed wings right away, and these beings are not in the world for long.  There is a simplicity and loveliness to these wings, and also a great sadness in witnessing them.  Seeing wings means discovering those who are close to leaving; their nearly complete wings give it away. 

            Every act of soul-making adds to one’s wings. Manifesting purpose, bringing beauty, being of service, giving life, overcoming obstacles – all of these things bring bits and blazes of color to the wings.   Even negative and harmful acts add to one’s wings.  These segments often appear dark or smoky. 

            A person’s history could be read in his or her wings, if only one knew how. 

            Interestingly, I cannot see my own wings, nor the wings of those closest to me.  I’m glad for that.  It would not be fitting or helpful to foretell the death of one’s mate or child.  I wouldn’t want to know, though I am curious by nature.  Of course, I do think about my own, though.  Sometimes I wonder,  “Would do anything differently if I knew how much time I had left?”

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.