Amused Grace

Ratty Update

2012-01-26T22:02:00.003-05:00

Got a call from the surgeon this afternoon; the surgery went just fine, all is well, Ratty'll be home tomorrow or maybe the next day. He also said that it looked like an old injury, judging by the damage surrounding it.

Ratty's only seven months old. How old can an injury be?

I am still completely baffled as to how he did it in the first place, though I do recall that his feral mother gave birth to her kittens on top of a pile of wood under one of those little high-up windows in my downstairs garage. And I also remember scooping kittens up off the floor and returning them to her (as well as trying to make it safer by rearranging the boards so there was at least a little bit of a wall in the front).

He certainly hadn't been limping any earlier than the middle of last week.

I really don't know.

Quick Note

2012-01-25T01:47:00.001-05:00

Well I've caught up on the Pagan Blog Project posts; but since I backdated the second A entry it's down a ways under all the kitten pictures (both visible rays and X-rays). Just wanted to point that out so it doesn't get lost. My own fault, I suppose, for backdating them.

Oh Ratty

2012-01-23T23:14:00.007-05:00

Oh Ratty. Oh, oh Ratty. How on Earth did you manage this:

Let's get a bit of a close up:

Even a layperson such as myself can tell that that left hip-joint (his left, our right) is seriously out of whack. One of the vets I talked to today said she doesn't usually see something like that without some serious trauma—being hit by a car, falling out of a third storey window. Not that Ratty (or any of them) go outside, of course. Last week I did hear a loud crash coming from the cellar; when I got there though, not a single thing was out of place save an empty laundry basket, which was tipped on its side. All four of them just sat there looking at me with their heads tilted, wide-eyed, innocent, calm.

He'd been limping a little since about last Wednesday or Thursday, but he let me poke around and move his leg a bit. Silly me I didn't follow it up the rest of his leg until Saturday night, when I did finally notice that there was a big lump on the same side up by his hip (I couldn't really see it because of the fur; he's long-haired and fairly fluffy). And guess what—that turned out to be the head of his femur in a place it really shouldn't be, namely, completely out of the hip-socket by something like an inch and a half. Though otherwise he had seemed more than fine—despite the little bit of a limp he was running around, jumping up on things, frisking with his brothers like a crazy kitten, and purring up a storm as usual. Even today, when one of the vets (there were several) went to listen to his heartbeat, she had to put his heart rate down as 'purr'.

So Ratty gets to spend the next couple days in a cage, which he doesn't much like, keeping off it until he has his scheduled surgery on Thursday. Where they will, and this is completely counterintuitive, actually chop off the ball of the femur and just let the end of the bone rest in the socket. I know. I would have thought that putting it back in would be the right way round, but the vet said if they did that it would be prone to just popping out again. I guess something must be permanently damaged. Of course I was like well won't one of his legs be shorter than the other then? The vet said no, actually; he'll be pretty much completely normal, running around again in no time.

So that's all good, if don't-even-ask pricey. But there's nothing for it, of course; rest and home remedies aren't going to cure something like that.

Still, I'd like to know how he did it.

B Is For Bastet

2012-01-20T17:27:00.006-05:00

So Bastet (or Bast) is the Cat Goddess of old Egypt. Those Egyptians, they had their priorities straight all right.

Her name means She of the bas, a bas being a type of ointment jar; in the exceptionally dry climate of Egypt moisturizer is an absolute necessity. I like to call Her Our Lady of the Salve.

Her cult center in Egypt was at the city of Per-Bastet ('the domain of Bastet' and now I'm totally cracking up at the I assume coincidental resemblance of Per to purr) up in the Delta; it was the capital of the 18th nome (administrative district; something like county, state, province) of Lower Egypt (lower of course meaning downstream in the case of the Nile, so that lower=northern, and upper=southern). It was famous for a particularly merry festival dedicated to Bastet, which involved lots of alcohol.

As you may well imagine, I've been petitioning Bastet left and right around here lately.

What? you say. Why is that?

All right; for those of you who have not been paying attention, I'll try to keep this brief.

Once upon a time at the start of last winter a little grey and white cat showed up on my doorstep, looking plaintively in at the glass door. That was Spot:

But of course she wasn't alone, oh no of course not. She had in tow three little kittens, who I reasonably enough named Splotch

Smudge

and Stripey

Crap, I thought. I could instantly tell that two of the three at least were female by the tortoiseshell color schemes. And I've been around the block a few times and so knew exactly which direction that was going to go in.

So I asked Bastet for help. I asked Her to make sure that they had someone to look after them, and to find them a good home with enough food to last them through the winter.

What do you think I am doing? She purred.

Crap, I thought.

So I fed them, because it was the beginning of winter in New England and knowing they were there I could not let them starve.

I will admit I hemmed and hawed about the next part of it, though, because I could see what was coming and how much work it was going to be if I chose to do it. I mean it doesn't take the Sight to know what will happen when three (at least) unspayed female cats show up on your doorstep.

So I started looking around on the internet. But it took a while. For one thing, with the crap economy charities have very few resources nowadays. One particular cat charity, just last year, would come to your house, trap the feral cats, take them away to be neutered, deal with the aftercare and then bring them back to be released (as trapping, neutering, and releasing feral cats is really the best bet at population control, plus, you know, it avoids killing them); this year though they couldn't be arsed to even call me back, never mind lend me a trap or two. And it's true, I procrastinated a bit, because I knew it was a big job and it simply took time to get my brain around it. But in the end, yeah, it was my responsibility.

In the meantime, the Stripey kitten went missing. We found one by the road a few days later; maybe it was that one, maybe not. It had been there a little while and I honestly couldn't tell. We buried it.

So what with the hemming and hawing and lack of help with the traps (which I simply cannot afford to buy myself), and tracking down someone who would spay feral cats on the cheap, never mind psyching myself up to trap what is essentially a wild animal (I am, I suppose I should admit, a rank coward in more than a few ways), by the time early spring came around Spot had reproduced again, giving us this guy:

This one I managed to socialize, as his personality was fairly open to it (Splotch and Smudge were really skittish from the start). Plus the weather was nicer; it's hard to have much patience standing out there in January trying trying trying to coax a shy kitten to let itself get anywhere near you. So I ended up adopting him myself and now he's my Aleister Meowley, Frater Purrdurabo, the Lesser Beast (333). I've been calling him by his Chinese name lately, Miao Li (apparent younger brother to this Lady). I also sing him this song:

Well I hear you're just a kitten now
And I can see your pretty whiskers getting
in the tuna fish
You've got me right in your paws
Yes I'll put more in your dish

Aleister
I know this world is thrilling you
Oh Aleister
Meow meow meow mew

Then of course before I knew it it was Splotch's turn, and she had these four, named after the place she gave birth to them, an old MG in the downstairs garage.

There was Austin

Healey (you can see she inherited her grandmother's spot)

Spridget

and Morris Minor

By this time I'd been talking to the local cat shelter and knew I had to bring them inside. But before I could rearrange the dining room to accommodate them Morris Minor was killed, probably by a coyote. The bastard pretty much tore him in half and just left him there. So I buried him. Nature, sure. Child of the Goddess, sure. Still a bastard in my book.

So I got the other three inside, and socialized them. They all got adopted out, eventually.

Not, however, before it was Smudge's turn. She also had four, though one of them died at three weeks as it just didn't thrive (something like one out of four kittens don't make it for whatever reason). I buried that one too.

The other three, though, were Maurice (named after Morris Minor)

Danny Lyon

and of course, Ratty.

Oh, Ratty. That's the one I bottle-fed. And after all that work, he had to stick around too.

Then there was Danny and the long saga of him, which I haven't shared before and which is frankly rather a nasty story, involving a mother who insisted that she could handle taking care of him while I was away for a couple weeks; but one day I called to check up on them and was told that six-week-old Danny had 'broken his neck.'

Of course he hadn't; he was, instead, really, really, sick.

And my mother didn't see any reason to take him to the vet. She just sort of threw up her hands and said, O how sad! How terrible that nothing can be done!

It is a long story; basically I had to frankly bully my own mother from six hundred miles away into calling a goddamned cab to get that kitten to the emergency vet. She didn't want to. But she did. I swore a lot, and for some reason that worked.

When I later picked Danny up (after cutting my vacation short) the vet there said he was '95% dead' when he was brought in. They were, frankly, amazed that he recovered at all; one of the vet techs said she almost had a heart attack when she saw him trying to sit up the next day. A couple of weeks ago I stopped by the emergency vet to give them an update. The lady there said they don't usually remember animals since they come and go so quickly through there, but she sure remembered Danny.

One of the first things I did when I got home from my vacation was make an appointment with my lawyer, to make sure that, should something happen to me, my mother, specifically, is absolutely NOT to be the one making decisions for me.

I did say my family was dysfunctional. Yeah.

But anyway so then of course Danny stayed (you should see that vet bill, hoo boy).

I was going to put Maurice up for adoption, I really was. But he has this sort of chronicish respiratory condition which is well under control but still there, and I didn't know how adoptable he was going to be. Plus, he absolutely worships his Uncle Aleister. You should see it. He follows him around, rubs himself against him, gets in his path to head butt him, the whole thing. I suspect Aleister is a little annoyed with it all, honestly, but he tolerates it. So he stayed too.

Now, through all this summer of course there were eye infections going around, and no one could leave here until everyone got the all clear. Which meant putting this nasty ointment (why there's that word again) in their eyes. Plus there were some antibiotics in there for Maurice, never mind all the stuff Danny had to have, and honestly it's all kind of a haze now. It sure as fuck was a lot of work.

I did eventually scare up some traps, though I had to go pretty far afield (Boston, actually, which is not particularly local). And I caught all three of the mommy-cats, though I had to let Spot go the first time because she was obviously still nursing yet another batch of kittens. Now those are:

Rory (named after the marvellous Rory Pond, of course)

Flufius Maximus (that's Latin don't you know)

and their really quite exceptionally shy sister, Mademoiselle Zéphirine Chattonne-Gris.

(That's the best picture I have of her so far). All three of those are now in my dining room. Rory and Floof have been good to go for ages; they socialized fairly easily, though Floof took a little longer. But they are still here, because their sister is really very, very, very shy; I'm only just at the point where I can pet her a little while she eats without her freaking out. The two boys are a help with her; when she sees them come out and climb all over me purring I can see the wheels turning in her little cat head, that maybe, just maybe, I'm okay. So for now they're here.

And in the meantime Spot has been spayed. Which means all three of the mommy-cats are missing the tips of their left ears, as well as their reproductive organs and man I can tell you that makes me so very happy. Because this last batch is it.

Well, so much for brevity. But that's been my life lately. It's a lot of work. Oh sure, I know, sounds awful, doesn't it, hanging out with kittens and making sure they get enough cuddles and playtime; but, really, what I've been doing is transforming eleven wild animals into eleven tame animals. Holy fuck is this a lot of work, especially given my lack of mothering proclivities.

So I've been, like I said, bending Bastet's ear a bit this past year. And She has come through. I've always (eventually) gotten help when I needed it.

But I've been too busy to make any proper offerings. The most I'd done was offer some incense, and keep Her statue on my altar dusted.

Yes, well.

That's not actually how it works, is it. I have been making offerings. I have been making sacrifices to Her. All this, all this work I've done, this Work I've done, this real-life hard slog feed the kittens medicate the kittens drive the kittens to the vet, the shelter, the place to be neutered, trap the mothers, but no let that one go because she has very young kittens and she can't be away from them that long yet, trap her again later, get them all spayed and release them and keep feeding them and trap Zéphirine before it's too late and socialize them and tame them and pay attention to them first because they need to eat now and I want to go to bed but I have to clean the litterboxes first—all of it, is all an offering. It's all many offerings, over and over again, to Bastet, to the Goddess of the Cats.

I know this is true, and I know it is what She wants. Because when I look at Her now, all She does is purr.

A is for Art

2012-01-13T03:00:00.009-05:00

It is hard to write about right now. It is, to a large extent, still under the water.

It is in some ways also improper to write about, now.

I have mentioned here before that every dozen or so years my art, well, goes away, goes deep into the dark, where it changes. I would say where it is transformed, except I have no conscious idea of it. I can't tell from here what is going on.

But I know something is. For one thing, my daimon has resurfaced recently, in a changed form very much full of enthousiasm (mind that old spelling) and energy. And I have been devouring art with a similar kind of energy myself. I've been especially enamoured lately of certain Russian picture-book artists.

Like Gennady Spirin, not that I haven't known about him for ages. (I couldn't find a proper website for him, but googling his name will call up all kinds of lovely pictures.) This one is from his book The Sea-King's Daughter:

Or this one from Olga Dugina, from her illustrations for The Thousand and One Nights:

She and her husband Andrej Dugin usually work as a team (and don't ask me how they do that), as in their illustrations for The Adventures of Abdi, written by Madonna:

Now Vladislav Erko (or Yerko) is Ukrainian, not Russian, true. But his work (which I found through Midori Snyder's blog) has the same sort of strange hyper-surrealism, I guess you could call it, though I don't much like Surrealism from back in the day. Well, unless we're talking Remedios Varo, then, well.

And then a couple weeks ago I was very, very, very lucky to stumble across the website of Elizabeth Littman. That's her married name, I gather; back in the day I knew her work from a couple of Pern covers that she'd signed Elizabeth Malczynski. That was all I'd ever seen of her work, though I love love loved it. Luckily she'd signed the art in nice big legible handwriting because I'm not sure they even credited her in the book itself. Apparently she dropped out of the art world for a couple of decades to raise her children. But look at this:

So we've got detail, strange things being done with scale, these lovely colors, patterns, a measure of abstraction; all of which make them very dream-like, very vision-like.

And all this is being distilled somewhere deep within me. I can feel it, well, not blending together, as art isn't, really, about taking other peoples' styles for our own; more that all those artists' art have those things in common, something that I am recognizing as my own emerging style. Who's to say what is influence, or borrowing, or even inspiration? I think it's more recognition. At least as far as this kind of artistic transformation goes.

I said above that it is in some ways improper to talk about this right now, though I am doing so because it is fascinating me. But right now whatever, wherever my art is, it is shy and skittish, like that kitten in my dining room. I don't want to spook it, to expose it to the world too soon. It will need to come out in its own (probably sweet) time.

But something is happening, certainly. I can tell from looking at him, my daimon. He is ahead of the curve, just a couple steps into the future of things if you will. For he is the bridge, the messenger between unconscious and conscious, between the rich deep dark and the bright light of day; and so he sees things before I do a lot of the time. That he has changed so recently and so dramatically means the art cannot be far behind, because that is what he is bringing with him this time (among other things, many other things; this is all of course complex and multi-layered and recursive, in some ways). Or that is what it feels like, at any rate.

I guess we'll see.

A Is Also For Ancestors, Again (An Addendum)

2012-01-07T23:26:00.002-05:00

So one of the other things I've been up to lately is taking one of Max Dashú's online courses, this one called Spiritual Heritages of Ancient Europe, part two (I missed part one). Today Max gave a web seminar (also called a 'webinar' for all you techno-kids out there) about megalithic statues of Europe, mostly western Europe if I'm remembering correctly, like in present-day Spain and Portugal. Especially, of course, the stones that are identifiably female.

Many of the stones have very similar faces: a highly stylized straight browline, a squarish or pointed nose depending from that, with two circles for eyes. And, in most cases, no mouth. Like this one, from neolithic Provence, dating to the end of the fourth millenium bce, though it's not technically a megalith, being just shy of a foot tall:

I scanned that in from Gimbutas's The Language of the Goddess (drawing by Patricia Reis); Gimbutas calls it a depiction of the Owl Goddess, a form of Death Goddess, as the owl is long associated with death and the night; Max was saying though that she thinks it more likely as representing the ancestors, the dead, because the dead don't speak. In fact she'd titled the lecture 'Grandmother Stones.' You can see some more of these type of stones here, at her site.

So I thought that interesting, not just in general but in the timing for me as well given yesterday's post, since as far as the rest of the course goes we're talking about Rome right now. So it got me thinking.

As you may have guessed from my last post, I've got some issues, shall we say, with the idea of the ancestors, at least the immediate ones, what with the rather dysfunctional upbringing and all. Also, though it is hard to explain succinctly, thanks (or no thanks) to said upbringing I have always felt like I am starting from scratch; I've always had the feeling that nothing I accomplish ever sticks. Like I said, it is hard to explain, and I suppose I should refer you yet again to Tetanus Burger where you might be able to get more of an idea as to why. And feeling like I'm always starting from scratch means it feels like I've never had anything to build on, which is what the idea of ancestors is all about, isn't it. That there is an unbroken line going back and back. That you are not the first. That you have something to build on, something that is yours, because it is your family, your blood.

So maybe I need to think of it a little more distantly, more abstractly. Fuck these few generations I can see; after all my line, because I am here, on this Earth, now, goes back and back and back. From what I know I am of British blood, by which I mean, of the isle of Britain: English, Scottish, Welsh. But before that there has to be continental Celtic, and Anglo-Saxon, and Teutonic in the middle of Europe, and whoever else was there first before the migrations and invasions and it is perfectly plausible and in fact likely that the ancestors of my ancestors were the ones raising stones like that.

So then I thought: this is basic, basic stuff. This is not about grandmother's apple pie recipe (or, rather, Depression-era chocolate cake made with bacon grease, gah); this is simply about living long enough to have a healthy child, and that child living long enough to do the same, and so on and on. And I thought: what would she be called then, this old, old ancestor? She would be called She-Who-Survived.

She-Who-Survived. That is a powerful name, a powerful idea, for a kid who was frankly neglected, whose survival was not exactly guaranteed. I mean I'm here, so I did, and I can't even say it was really touch-and-go, properly, but... We had no hot water growing up, because when the water heater broke my father couldn't be arsed to fix it, and due to the OCPD he wouldn't let anyone else fix it; and, because he was a miser he never let the heat get more than fifty-five degrees in the winter here, in New England. And trust me, your brain and your instincts do read being that cold all winter as a threat to survival. That's the kind of cold that sinks into your bones. It's the kind of cold that becomes the default state in winter; being warm is the exception, the brief foray into comfort. It always comes back to the cold in the bones.

So. She-Who-Survived. I think She might make the best kind of ally.

A Is For Ancestors

2012-01-06T23:16:00.006-05:00

Ah yes, where to start.

I don't think I like most of my ancestors. I mean, I can't help but acknowledge that they are my ancestors, I mean duh. And while the fact that I am here can tell me some things (like for example somewhere along the line they survived the bubonic plague long and successfully enough to keep the line going, as I am of European descent and I simply wouldn't be here if they hadn't), I've never really understood what the fuss is about. I think, most people just automatically, of course, how could you think otherwise, honor their ancestors because they come from decent people.

My family isn't close. I realized for the first time not that long ago that I actually have three Cousin Toms. The generations are skewed, and long, and so growing up none of my cousins were any where near my age. That also means that I have pretty much no experience of grandparents, besides maybe a single blurry memory of my mother's father when I was very young.

If you have been over to my other blog, Tetanus Burger, you know that my father was a hoarder. You will also know that that was caused by what can only be a serious case of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, which, before you go thinking you know what that is, is most emphatically not the same thing as Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. OCPD is a personality disorder, which as far as I can tell, pretty much just comes down to a fundamental brokenness in the brain. The person with it cannot see that they have it, and in fact, a lot of the time, will not only deny that there is anything whatsoever wrong with them, but will also adamantly insist that it's the entire rest of the world who is wrong. And they believe it. With my own eyes I have seen my father confronted with a reality that did not fit with his belief. He looked at that reality, and then repeated his belief, over and over, louder and louder, though the proof that he was wrong was right in front of him. In his world if reality and belief were in conflict reality lost. This also means that people with personality disorders kind of don't get that the people around them are people and not extensions of their own world, or rather their own selves, since that is the same thing to them. And when you come right down to it that rather precludes empathy. Don't forget, other personality disorders include things like narcissism and sociopathy.

Speaking of narcissism, yeah. That's the other one that runs in the family. It's been fun here, lately, and the word that keeps coming to mind is unfortunately toxic, as in, my family is toxic.

So, if you're a family member and you're reading this, well, that's what you get for snooping on a Witch's blog, isn't it. Well, unless you're Cousin L, you're cool. You're about the only one, though.

What I know of my grandparents isn't good. I suppose I should confess straight up that I have no problems speaking ill of the dead. I've been rather enamoured of truth, lately. My father's father, well, he might have been all right, but he died young, and by that I mean in like 1934. My father's mother, well, I'm pretty sure I know where the hoarding gene came from. I've heard some atrocious stories about the state of her house.

On my mother's side I don't know much about my grandmother, though I have the impression she was pretty controlling. As for my grandfather, well, I don't really care if it was accepted practice at the time to hit your children with your belt, or to give your daughter bread soaked in milk for dinner, while you sat there eating steak; I consider that abuse and neglect, and so I consider you a bastard.

So really, I don't want much to do with them, my literal ancestors. I certainly am not inclined to put up an altar to them. In fact, my father in particular (though he's not technically dead yet) was such a miserly bastard that I really don't want anything to do with him again, ever. Not in this life and not in any other lives. I've considered, even, some kind of ritual to sever myself from him, karmically, I guess you'd say. I don't want to bump into him ever again.

I don't care if that's harsh. It's true. One of the things you don't get growing up in a hoarder's house is space, not physical space, not personal space, not emotional space; there is no ease at all to anything. It is all, always and entirely about the hoarder. And so there is certainly no space, none at all, for a voice.

I've found mine now. And I will scream and curse if I feel like it.

The Pagan Blog Project

2012-01-05T22:19:00.005-05:00

All right, I gave in to temptation. Lucky me that's not like a mortal sin or anything, seeing as how I'm Pagan and stuff and the whole concept of sin is just not my effin' problem. Oh yes, and I am also very much a Witch.

So, I'm joining in on Rowan Pendragon's Pagan Blog Project. Now given that there are fifty-two weeks in the year, and twenty-six letters in the alphabet, exactly half why would you look at that, she's come up with the idea for us Pagany sorts to write a blog post a week using the given letter for the week, i.e., the first two weeks on a Paganish subject beginning with A, the next two on subjects beginning with B, et cetera. It of course started last week with the first Friday in January, but I'll consider only being a week and a half late to the party a damned fine start given my proclivities.

I've been dealing with a burst of energy lately. It may or may not (it may, hoo boy it may) have something to do with that daimon of mine, who, since more or less disappearing over the summer (and I swear it was the Veil, not me) has come back holy-fuck-what-is-this strong recently, and in a new form that is, well, a tetch on the manic side. So there's some spillover, probably (definitely). Trust me, when your Muse, your Inspirer, is bouncing off the freaking walls and nattering on at a million miles an hour about Godsknow what but you can bet it's important, you are along for the ride whether you will or no. So I figured I may as well try to channel some of that.

Then there's the other thing. I walked into a book store on Yule and came across a book, by one Christopher Penczak, who, I am somewhat chagrined to admit, I'd only heard of because he was on the cover of the NewWitch issue I got for free since I'd done an illustration (Dionysos, of course, after the style of Harry Clarke) for it a few years back. I am, it is true, woefully underinformed in my 'field', as it were; also I am very much inclined to hermitage—honestly if I could live in a cave I would. Seriously, I really, really would. Well, so long as it had decent heat. That is not up for argument, not any more.

But there on the shelf was a book, by the abovementioned Mr. Penczak: The Temple of Shamanic Witchcraft: Shadows, Spirits, and the Healing Journey.

Yeah, he kinda had me at the title.

What it is is a year-and-a-day course, with thirteen (of course) lessons total, for exploring those other worlds in a shamanic sort of way, with the end result going in and facing your shadow. That sounds pretty heavy, doesn't it. I picked it up and browsed through it in the book store and thought, one, gosh I'm doing most of this already, as in, this 'shamanic' stuff sure does sound familiar, what with the journeying and the talking to people in my head stuff, not to mention the coming out of a Tower year emotional journey sort of thing I'm right in the middle of, and two, OMG I MUST DO THIS I SIMPLY MUST. So I bought it.

I used to have a coven, but that split up when some of us moved north and some of us (well, me, that is) moved south; it was more Wiccan than I realized at the time, but it still wasn't very formally structured. Which is fine, don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining or anything. And since then I've been more or less a solitary, which suits me. But that means I've never really had any sort of well, not training, I suppose, more organization I guess. What I know is a bit of a jumble. So I thought that trying something within a structure would be a good thing. In magic, as well as in art, sometimes it is nice to learn it by the rules first. With the intent, always, to throw those rules out later as you make your own way. But it can be good to have some place to start. And Penczak, from what I've read so far (and I've browsed through more or less the whole book, because I want to know what I'm in for) comes off as very much having a clue. So.

Then this whole Pagan Blog Project thing might sound like biting off more than I can chew. It might have been in the past, it's true. Except, part of the year-and-a-day thing involves other research, like for example, picking a mythology to study, herbs, dream interpretation, &c, which is then supposed to go in one's Book of Shadows (and sorry, I've always found that a damned silly name, though it is appropriate in this case, I'll give it that. Why yes, I am opinionated. Don't say I didn't warn you).

So really then I'm simply doing what I was going to do anyway, just putting things up here instead of in a proper physical journal. It's more efficient, I think, or at least that's what I'm telling myself. Because it was just too tempting to join in.

These aren't going to be written in order. They will publish in order, and in fact I'm going to backdate the first couple so I appear to be caught up, in other words I will lie. I may even backdate this one, just so it stays at the head of the column so to speak. So though I'm writing it on the thirteenth, let's say it's the fifth.

Oh that's the other thing. Time isn't linear. Not by a long shot.

So let's jump right into the dark, with A, for Ancestors. This next one is not going to be pretty, as I come from what I am realizing is a profoundly dysfunctional family. Here we go.

How I Met My Daimon

2011-12-24T01:19:00.004-05:00

Anyway that last bit was preamble; this is what I want to talk about, really. I got a comment recently on a post from last year about The Daimonic asking,

I would love, if you feel comfortable, to learn more on how you connected with your Daimon...I find this interesting and as a Pagan, exciting!

Well okay then. Let's see.

I've known there was something there, some male presence there in the back of my mind, if that's the right word, since I was a teenager. Which makes sense; my experience of the (my) daimon is that he is very much connected to the libido. Which of course is the Life Force, encompassing sex and desire and art and travel and anything that is different that your heart leaps at and oh you want want want! Oh, yes, oh yes yes yes that is him, all right. Oh holy holy.

I had a bit of an image of him then as a lanky skinny art boy with long curly dark hair and dark eyes. (His eyes are always, always dark.) Why he rather looked like this:

Why goodness me that boy might just be the archetype of my type, so to say. Though without the heroin and Jack Daniels for breakfast, thanks.

He would show up occasionally in dreams; but it was years and years before I put much of anything together. For a while there, probably about fifteen years ago now, I could feel something there, something made of longing and desire, but buried where I couldn't get to it. It was like being in a ship on the ocean, and below me was this dark, very large something that I could feel was there; the sonar was sure pinging off it but I couldn't See it at all.

It was about then that I learned to visualize. Like I said in the last post I was very much into Tarot around then, and so I was doing exercises where you mentally enter the card to get to know it better, and to see what I could see. It took a bit of work, and of course, I started with the Fool, which, really, is pretty much my daimon right there. Well, mostly.

So I started trying to talk to my daimon in similar visualizations. But it was slow going. For all that I am obviously and very certainly a really really visual person, it took a fair amount of practice. But it can be learned, I think.

But he wouldn't say anything. It might have had something to do with the fact that I was very much on a Harpo Marx kick at the time; who knows. But he just sat there smiling at me.

So what I did was I sat down with him one day in a visualization, and told him, I hear you. I am listening. I hear you.

That turned out to be key. I could ask all I wanted, tell him to talk to me, and it didn't mean a damned thing until I told him I hear you. I am listening.

About that time I had a dream. It was a long and ridiculous story, but there was a man there who was trying to make me laugh. At one point he took my hand, and it felt like I was putting my one hand into my own other, though in the dream it was his and mine.

He did connect with me then, finally, and I smiled, finally, at what he was saying. I smiled in my body, too, for the movement began to wake me, but not before he smiled back at me and said, Ah, there we go in a voice of warm, vibrant kindness. I can still hear it. I literally brought something to consciousness that morning. I'm not sure I can articulate exactly what, but it worked.

After that I was very much aware of him. Very, very much. During that time I (we, I suppose) used automatic writing. I would write a question, and then just let my mind go kind of blank, and then he would write an answer. I'm not sure of any other way to describe it. His handwriting, incidentally, was very different from mine. I kept at that until I got better at visualizing, and then one summer about four years ago it suddenly got much easier. He changed appearance, as he likes to do (or as I like to do) and was much more talkative, and much more I guess visible. And we've been at it long enough that now we just talk, like any one else I know. I ask, he answers, or he asks, and I answer, and the conversations are long and detailed and quirky and he has a voice that is very very much his own, though it's true it does depend on a few things, like who he's looking like at the moment. Englishmen, for example, do have English accents and use words Americans don't, that sort of thing.

This experience is, I suppose, ridiculously detailed for me, but then I do rather favor ridiculous detail in things, so I am not, really, surprised.

So my advice for someone wishing to communicate with their daimon is basically to use a form of divination, whatever works best for you. I do like Tarot, but for this I find it too vague, too open to interpretation; then again I am lucky in the detail I can see, or See I suppose. I mean the look in his eyes, the body language, the shape of his thumbs, the timbre of his voice, the way he pronounces his words, that exasperated look he gets when I am once again not being kind to myself, the way he rolls his eyes or blinks or the thousand varieties of laugh he has. I am very, very, very lucky. And very probably crazy. But I'll take it. My life is much, much richer for him.

As for now, he has returned, somewhat, though I have been so very busy with the little niggling things that I haven't been grounded enough to See much of him (for I must be grounded to See him). He has once again changed his appearance, and holy cow who he looks like now ai yi, all energy and thumbs and twitchiness and funny face and bow ties, yikes. But he is here again now, not that he ever goes away really, and if he does it's usually on my end. Not that my art, which is of course intimately tied into all of this, has returned in a manifest way, anyway; I can feel it changing, though given all I'm going through in my life right now it may be a while before it feels safe enough to manifest it. We'll see, I guess.

Away

2011-12-24T00:55:00.002-05:00

I have been away, I guess you could call it, for a time lately. Well, not really away; but very much preoccupied with the little mundane things, which around here make little mewing noises; I'm nearly there with them. (At least I think that's a light at the end of the tunnel.) Three out of three feral mother-cats have been trapped, spayed, and released, four out of four new adopted nearly grown by now kittens have been neutered, two out of three little kittens have been captured and are socializing up quite nicely in the dining room (they purr and come running when they see me now). That just leaves one single kitten still outside, born to a feral mother who has since been spayed. This single feral kitten worries me a bit, though; it is solid grey and very very long-haired, especially given the wintry weather. It is also very shy, unlike its two brothers who are in the dining room now. And I suspect it is female. It is of such a color and fluffiness that I cannot tell; grey isn't sex-linked, like say calico, or even marmalade, and honestly, its butt is just too damned fluffy to see if there is anything there. So I worry. I did get to pat it a little today for the first time, by putting a plate of wet food just between my feet. I had been trying to seduce this one with toys but wasn't getting very far, and it is getting older and older day by day and further and further from being able to be properly socialized. It does not help that I don't know exactly how old it is.

The other thing that is going on is rather deeper, deep enough I'm not sure how much I want to get into here. Let's just say there are some, well, issues with my family, ones the holidays are not helping at all. I have also been exploring the past, and with that and the current not-so-fun shall we say present, I have been processing a lot of stuff. And I mean a lot. And it's only the beginning, probably.

I used to be really big on Tarot; that has gone into a bit of a lull for the past few years. But I still like to figure out my Tarot year, which you do by adding up the numbers of your birthday and month, plus those in the current year. And for me, 2011 was a Tower year.

I am not surprised, not at all. This past year has been exactly that, and it's not over yet. Though it does help, I think, to know this. Instead of lightning randomly striking my life, unexpectedly smashing apart this structure to fall down on top of me, I have managed, somewhat, to pull it down myself. I think that makes a world of difference, though I am not saying I am having an easy time, oh no, nor that I am in any kind of control, really. But at least I know what I am seeing.

So. Next year is the Star for me. I am very much looking forward to that little glimmer of light, as per the story in the last post, though that wasn't on purpose. I am also glad, very glad, that the darkness of the year has turned now, though I still feel like I can't see in the dark, which is disconcerting, because I usually can.

Story

2011-10-29T03:15:00.004-04:00

I posted this story a couple years ago now, at the time leading up to Yule; back then I thought it mostly about that rather more literal darkness and return to the light. Now, however, I'm seeing more layers to it, and all this talk about creative blocks and finding oneself lost in the dark has reminded me. I am finding it quite comforting now.

What I couldn't tell you then, that I can tell you now, is that the he of this story, the narrator of the story, is my daimon, and that, therefore, this story is true. By which I mean, it springs from the source, and so, like myth, it has many layers.

***

"Tell me a story," I say, as we lie there in the dark.

He laughs, for even to my own ears I sound like a child, but also, because he recognizes that winter is the proper time for stories, stories that both explore and keep away the dark.

"Okay," he says.

"Once there was a girl named Aridela, with hair black as ink. Now Aridela loved the dark and the night; and her favorite thing in the whole world was to lie asleep and dream, of faraway places and wonderful lands, of magical beings and forests that spoke. But one night, something terrible happened, and it happened in the dark she loved so much: her mother was lost."

"Oh," I say, all fear and foreboding, "You don't think my mom is going to die soon, do you?"

"Shhh," he says, "Don't interrupt. Your mother's fine, she'll outlive us all, trust me, and God help us. And anyway I didn't say Aridela's mother died; I just said she was lost. Try to pay attention.

"So Aridela lost her mother, and it made her very sad, and a little angry, too. And she looked long and far in the dark for her mother, and could not find her. And she began to hate the dark, the dark she had used to love.

"Now, underneath all hate is a little seed of fear; and though Aridela didn't see it at first, that fear grew until she feared the dark and became terrified of it. And she became too afraid to even put one foot in front of the other, and she stopped altogether, and sat down in the dark in a little ball, too frightened to move. And, eventually, she became so afraid that she dared not even breathe, hardly, and she felt the walls press in on her, as if she were deep underground.

"She stayed this way for a long time, silent, still, and unable to see, for there was no light, no light at all where she was.

"But in time she became so still that everything around her also became still; and at last she saw before her feet a tiny little light. And she saw that it was coming from a little pool, which had become so still it was now like a mirror; and the little light was the reflection of a star, a star that shone through a hole in the roof. And Aridela stood up, and pulled herself out of that hole onto a hilltop into the good night air, surrounded by the beautiful dark. And to the east she could see the horizon, and the faint light of the coming dawn. The end."

"The end?" I say. I don't think I find his story very comforting. "What happened to her mother? Did Aridela ever find her?"

"No," he says, "she didn't. Aridela's mother found her."

Well, that's a little better. "Now hang on," I say, and I know he knows that Aridela is a title of the Goddess Ariadne, "With a name like Aridela I'd expect Dionysos to be in there somewhere."

"He was," he says. "He was the Star."

Question

2011-10-28T20:59:00.004-04:00

Oh, I wanted to ask:

Did anyone else experience that blinding brightness this summer? I had asked around, a little, to some Witchy sensitive sorts I know but they didn't know what I was talking about. I'm sure it's got a lot to do with where I was, but at the same time it really felt like a bigger phenomenon than just me, like a few years back when the Veil felt really thin.

Like I said it felt like this: like I was looking through a pane of dusty glass, upon which the sun was shining so brightly that everything was just this haze of brightness, and I couldn't see, See, much of anything.

Anyone know what I'm talking about?

Return

2011-10-28T00:06:00.004-04:00

It has been a long time, I know.

Terri Windling wrote several posts recently on creative block, comparing it to Persephone's abduction to the Underworld, to the realm of Hades, to that of Hel, to Hell. And in that post she reminded herself, reminded us, that it is a cycle, part of a whole. It is hard, so hard, to remember that.

Every dozen years or so I lose my art. It has happened twice or maybe three times so far in my life; it is exactly the time for me to be in that place that is no place again, and sure enough here I am. In the past it has taken a year or more to get through it. I know this.

And yet I don't know this. There is a difference, a big one, between knowing with your mind and knowing with your heart. My heart, right now, can't feel it. My Soul, I know, has no doubt that all is exactly as it should be, that I'm sure of. But I can't hear that part of me right now.

This has been a strange and awful summer in its own way. Nothing tragic or terrible has happened, my health for example has been just fine, but I have been very busy with a type of busy that I really don't like. It has been a summer of taking care of the little constant things, of being always on the surface; and while I feel atrocious complaining about kittens, of all things, still, it has all been a haze of fostering and medicating and bringing them back and forth to clinics and shelters and vets and keeping the sick ones separate and making sure they are healing and trapping the feral mothers and getting them spayed and watching things with an eye to them, not myself, first. I am not used to such work, and though I think it good work, even good Work, I am tired, annoyed with the chatter, out of myself.

In addition to all that, or maybe because of all that, this summer was bright, very bright. A few years ago, you may remember, I swear the Veil felt so thin I feared it would tear outright; this summer, it felt impervious, impenetrable. I couldn't See anything. It was like trying to look through a dusty pane of glass in the bright sun; everything beyond, everything on the Other side, was obscured by this horrible blinding haze.

And my daimon, my Muse, has disappeared too. Now, understand, I mean that perhaps rather more literally than most artists do when they speak of their Muse. I mean that friend of mine, that spirit guide or whatever he is, the one I could See clear as day, who was always there, has become absent. I do not believe for a minute that he is actually gone, mind you, but on my end I can't see him at all. I don't miss him. That disturbs me, very much. It is like I am forgetting to remember something very important, but my brain is carrying on as if nothing at all is wrong, as if this surface world is the real world and that life is just fine when it lacks richness and depth.

Like Terri says in her post, I can handle the dark. I regularly go there, as a matter of fact, or rather I did. You can call it active imagination, meditation, visioning, visions, shamanic journeys, whatever; and some part of me is outraged that despite all that, all those years of willingly, openly, with curiosity and wonder, going there to See what I can See, still, this blankness and block has come upon me. It feels unfair, I suppose. Perhaps I am arrogant to feel so. And perhaps my past willingness means that this time will be quicker, less frightening than it might have been; I can never know that, I suppose.

But it is very strange. Because it doesn't feel dark. I do not feel lost in the dark woods; I have been there, I think, and I know, like Hecate says, that I am never really lost, because the trees know where they are, and I know that I am here, as I always am. But it doesn't feel dark; it feels blank, empty, on the surface, with nothing beneath me. And so of course I have not been grounded; I have lost the connection, the one that I had without even trying so much of the time. I have had to relearn it, a little, and have been trying; but it is so hard to remember when you don't remember you are forgetting.

I used to hate autumn. I know, I know, that makes me a very bad Pagan; but when I was growing up it meant the start of several months when I was always cold, as my miserly father didn't think heat all that important. But this year, I was so very grateful to pass the autumnal equinox, when the dark finally outweighs the light. When the sun finally went away a little, died a little to let the dark come back. It has been such a relief.

And I think I can feel it returning now, slowly, a little.

I went for a walk the other day, on a chilly cloudy day here in New England. I walked a mile or more on the road into the forest nearby; and eventually I turned around to come back.

There is a little bridge not far from my house, a little bridge that washed out in the terrible rains we had more than a year ago. The road by that bridge is closed to traffic, though the bridge itself is passable on foot. The detour the cars take is the long way round, so I came back by the bridge just like I'd gone out. It is a strange little place now; though it has only been closed a year, great tufts of grass are growing in the cracks in the middle of the road, and the road itself is covered with sand and drifting leaves. It doesn't take long.

As I walked over that little bridge, the starlings in the trees started up their chattering song, just as a breeze came from over the water, balmy and warm. And in the middle of autumn I suddenly smelled spring.

I think that is a good sign, after all. I think it is coming back to me.

Memories

2011-08-21T15:18:00.002-04:00

So I was wandering about the 'net today in between feeding/medicating kittens (I've brought all seven of them in the house as fosterlings, to eventually go to the no-kill shelter in of all places Salem, Massachusetts, to be adopted, where they will hopefully make very fine familiars to some lucky Witches. Ratty and Danny Lion and Aleister Meowley, of course, are staying here) when I found my way to this article by the Skeptical Historian:

Satanic Panic: an Incident from the Witchcraft Panics of the 1980s

Scroll down to the third picture. See that pasty dark-haired chick in the pale green gown? That's me.

Ah, what memories. That was my first taste of just how fucked-up and abusive police can be. I've never forgotten it. I'd say, in fact, that that incident was instrumental in making me the devout anti-authoritarian I am today.

Funny thing is, that though I'm pretty sure that I am the person referred to here,

Most recently, the wife of a local resident reported "a girl with a witch costume on" walking along the road. This was in reality one of Eagan's friends, who happened to be tall, thin, and wore a long dark cloak.

I didn't even identify as a Witch, or as a Pagan, at the time. Back then I would have said I was agnostic, or areligious, or even an atheist. (Also, last I knew five foot three wasn't exactly 'tall'. Ah, journalists).

I of course was outraged at the time, though at nineteen years old I could not articulate even a tenth of what was so fucked up about it all. Now reading that article I see so much more of it. For example, I hadn't at the time cottoned on to the fact that only us girls got frisked; but now that they mention it why yes, come to think of it, that is true. Lovely.

Now I know that compared to some of the fruits of the Satanic Panic of the 80s what happened to myself and my friends is hardly a blip on the radar. No one did jail time; no one was even 'officially' arrested, though if you don't feel you are free to leave while the police question you is there a difference?

It is still, however, outrageous. And looking up some of the key players, the police officer who led the whole 'raid', and the 'reporter' who pretty much just made shit up, it does appear that they both still have jobs. Assuming that the policeman of the same name who works in a town not too far from the original incident is the same man; the 'reporter' now works in PR, where, fair enough, I suppose the job requirement in large part is the ability to lie. I am not surprised, I suppose, but I do like the idea of justice. No one ever got an apology, after all, even when they finally got it through their heads that none of what they were accusing us of, or 'reporting' on, was in the least bit true.

I suppose there is a lot more I could say about all this, and maybe someday I will go into it in more depth, but right now I will say that what happened at Wompatuck State Park is one of the big reasons I am so out about my religion now. Because I've seen what deliberate ignorance can do.

Also, it still pisses me off.

The Mother

2011-07-17T18:21:00.008-04:00

I have never wanted to be a mother; that is just how I am. I have enough to do in attempting to see to my own needs, never mind those of a dependent child. I am furthermore so introverted that the mere presence of an ordinary dog will drive me up the wall because of its constant expectation of attention.

So when I think about the Maiden-Mother-Crone archetype that middle bit, for me, is just sort of a blank. Even as a little girl I was uninterested in baby dolls. Dolls that looked like little girls, like friends, like me, sure, but ones that were like babies? I just didn't see the point.

So I've never much understood the Mother archetype. Oh I've been able to sublimate it when say thinking about my artwork, or the way I have nurtured aspects of my life. But the direct, hands-on experience of having actual children? No, and no thank you.

Now. You may have heard there is a kitten 'situation' in my yard at present. Without going into too many details (as it's all a long convoluted story) let me just say there are already some Plans in the works involving the local trap-neuter-release people. Because the phrase 'spiralling out of control' does come to mind.

As part of that long story (and if you would like more details I have also written about it at Tetanus Burger), one of the feral kittens out there looked to have been wounded. So I took her to the vet, where it turned out it wasn't a wound after all (which is good, because in my state the rabies laws will kick in if you don't know where a wound came from); instead it was these horrible things called cuterebra.

I know. The Goddess cares for all Her children. All of them. That includes both kittens and parasites. That in fact even includes parasites that squick me right the fuck out. You can google that word above if you're brave, but ai yi watch out for the pictures.

But the vet cleared it all up and got rid of the nasty things; and he gave me some antibiotics and instructions to keep her wounds clean. Said wounds are however rather deep and will take some time to heal, most likely.

So here's the thing. This kitten is just over three weeks old. She is still suckling, and is not weaned. But I'm pretty close to positive that if I just put the kitten back with her mother that one, she'll move them some place I can't find them, and two, that place will inevitably be down in the dirt and rust, which means the wound will never stay clean. And given what that kitten's been through already it seemed counter-productive to just put her back outside.

So I decided to bottle feed her. At three weeks old it's not nearly as much work as it could be; newborn kittens require feeding at three-hour intervals. Still, at three weeks she needs feeding something like five or six times a day.

Any of you who are mothers, does this sound familiar?

Now I know it's not like a human baby, not really. For one thing this stage will not last very long at all and in two weeks or less the little thing will be on solid food.

But still. It's amazing, and crazy. I have to get up at six to feed it, and so there I am measuring formula into a bottle, taking the chill off it by putting the bottle in a bowl of warm water, then measuring the temperature by putting a drop on my wrist. My mother laughed when she saw the bottle standing in the bowl; just like a baby, she said. Well, how else are you going to do it?

I've also started going through towels very quickly. There seems to be an awful lot of laundry all of a sudden. How does that work? It's a kitten, for crying out loud; she's not soiling any nappies, or drooling on her onesies!

It is remarkable how much of this Mother energy, this Mother archetype, is about the very basics. Yesterday I made a chart so I could keep track of how much she is taking in at each feeding, since she needs to eat a certain amount by weight. I bought myself a little food scale so I could see how much she weighed (ten ounces yesterday; eleven today). That chart of course also has a space for what comes out the other end, because that is very important too.

Young kittens can't eliminate waste on their own; in nature the mother will lick the kitten to stimulate it. This means that I've had to gently rub the kitten's butt with a warm damp paper towel until something comes out.

This morning when I looked in the carrier where I've been keeping her, I was happy, yes, actually happy to see a proper turd in there—that means that the kitten is able now to do that on her own. So I was all like, OMG milestone!

Holy cow.

Though I'm not sure I'll be winning any Mother of the Year awards. The poor thing is rather a hot mess, honestly, what with the gruesome-looking wounds on her neck and the fact that she's pretty much completely coated in sticky formula because there's just no neat way to do it. I've tried to clean it off as best I can but she does wiggle. Because despite the wounds she is very much alive: she's talkative, strong, fat, and gaining weight, which is good, very good.

And she has learned to purr. Yesterday it came in little fits and starts; today she's got a nice steady rumbling going. She's also started to play, a little, I think, though it's hard to tell; she's pretty uncoordinated yet.

And even though I have no desire to be a mother, here is this kitten on my lap, so small she fits into my curled hand, purring and looking up at me with those big dark eyes. She does, it is true, look a little confused: What's wrong with my ears? Why don't I have fur? Why am I so freakin' huge? But none of that really matters to her, I guess, because I am her mother now.

Here is a picture. It's rather blurry, but you can see how small she is:

Goodness.

Kitten!

2011-06-10T21:39:00.005-04:00

It has occurred to me that after all that talk of the kitten 'round these parts it was a terrible oversight—nay, downright cruel of me—to not have posted a picture of the little guy. I do apologize.

Here he is today, hanging out in Celsiana the damask rose:

He has a name, too. Like Sir Isaac Mewton, he has been named for another great Englishman: Aleister Meowley.

Although, last night I thought of another great name, after yet another Englishman: Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Mewart. I imagine I'm the only one who'll get that reference, though.

It's either the Beast or the Brigadier. Hmmm.

Attention, Part Two

2011-06-10T00:55:00.004-04:00

I don't have a lot to say lately, it's true; I am still feeling very blocked artistically, though there is a pressure behind it, I think. I wish I could figure out how to open it up, a little. I fear an explosion if left long enough.

There is a little kitten living in my downstairs garage now. His mother is feral, or semi-feral, and in her wisdom (or Bastet's) she has left the kitten in my care. I have been feeding him, and playing with him, and handling him, and he is as tame as any proper house-cat I've known. That is, in fact the plan; the two house-cats are both over ten years old now, and I like to overlap cats, so it's about the right time for me to get another.

He's met Maude already, several times; she will hiss at him if he gets too close, but otherwise she's content to just sit there with him a couple feet away. She's mellow, though, and has encountered a kitten before (Sir Isaac Mewton). Mewton himself is the one I'm worried about since he can get a little odd. So I'm taking the introductions slowly, and letting the kitten stay in the garage for now, with supervised forays into the cellar and kitchen to get his scent in the house a little, and no contact with Mewton just yet. I've introduced him to ham, vanilla ice cream, and the little plastic ring you pull off the gallon milk bottle-cap; I imagine he thinks it a very fine thing indeed to have me as a friend.

I've been out there playing with him, a lot. He will follow me around out into the back garden, though he definitely has a comfort zone of about fifteen feet from me, and if he gets spooked or uncomfortable he comes running back to sit between my feet.

So that means I've been spending a lot of time out in the back garden, just being there, sitting on the steps to the herb garden, watching the kitten weave in and out of the overflowing damask rose, jumping up on the stone wall, stalking the cricket hiding in the thyme who always stops chirping when he gets about six inches away. And I've seen the ruby-throated hummingbird attend to the kitchen sage in its unexpected bloom, and I've seen the tiger swallowtail on the malva, and the stone wall speckled with bright red spider mites; and it has become a meditation, of sorts, a way of paying attention to what is growing, blooming, changing in my back yard.

I stood there today in the downstairs garage, holding him in my hands against me, while we watched the rain fall. Just quiet, watching, for more than half an hour. He is at his absolute pinnacle of playfulness right now, about six or seven weeks, but he just sat there, looking, unafraid of the lightning and thunder, though it was really quite intense for a time.

A movement caught my eye, down on the floor, though the kitten didn't see it. It was a little brown toad which had hopped out from behind something. I was still enough, and had been for long enough, that he didn't see me. I watched him a moment later as he hopped out into the rain. I imagine it felt good on his skin, and that an amphibian must always be called back to the water, even as an adult.

And I thought: Well I'm a Witch, aren't I? Here with a quiet little kitten and a toad, watching the rain fall.

Attention

2011-04-20T22:41:00.002-04:00

In a recent post, Co-Creation with the Landbase Requires Deep Attention Hecate asked:

How deep is your attention to your landbase? How deep is your landbase's attention to you? Who's leading the dance?

I read her post and I thought, well, I've been known to pick up trash along the side of the road, down the street from me in that patch of woods; I've also climbed down into the local mill stream and uprooted a purple loosestrife or two, which is a horribly invasive species in these parts, and if left to its own would swath the entire little river in purple and crowd out every last one of the native plants. I've done that several times, actually; I don't know that I will ever eradicate it, but dammit I'm going to slow it down as much as I possibly can.

And I thought, well, that's something I guess. Not much, and not as much as I'd like to do, but something.

And then I realized:

Oh. This yard.

I have mentioned this before, but let me explain it again: my father was a compulsive hoarder. He was also a mechanic, and worked on old Volkswagens from a garage on the property. He was here, on this land, in this house, since 1960.

For forty-odd years he not only didn't throw much of anything away, he actively went out looking for junk and brought it home.

This yard was, and this is no exaggeration, a junkyard. In the 90s, when it was at its worst, there were, and I am not making this number up, seventy-eight junk cars on the property. An acre and a half sized piece of residential property.

Seriously, you won't believe it (unless you are unfortunate enough to be related to a hoarder yourself) unless you see it. So I'm going to direct you to a video my sister shot back in 1992 (I tried to post it here but got an error, so I have to send you there). It's a little shaky, be forewarned, but it's here, over at my other blog, Tetanus Burger.

We have been cleaning all that up.

We have been working on it for ten years now, the last five without my father, as he had a stroke in 2006 and has been in a nursing home since. And believe me, that fact has made it much easier. It was very difficult, if not impossible, to throw anything away with my father still here. This is how hoarders are, if you don't know.

Lately, beginning last spring, we've been making a real push to get it done. We are, as of last Friday, down to nineteen junk cars. Looking at the video, and the pictures my sister took from back then, I'd say we're about three quarters of the way through it all, if not further.

Now that blog, though I am of course still a Pagan while writing it, doesn't much mention that aspect of things. Mostly because I am leery of coming out to an audience that may not be so friendly; but also because it's not much to do with anything, really.

But here I can talk about my relationship with my landbase in spiritual terms. About this poor patch of abused ground, this land that I know has had oil, gas, parts cleaner, brake fluid, Godsknow what poisons spilled on it, that has been burdened with so much junk, so many piles of rotting lumber, an old rusted farm tractor, old oil tanks, lawnmowers, plastic tubs and refrigerator drawers of parts, bolts, nuts, screws—I wonder, completely seriously, if there were actually a million bolts and screws and nails here at one point—old doors, windows, salvaged boards with I'm quite sure lead paint on them, car seats, fenders, car doors, transmissions, engines sitting out in the rain, fifty-five gallon drums of broken glass, piles and piles and piles of tires, even an old giant rubber life raft; but above all iron, so much iron. We have, since we've been keeping track, removed thirteen tons of iron from this yard, and there was more before that that we don't have receipts for. We are planning on bringing some more to the scrapyard on Friday, in fact.

Raking up a section of newly-clean yard the other day over and over again we would rake away the leaves and find bits and pieces of junk, little car parts, bent rusty wire, just plain hunks of rust, and I know plenty more is buried in the dirt that has accumulated with the years. I have no idea how deep it goes down; forty years, I guess. I don't know that it will ever really be clean here.

I have not thought of all this, this huge undertaking, this burden I have inherited unwillingly, as a spiritual thing, as a way to make things right, to heal this land, well, not consciously, anyway. It has just been this horrible thing I have no choice about doing. I have not even, really, seen it as claiming space, claiming my own power, but both those things, healing and claiming power, are exactly what it is. In other words: it is a deep, deep magic that I am doing. It is Work, and a working, though I go into this with no conscious intent except to get it clean. I have not really even thought about what I want to do with this place when it is clean. Because I cannot even imagine it. It is just on the edge of overwhelming, though it hasn't claimed me yet, and so I have little space to do anything except simply act.

So I can't honestly say how much attention, never mind deep attention, I have been paying. I mean, it's true, I can tell you when the goldenrod will bloom in that patch behind the vegetable garden, around the disembodied front axle assembly from an old Citroen DS; and I can tell you that the locust and the catalpa are famously late to come into leaf, and since they are a good part of the trees in my yard it always looks bare when other places are out; and I can tell you, also, that I have three miraculous elm trees here, one quite large and thriving up by the road. I know that the snow crocus go absolutely nuts in the front yard come late winter and that there is always a family of chimney swifts in the huge old colonial chimney.

I guess that is attention after all.

I don't know what this patch of land thinks of me. I daren't even ask, yet; I need, I think, to unburden Her, this little piece of Earth, of Gaea, before I have the right to ask anything at all of Her, before I can enter into a real relationship, a free one. At least that is how it feels. That anything blooms or grows here at all is a miracle, is undeserved grace.

So I'm not sure at this point there is any dance. The priorities are different. I cannot dance with someone with a broken leg, can I? She must be healed, first.

Recipe

2011-04-20T20:27:00.005-04:00

I am here, still thinking, still, well, Musing, on all this; it goes deep. In the meantime, here is a recipe I am limerently in love with. It's another stupidly simple one, inspired by a sale at the local supermarket of overstocked Italian stuff in jars, including sun-dried tomatoes packed in olive oil, which I had never had, and which have now made my life complete.

Zucchini with Sun-dried Tomatoes

What you do is open up the jar of tomatoes, then spoon off a teaspoon or two of the oil and put it in a good-sized frying pan on lowish medium to heat up.

Slice a zucchini up into rounds, probably a quarter to three-eighths inch thick (for those of you up in Canada, six to nine millimetres thick). Add them to the pan one layer deep (they should all fit if your zucchini isn't too big).

Pause for a moment and inhale the unbelievably gorgeous scent coming off the heated tomato-infused oil, but try not to swoon—your kitchen floor is very hard, perhaps even tile, and concussions are no fun.

You can drizzle a little more of the tomatoey oil over the top of the zucchini if you like. Flip them over somewhere in there; you'll want them browned a bit on both sides, even approaching caramelization. You kind of can't overcook these, unless they end up actually black and burnt. They ought to be quite soft all the way through.

Somewhere in there add a decent-sized spoonful of herbs. I like rosemary mortared and pestled to a powder (I'm not a fan of the little stick effect), but the more traditionally Italian tomato companions of oregano or basil would work too. Throw that in and mix a bit.

When they are getting towards done fish out about five of the tomatoes from the jar and slice them up finely. Add them to the zucchini for a bit to let it all warm up.

Then eat them, and see if you can prevent yourself from making another batch as soon as you've finished.

Tensions

2011-03-10T21:17:00.004-05:00

Okay, I've hit a block. I am still quite motivated, mind you (and thank you), just that I've gotten to a place where I don't know what's next.

You see I've undertaken the rather large task of reworking and renewing my various web endeavours whilst integrating what exists with even more web endeavours. Wait, did I say 'large'? Because really I meant hugely ginormously gargantuan holy fuck what am I doing GIGANTIC.

Ha. This particular project has had me cross-eyed ever since I decided well gosh I really probably ought to do something of the sort, which dates about to CafePress's move to cut shopkeepers' commission in the marketplace back in what 2009 now? So yeah, a while ago.

Lately I've been diddling away at the edges of it, and, while I am certainly getting stuff done that needs to get done, it's come to me that I'm not, really, going to get too far on the details without understanding the whole. And that's where I just sit and blink, or, on bad days, when my head suddenly tilts to the side, smoke comes out my ear, and I hear myself say Norman—coordinate!

I mean I know in general, I guess. I know I want my gallery website to remain more or less the same as far as its function goes; I know I want the Obscure Goddess Online Directory to still do its thing; and I know I want my CafePress shop to continue (well, probably. I still don't trust the bastards there as far as I can throw them). And mostly I just want to add a couple other kinds of shops, from other companies, you know, the whole eggs in multiple baskets thing since they each have their strengths. Also probably it would be a good idea one of these days to offer a decent selection of proper prints, ya think? So I have all these ideas.

But I'm strangely stuck. I can't even seem to get a coherent outline in general terms down, never mind breaking it down into more detail. And thinking about it, I think there are some other issues here, bigger things than just the technical html/CSS/javascript sort of things. There are some fundamental tensions to this that I'm not sure how to resolve.

First is that this work of mine is primarily religious, and I have mixed feelings at best about selling it in the first place. Oh, I know, Paganism doesn't necessarily have all that celebration of poverty and focus on the spiritual at the expense of the material stuff; still, it's in the air around us just because of the general culture and I have to deal with it somehow. There is a seriousness to it that I must respect. And yes, I understand both that irreverence is in itself holy, and that further I am myself entitled to prosperity; also, that whatever the subject, I made the damned art and it is mine. Still I don't know how to come to terms with it; so far I've just been sort of studiously ignoring it, which can only last so long. In fact I'd say my time for ignoring it is definitely up.

Also, and this probably outs me as a cynical old misanthrope, but I don't do this to be of service. I'm not sure, actually, I believe in that at all. That people find my art useful and helpful is wonderful, and gives me great joy; however it is a side effect, not a conscious intention. I can only make my art for myself, ultimately. I simply don't have the personality to put 'service' on my to-do list. The world is an awful needy place, and I am only just learning how to attend to my own needs right now.

Which leads into the second tension: public versus private. My art has my name on it, my full name, which, though it is not my birth name and certainly sounds ridiculous enough to be some crackpot pseudonym, is really my real name now. That, right there, I have found, automatically mutes me to some extent. For example on Tetanus Burger, that (anti-)hoarding blog of mine, I only go by my first name; and though if you really poke around I imagine you could find your way back to here and my real name, still, I feel so much freer there, with the result I think, that I am more honest, open, and well, funnier. I mean of course there is a different focus there and I'm sure that helps, since a lot of it is just grousing and venting; still, it's different. Probably, also, I don't care so much; it's mostly just a bit of fun, if you can call Work like that fun, anyway. But this, my art, with my real name on it, I do care about. Very much so.

Part of it is that I am very introverted, and when I say very I mean for the past several years I have consistently pinned out at 98-100% introverted tendencies on any of the various Myers-Briggs tests out there (ISFP, too, by the way). So I'm uneasy being out as an artist in the first place. But add into it that my name is in some ways a brand, because that's how it works when you're an artist, and, well, that just squicks me right the fuck out.

So I don't know what to do, or how quite to get through or around this block about these things. Though I thought writing about it here would be a start. I am open to advice, accounts of similar experience, ideas, opinions, things I could focus on, that sort of thing; even a reading I could do or something along more Witchy lines, like perhaps, duh, a reading with the very cards/artwork I'm wondering about selling, hmmm.

Anyway thank you all.

Mandala for Late Winter

2011-03-04T20:19:00.003-05:00

Looking through some photos I took last week of the first sign of the snowdrops, I was inspired to make this photo mandala:

I am always drawn to the eight or four sided ones for some reason. Grounding and stability, perhaps.

The outer ring of blue is last year's leaves, through which the buds are poking. We usually see them earlier, but last week was the first time the snow cover had melted enough. But once that was gone, things filled in fast. The snowdrops are out now, and the snow crocus are starting up.

Spring is coming, isn't it.

Motivation

2011-02-23T01:53:00.003-05:00

I have the urge to write here again, though I don't know why; mostly I've been ranting over on Tetanus Burger, my cleaning-up-after-the-hoarding-father blog, which has also, crazily enough, proven strangely popular, as in looking at the stat counter I'm just like buh-WHUT!?! I suppose getting linked in a Newsweek comment thread didn't hurt, but whoa—the damned thing's been getting more hits than my store site, which I've put several years worth of work into. I guess hoarding is hot now or something, which I suppose I shan't complain about after all, since people now know what the Hel I'm talking about instead of just looking at me like, So your father was kind of messy. What's the big deal?

But really I've just been busy. Really quite busy. Here is why, I think:

All this talk—or rather not all this talk, since I dropped it rather abruptly, didn't I? Ah well, it's tricky, and a tender spot, you know, to come out—of daimones and such has another piece to it, or a related part of it.

Shadow work, I guess you could call it. It's something I've been doing for years now. Basically what it is is finding those parts of you you have rejected, your shadow, in (of course) Jungian terms; then integrating them back into you. In principle, it's pretty simple.

There are of course a few ways you can go about it, and let me say up front that while I've gotten pretty good at it one does have to take it slowly, and respectfully, and with some experience. I don't want to be irresponsible here, I guess. I think it helps for me that I don't think of myself, or parts of myself, as bad, on a root level. I assume that whatever I find within myself will be (and it always has turned out to be so) on my side. If you go into this with the assumption that you are battling or conquering demons, well, you have just chosen to book a trip to Hell, haven't you?

One way is the Debbie Ford way. She wrote a book called Dark Side of the Light Chasers, which I have read (though not recently). Her method is to find those words, those qualities, to which you have a bad reaction—the button pushers, the words you automatically dismiss with rancor—and then go stand in front of a mirror. Then you say to your own eyes, I am [whatever it is you reject]. And keep going, until you get a reaction, and end up bawling your eyes out. It's a release, and it allows you to then accept that you are in fact this thing you have rejected; and once you get to that point you can then see in what ways it is in fact a good thing, and you may be more whole.

Yes, well. I am a big fan of kindness to the self; and dammit that's just harsh. Especially since there's just no need. At least not in my experience. But then again, I firmly believe—I know—that I am on my own side.

It's a meditation, of the usual active imagining sort. This is what I do; this is what works for me. I don't know if it would work for others, though I imagine if this is rooted in the basics of the human soul it would; but again, use your judgement, and above all be kind to yourself.

I am lucky in that I have a Guide right to hand, that daimon of mine. And in the meditation, the vision he leads me somewhere. It's a different place every time, maybe a cellar, or a cave, or an underground chamber; but it's usually dark, and below things. Just where shadows congregate, right?

And in that place I ask to see that part of me I have pushed away. I have done this with my Anger, my Beauty, my Stubbornness, my Wisdom, and—whee!!—my Desire; a few weeks ago, though, it was my Motivation.

You will remember all my talk of feeling blocked artistically? Well, I finally figured out what I was missing, what I needed but didn't want to hear about, or didn't want to think about; and that boiled down to the word motivation.

So I asked to see her, my Motivation. And she came to me.

She was a leper.

She was bound all in rags, and covered with sores. She seemed, mostly, dead to the world, ill, abused, pale and gaunt.

And so in the meditation I bathed her, in a large sunken bath, like at a mineral spa, one with good healing waters; and she became strong, and whole. And beautiful, oh my God so beautiful. And we talked, a little, as friends.

There is rather more to it than that, of course, and well, yes, I have a really good imagination, oh ho trust me on that; but that's it in the main.

And since then, well what do you know? There are not enough hours in the day to do what I want to get done; and I've actually picked up a really huge project that has had me simply stymied, just because it's so damned big—reworking and integrating all my various internet projects. Big, complicated stuff that until just now had been so overwhelming to me I could only stare at it hopelessly; but I've been plugging away at it.

Without making myself do it. That is the amazing part. Always it has been, oh God do I have to? But I would do it anyway, though the metaphor I always found coming to me was like pulling my own teeth. But this, this is so different. I'm just doing it. Simple as that.

Not that I have anything to show, and yikes, given that I am learning CSS I don't imagine I will for a while; still, it's coming along quite nicely.

It really is quite amazing.

It is a sea-change, and I can only assume it is because of that Shadow work.

Here

2010-12-27T00:11:00.004-05:00

Yes, I'm here, and hope everyone has survived the holidays just fine.

I don't know what I'm doing with this blog, or my art, or any of this. Perhaps I shall just make quilts for the rest of my life. Or perhaps I have simply been a bit chilly since the autumn and come spring I'll be obsessing about gardening, who knows. Seasons are what they are, after all, and we Pagans know it.

So I don't know what I'm doing here at Amused Grace. But what I do know is that this is the season for finding out, for visioning, for going into the dark places, for there is time enough dark on our hands, on our minds, to explore it in depth.

And I am doing work, or rather, Work; but much of it is internal, of course, and what is coming out, the Working in the real world (ha! define 'real'), is not particularly Pagan-related, though one could argue it all is, as it's about me, and I am Pagan.

I seem to be in an aniconic phase. The altar in my bedroom is dusty and unmaintained, I have not done anything special for a Sabbat in I don't know how long, it's been ages since I've done a spell, and I've never been interested in any kind of daily practice; but it's not as if I'm having some sort of spiritual crisis or major rethinking. I am Pagan to the marrow of my bones. I am simply keeping it close now for some reason. I feel gathered into myself, looking out at the world with a sharp eye, and though I'm reading plenty of blogs I somehow always stop myself from commenting or participating. I've never been much for community, it's true, as I favor the model of the Witch living alone on the margin of the wood rather than the college of priestesses one.

The holidays do sort of bring out the bah-humbug curmudgeon in me, I admit. These last few years especially the frantic lighting of lights and cheeriness seem forced, seem rooted in denial. This is the dark time of the year. Let it be dark, then, and quiet, and still.

I can't see with all the noise.

AEDM November 21-28

2010-11-28T01:09:00.006-05:00

Wow, that, uh, wasn't meant to be a whole week's worth post, but oh well. I have been doing plenty of stuff, still. So here we go:

First I did another of the square quilts blocks, in the light green stripe. I only made one, as a test, and I'm not sure it's going to hold its own with the stronger colors of the other blocks. Here it is with one sherbet and one chocolate block:

But mostly what I worked on, quiltwise, was these totally addictive four by four squares:

I made a few more of these, but they had either too much contrast or not enough, so they got weeded out.

I also did this little mandala sort of doodle, which I found very weirdly difficult to do. I thought I'd just let the colors come to me but it was really awful. I don't think I'm over that block yet. Or, maybe, I just don't work that way? Whenever I do something like this, with no plan, it always comes out looking the same, just sort of random rainbowy colors and I always hate it. Hmmm.

And last, I spent most of the time working on these little Etruscan Sims ladies:

The dresses (and heads) still need a little tweaking, but they're pretty good so far.

Oh, and yeah, I made three freakin' pies and some banana bread Wednesday night, as well as a complete turkey dinner &c on Thursday. Whew!

Daimon

2010-11-26T22:19:00.004-05:00

In reading all those daimon links (and get the eff with it, spell-checker; that little red line under 'daimon' is beyond annoying) I posted a couple weeks back it really strikes me how distant it all seems. Especially the blog Demon Muse, where the author never quite seems to get around to talking about his own Muse. I mean, not that I don't understand a certain reluctance (and to be fair, I still haven't gotten through all the posts there, as there are an awful lot of them), and how the desire to not appear crazy can keep one speaking of the Muse or daimon in abstract or psychological terms. Still, I am tempted to whisper, Coward! (I know, pot, meet kettle.)

My experience with my daimon has been immediate, present, and profound. Like I said, he is right here, right now, smiling at me again out of those blue eyes, probably because I'm talking about him. No, that's not quite right, really; it's more that in talking about him I am talking about my authentic Self.

And not just because I'm opening up and discussing a subject that, well, if it is not exactly taboo, is still not generally mentioned, as it is unusual and often harshly judged (as well as a private matter), but because that is one of the daimon's roles: helping a woman to discover, to uncover, her authentic Self.

What am I talking about, I can hear you all wonder. Well, let's turn to the very excellent Caitlín Matthews and her book In Search of Woman's Passionate Soul: Revealing the Daimon Lover Within. She says:

[The daimon] is the inner inspirer of women: one who appears in male shape in their dreams, fantasies and meditations and plays a significant part in guiding and shaping their outer lives.

The soul of every human being is encoded with an image of desire. In men, the image usually appears as female; in women, as male. Throughout adolescence, the influence of this image intensifies like a burning glass, heightening sexual desire. In later years, this image exercises a strong influence in many areas of life when its features and characteristics are sought in sexual partners, in intellectual colleagues, in objects of spiritual veneration, and in creative inspiration and artistic fulfillment.

In the classical world, the word daimon was used to mean 'the inspirational spirit-companion or genius of a human being'. Similar to the Roman genius, the daimon was the spirit which was believed to be present at one's birth and which guided and protected one's soul. (From pages 2-3.)

She also says '[t]he role of the daimon and muse is to support, companion and guide the authentic self' (page 48).

Now the Muse (or daimon; I consider them the same thing, though of course the sex of one's 'image of desire' is going to depend on which sex one desires!) is often spoken of solely in terms of inspiring creativity; it seems to me that much of the time the sexual aspect is downplayed or ignored, sort of automatically assumed to be sublimated into something 'higher'. But in my experience it is all the same thing, inspiration, desire, longing, the urge to create, to explore: all expressions of the life-force, or libido if you will. Then again I'm also Pagan down to the deep bones of me.

So, then, if you are interested in exploring all this, how do you find him? (And please forgive me, lesbians and bi women, as I generalize the pronouns to masculine.)

He is the go-between, the messenger, between this world and the Other; or between the conscious and unconscious, if you prefer those terms. He comes in dreams, in visions and in meditations; divination (the process of seeing the divine, literally 'to be inspired by a God') such as Tarot reading is also a good way to open up a dialogue with him. He is the Soul Guide, the Psychopomp, and in my dreams at least he has opened doors, held the keys, bought tickets.

He always has a charge to him—he is the image of desire; how can he not? And that charge is how you know it's him. Now, depending on where you are in your acceptance of him, or where you are in your acceptance of your Self, more like, or, to put it another way, how well you are aligned with your own Soul's purpose or calling, he can come in positive or negative guises. If you are not listening to your Soul, he may very well come as an irresistible and unstoppable vampiric sort (and I suspect this is in large part what this society's obsession with vampires taps into); if you are working in accordance with your true Self, he may be a beautiful and fascinating lover. But the charge is always there, and he is always a profoundly compelling figure. Because he embodies, and brings, the call of the Soul.

Now I am personally very very very very lucky in that I seem to have such a clear connection to mine; even within a dream I know it's him. And part of all this, why I'm writing about this now in public (besides the feeling that if I held it in any longer I was just going to burst) is an almost evangelical fervor to share, much as I really dislike the 'spreading the good word' kind of thing. But I have found this working to be incredibly, unbelievably, helpful and profoundly healing and strengthening, as well as deeply compassionate and kind; and it has made me a much, much better person. I also do think it is something that, well, all humans have in common. I make that statement with some trepidation, as I do not wish to speak for anyone else; but coming from a psychological (okay, Jungian, perspective), if the shadow, and the animus and anima, and all the archetypes out there are common to humanity, then so is this.

Does this strike a chord in you?

Archangel

2010-11-26T02:18:00.003-05:00

Well I finally borrowed the scanner, and so was able to scan this in:

And wow I can't believe I'm posting this. I mean not like I haven't posted similar, just not so much on the up-and-up. This is a portrait of my daimon. You may recognize the model this time (or maybe not). It did come out looking very much like the model, even though I was actively trying to not get a likeness; oh well, it did what it wanted, as artwork does. It is for once a particularly exact portrait, which is a strange thing to say. Though he also looks (unintentionally) rather like Sarah Vowell, which I think is kind of funny. Oh, and a guy I used to work with named Dan, but then again the original model kind of looks like Dan too. (Or Dan looks kind of like the original model, since Mr. Original Model is older and therefore came first, right? Hmmm.)

Oh man, I crack myself up sometimes. Y'all have no idea what I'm talking about, do you? Anyway.

Those are green leaves instead of feathers on the angel's (or Eros's) wings. He's also a little bleached-out, colorwise (his face actually has some skin tone in it in the original) but I was too lazy to rescan it. It's close enough.

AEDM November 19th & 20th

2010-11-20T23:07:00.003-05:00

Yesterday on my various errands I acquired some more stripey cloth, which I washed and dried. Today I ironed it, cut the pieces out and assembled them, giving me another five of the consquaric blocks in ice cream and sherbet shades. I would have gotten six out of them, but I cut one single triangle off by a quarter inch, and it would not line up. Holy cow though it's tricky fussy cutting those out and keeping track of them, especially when the repeat of the stripes is just a little smaller than the height of the triangle you are cutting. ('Fussy cutting,' I should explain, is when you cut out a piece of cloth following the pattern on it.) Somewhere in there I just started whining, Fussy cutting is fussy, waaaah! but I soldiered on through.

I tried a single square out of a red yellow and black much smaller stripe; I'm not sure it's going to work (it's at the middle bottom, though you can't really make out the black of it). I think I want all the stripes to be kind of on the large side. Here's a picture of the new ones, posed with the ones I did a little while ago in chocolate shades:

The smaller one on the extreme left is the first one I tried, to see if I liked the idea in the first place. I intend to make some larger ones out of that cloth, which is a bright red and orange. I'm not so keen on the sherbet and ice cream color scheme, though it works well enough on that cloth, and I like the effect in the squares, and how each one is very different; I'm going to throw some bright reds and yellows in there so the finished quilt won't look so 'trendy' to me. (Don't get me going on that fad that just won't die of brown paired with aqua.)

I also got a chunk of striped cloth in shades of green, which should go nicely, though I didn't get as far as playing with it.

AEDM November 16th, 17th, & 18th

2010-11-18T23:51:00.005-05:00

Catching up a little here; I've been making plenty of things but fell off track a little with the posting part. So here's what I've done in the last few days.

I made a single square (the one in the upper right) on this Trip Around The World quilt. It's meant to be a doll quilt, and the squares when done are two inches across. Yes, it's stupidly tiny. Yes, it takes forty-five minutes to hand-sew a single block. Yes, it's kind of wonky since it's teeny and hand-sewn. Yes, it needs to be ironed. And yes, I love how it's coming out so far. I am tempted to make it a full-sized quilt, except I don't expect to be alive for the required thousand years.

I also put together another row on the orange-yellow-and-black quilt, which means I have more than half of the nine-patches done:

I did a little block, just to see if I liked it. I had in mind some very colorful high-key exuberant quilts I had seen. I think the contrast is a little too pronounced in it, and that it would work better with a lighter blue, so hmmm.

I also cut out the remaining pieces and assembled this square, adapted from a mandala doodle I did. Maude is, alas, not impressed, to judge by her yawn.

Alchemy

2010-11-15T22:22:00.005-05:00

This is the sort of thing I would usually talk about on my other blog, the one dealing with my father's hoarding and its aftermath. But of course one can't really separate one's life so neatly, and it is all related and intersecting. So I will make this observation here: what we are doing is in large part a spell.

I suppose I should give a bit of rough background. My father was a compulsive hoarder and a mechanic. Have you seen those TV shows? I haven't, actually, because I know I would find them triggering and enraging; but from what I have heard he may very likely be worse than the people on them. Because, no matter how bad they are, the very fact that they have agreed to be on those shows mean they recognize something is wrong with them. For my father? Not so much, no.

For forty years he filled this yard (and the garage, attic, breezeway, and two outbuildings) with junk like whole rusty cars, car parts, engines, tires, scrap metal, galvanized heater ducts, pipes, lumber, boards, milk crates of cedar shingles, cans and jars filled with nails and bolts and screws, refrigerator drawers, wooden drawers salvaged from old bureaus, broken furniture, and on and on and on. At one point there were seventy-eight cars on this acre and a half lot. I wonder, quite seriously, if we have actually had a million bolts, screws, and nails here. I am in no way kidding. How many nails fit in a gallon tin can? And how many of those have we found, and gotten rid of?

So, anyway. What my sibling and I have been doing in whatever time we can spare is to clean this up. (This is only possible, I should say, because my father is now in a nursing home and no longer lives here.) We have already taken a huge amount of stuff off the property. We have made (according to the receipts) twenty-six trips to the scrap yard to get rid of iron, so far (that number is probably a little low, actually, since I don't think we have all the receipts), and taken more than eleven tons.

Yes. Eleven tons. And it has barely made a dent, honestly. It doesn't look very much different.

So back to the Witchy aspect of all of this. Besides the obvious ways in which this clean-up is honoring the Earth (or really, just being decent to the Earth), and the ways in which it is making this bit of land more hospitable to faeries (what are faeries famous for hating? Iron) or the way in which it is more personally connected to my own growth and feeling of freedom, not to mention the whole working out of issues thing, it is also in some very real ways a magical process.

Because it is alchemy. We have been gathering up base metal, copper, brass, iron, and yes, literally lead, and transforming it into gold, or rather, cash. And that is a magical process.

And so I recently took some of that money and bought myself something which really seems quite appropriate, given the author's interest in alchemy and transformation. Can you guess what it is?

Here's the package which arrived today. It was quite large, and very heavy.

Yes. It's a book. Can you guess what color?

Why yes. Red.

O happy happy. I have only had time so far to page through the illuminated part and read most of the introduction (I had to put it down to help take several stacks of tires to the tire place), but I can already tell it is going to change the way I make art.

Good.

AEDM November 15th

2010-11-15T01:41:00.006-05:00

I know y'all believe me; still, I like having pictures. I'm very visual, and if I can't see it I forget it exists (which is one reason I tend to live out of laundry baskets, because if I put my clothes away in the drawers that means OMG I have no clothes!)

So I got another two rows done on my Hallowe'en/Samhain/November yellow-orange-and-black quilt, bringing it up to seven of the fifteen rows of twelve, nearly half (as far as the nine patches are concerned). It's starting to take over my floor, hmmm. Given the layout of my studio room (which is an attic room), my project wall (a hunk of batting hung up that you can pin pieces to, then step back from, so you can get a look at it, and rearrange) is actually my floor and the rug, since with the tilty ceiling, built-in bookcases, doors, chairrails, the futon, &c there is no blank piece of real estate on the wall. Except this quilt is probably going to end up about the size of the entire rug. Hmmmm.

I rearranged it by color, so it would be easier to keep track of how I'd already combined the colors. I'm shooting for no repeats. Looks pretty good so far!

AEDM November 14th

2010-11-14T00:38:00.003-05:00

And again with no pictures of what I did. Oh well. I cut out more (and more, and more) of the squares for my orange-yellow-black-and-grey quilt; I've finally gotten enough now to start up sewing together another batch. I've got sixty nine-patches done already, and I think the finished size is going to be twelve by fifteen squares, so I'll need one hundred eighty altogether. So that's one third down, with one hundred twenty to go. I still need to find probably about four yards of ash grey cotton for the plain squares in between.

I also sat down and listed a bunch of unfinished object projects, and then laid out the next series of steps to do for each, which is very helpful. Because I'd like to use November also to help me learn to finish things (I am notorious for the amount of UFOs I've got kicking around. How many quilts have I started now?)

Earlier today (well the 13th, I guess) I went scouting around for lumber on the property. I may have found a good hunk of something to use as the two inch thick piece for the top of the bookcase I designed last week. Except, looking at it, all I could think of was Gandalf's remark about Barliman Butterbur's mind: it was 'like a lumber room: things wanted, always buried.'

Hmmm.

AEDM November 13th

2010-11-14T00:35:00.002-05:00

I did a couple little watercolors (and when I say little, I mean like one and a half by not quite three inches) to scan in for little Etruscan Sim wallpapers. Again, though, I don't have a scanner just now (the sibling was supposed to bring it over for me to borrow it today, but forgot), so I don't have anything to show.

I'm making stuff, honest!

AEDM November 11th & 12th

2010-11-13T00:32:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I did some journal-type writing; I guess that counts as art, but again, I've got nothing to show (or nothing that I'm willing to show, anyway). Today I played around with little texture maps for Sims stuff (it's a hobby), in the hopes of making a little Etruscan woman (my goal is to make an entirely old Pagan Sim-world). It looks a little odd, since it's a texture map, and stretches to fit around the 3D mesh, which in this case, has two braids in the front, and several more hanging down the back. I had thought that given the shape it would work well with an Etruscan-style hat; but when I tested it in the game it turned out that whoever did the texture mapping had gotten the color for the braids from the top of the head, so they were showing up the same color as the hat. So I think that I'll have to ditch the hat, alas.

AEDM November 10th

2010-11-10T21:04:00.003-05:00

Well it's another day where I don't have a whole lot to show. I decided that even if I didn't know what I was going to do with the grey parts of that Hallowe'enish quilt I started, that didn't mean I had to stop working on the orange and black nine patches. So I cut out a bunch of black squares. I didn't get as far as cutting more of the yellow and orange ones though, so I don't have anything to assemble together yet (since I used up all the ones I'd already cut).

I'm counting it, even though part of me things that's really pathetic. But then I have this habit of discounting what I do. The year before last (I think?) I also participated in the year-long (and rather more laid-back) version of Creative Every Day, also hosted by Leah. Part of that was keeping a creativity journal. I was really surprised to find what I counted and didn't count as being creative.

Because when I wrote down every little creative thing I did in a day, I had this huge list. Every day. Things like blog posts, cooking stew, sewing, knitting, twiddling about on the guitar, things I discounted as not Art, capital A.

And I'm realizing that not counting prep work, which is what cutting out fabric for a quilt is, is a way of disappearing the energy put into it, which is not good for the soul. Because you end up at the end of the day tired and thinking you did nothing. Which is not true at all.

So. It counts.

AEDM November 9th

2010-11-09T01:57:00.003-05:00

Well it was another one of those days (well, okay, I'm talking about Monday the 8th here, properly) where the sibling and I spent several hours cleaning up junk and sorting stuff to go to the scrapyard. However, I did manage to squeeze a little bit of art in there.

Namely a little bit of dyeing. Last month I did a batch of yarn in black walnut; today I strained out some pokeberry dye, tied some of the black walnut yarn off tie-dye fashion, and plunked it into the pokeberry solution. This is real low-tech dyeing, I suppose I should mention; I'm just going to let it sit there for I don't know a week or two maybe and see what I get.

The black walnut dye, made from crushing and soaking the hulls, makes a really marvelous rich brown. If you dip it a few times in indigo you can actually get close to black, too. Pokeberries of course make a bright magenta, though the color isn't that fast. Though I have heard if you get the dyebath acidic enough, the color is permanent and won't yellow (which in this case means it goes to a dark red, or at least the batch I made last year has gone from purple to rich deep red. Not a bad color itself).

So we'll see how that goes. I didn't get any pictures, though it's not much to look at, honestly. Just a bunch of bright magenta stuff in a five-gallon bucket.

Philemon

2010-11-08T00:01:00.004-05:00

Well would you look at this? In Googling to see if I got the spelling of 'Philemon' correctly after all, I found some pictures of him, Jung's daimon or guide, painted by Jung himself of course. Look:

And I thought, Oh, I need the Red Book so bad.

But then there's this, one of my portraits of my own daimon:

Funny how similar, eh? Wings, and holding something bright in the hands, though I've put an image to mine (the butterfly).

This is not just me.

AEDM November 8th

2010-11-07T22:27:00.009-05:00

So I sat down with the Muse. Who else, really, knows about artist's blocks, and the internal workings of things?

I have been skirting it here on this blog, and of all places I maybe don't want to come out about it it might just be a post that will be linked on a more general (by which I mean one that does not necessarily have a Pagan, Goddess-worshiping, vision-having audience) art blog, but, too bad, this needs to come out. And we're all about the honesty and navel-gazing here lately. Also I'm simply tired. There are an awful lot of things round here to keep separate, and it's not doing the brain any good.

So. I sat down with the Muse. (Actually I was already sitting.) And I asked him, because he is very definitely a him, what to do about all this. I mean, not like I haven't asked him before.

Now, this is the part where I fear I will be thought insane. Because this isn't something vague. This isn't asking a question of a half-formed, fuzzy sphere of light sort of spirit guide thing, or that a barely perceptible feeling of warmth on my left shoulder means yes or something; I mean, he is sitting next to me. Right now. I can see him clear as day with my mind's eye. He has blue eyes. Long dark brown hair. He is all in black. He is smiling at me now, quite broadly.

And when I talk to him (and he talks to me) it is as unpredictable and as specific as a deep talk with a good friend. I never know what he is going to say.

Jung had one, you know (in theory we all have one, a Muse, a daimon, a genius, a guardian angel, whatever you want to call it I believe it is all the same thing). His was named Philemon, if I am remembering correctly. This Philemon told Carl Gustav that this psychology stuff was perfectly external, too, and was not confined to the individual. Isn't that interesting?

If you are inclined to think I've gone off the deep end, well, all I can say is that if I have I've been there for ages. And so far, I do seem to be otherwise sane, by all the mundane markers out there, like paying my bills on time, getting myself to doctor's appointments, feeding the cats, those kinds of things.

But anyway. That is of course the tiniest pinkie-toe in the great Ocean of all of this; but that's enough for now.

So I sat down with the Muse, and I asked him about this block of mine, the one that's been there for several years now, and which I have so far had little luck dealing with. I am a believer in getting to the root of things (which is why I consider myself a radical feminist, 'radical' meaning 'at the root'; it is related to 'radish,' actually); so I am not really inclined to try to get around it, or over it, or smash through it. I'd rather dismantle it down to the foundations. Unmake it.

So I asked him what to do about this block of mine. When I asked What is this block made up of? he said:

Well tell me. What do you feel when you come up against it?

And I said: Hopeless. Frustrated. Angry. Ineffective. Unable to do anything.

Ah yes, 'ineffective'. That's one thing you learn growing up with a hoarder parent with a personality disorder; that nothing you can do or say will change anything, and, since the hoarder's needs always come before anyone else's in the family, you learn that nothing you can do or say will get your basic needs met. And I mean basic: stuff like heat and hot water.

And so I thought about that block, and I tried to picture it. I imagined walking up to it and looking at it, seeing what it was made of. It is made of filthy stone blocks, large, snugly fit together, and it is so tall and so wide both that I can see no end to it save where it meets the ground.

It reminded me of the setting of a dream I've had, twice now.

I am in New York City, a place I hate. I am not a city person; and in these dreams it is the absolute worst of that place, of all cities. It is filthy and grimy and dark; and the place I am is a deserted intersection, a T, faced with rows of houses, black with pollution. The light is very weak, and never really gets any brighter. I hate this place. I have come here almost by accident, I think. One wrong turn somewhere in New Jersey, probably.

Behind those houses, though, is the Ocean. I can't hear it, or smell the salt, but I know it is there just behind that single row of buildings.

So I went up in my studio and pulled out the stuff to make some more monoprints.

I didn't think I would; after the other night I'd had enough of them, so I thought. But leaving the hardware store the other day I found I had bought some mineral spirits, which was what the back of the ink tube said was for clean-up; and, well, the black of them is really quite perfect. And triggering, as odd as that sounds.

Like I've said, we are cleaning up this property after my hoarding father. He was a mechanic who worked on air-cooled Volkswagens, which I hate, so don't go giving me any of that hippie crap about how cool VW 'vans' are. I will try to keep this long story short, but if you want the long version, really, go read my other blog Tetanus Burger. It's all there.

So we've been cleaning up a lot of grime and filth, of the kind that only accumulates from the sorts of things mechanics do, like rebuilding engines, or draining oil pans. This is a very specific sort of grime, and one I don't really know how to clean up. For instance I would like the garage to someday be a wood shop; but I do not know how to clean the floor, which is wood, and completely soaked with motor oil.

It is exactly the same kind of black those monoprints make.

So, anyway. The art of all of this.

First I drew that wall, that block. Of course to my (should not have been) surprise when I peeled the paper off the inked glass it was backwards; so with a little Photoshop help I put it back the right way round, and got the colors about right.

Then I drew that corner from my dream:

That lighter blank spot in the front right is really another building. Except you can't see that there would be an intersecting street if I put it in there, could you? This is a dream-image, and that was as close as I could get to showing the building there and what was behind it. Yes, that's a paradox. That is simply how these things work.

They are about right, especially since the paper is an off-white rice paper. It is important to not have any actual white in them. There can be no neutral color, no standard to base the rest off of, no 'normal' way to gauge things. It is all skewed a little to the dark, all just a little below what you need to see clearly.

These are good.

AEDM November 7th

2010-11-07T18:37:00.005-05:00

Another confession. I fucking hate the artistic process. I really, really, really do. The phrase I always, always come up with is that it is like pulling my own teeth. For all that I don't want to know what I'm doing, well, maybe that has nothing to do with it after all, I don't know. But I only do it for the results, honestly. I hate the process. I really do.

Painting doesn't send me to some lovely zen-state where time no longer exists; always it is simply a chance for the monkey mind to rant (and rant) about awful things while the rest of my brain is occupied, and every millisecond is filled with rants and the petty stupidity of thought, even as whatever it is I'm making is being made (or making itself, maybe. I don't know).

And I get frustrated so easily. I mean, it's ridiculous, and has been proved over and over again, but when drawing, like, say, trying to get that hand right, I always, always despair that it will never work. Every single time. It always does, but that knowledge, that experience, never seems to take.

It's the same old block, I suppose, one that I've been trying to get around for several years now. One that I have in general left off fighting, because fighting it, rebelling against it, has not only proved to be useless but I swear only makes it stronger. So maybe this making art every day thing, on schedule, and with the intent to check in daily and show others, is just not a good idea for me. I can never tell. I'm not the type to force myself through something; I have found that it inevitably harms me in the process.

So, this is what I tried to paint today. I went at it not knowing what it was going to be, and not caring, either, or so I thought. But it got to a point where trying to decide what to do with it, or trying to judge what was the appropriate next step just met with all this, not resistance, I don't quite think, but all this stupid other stuff coming up, to the point where I was nearly in tears and just said fuck it. Fuck all of this. Now.

So I left off.

I swear, the only reason I paint is for the end result. Now, it's true, I don't really want to know everything about what it will be, and I want it to be its own thing—like a spell, where you say, I want this result, or better. It's that or better part that seems to fill itself in. Divinely? Maybe. Probably. And that's good.

I'm beginning to see it a bit now I think, this block, and what it is constructed out of. It all comes back to the hoarding, my father's hoarding, and the resulting neglect that was all a piece of it, and of being told, and shown, that my needs (really, anyone's needs but my father's) were not just unimportant but completely and quite impartially irrelevant. Personality disorder on my father's part, you see. I don't really want to get into any of it here, and I certainly hadn't planned to (that is what the hoarding blog is for), but, it is kind of the big issue I'm dealing with right now. And if there's one thing I've learned about myself is that things that are important to me permeate my entire life. I don't see how they can't, really.

So I think really this comes down to some part of me having been taught that I am simply not allowed to do what I want, to have what I desire, to behave as I like. And when I try to do any of those things, I am still coming up against the idea that I shouldn't, and I am bad. I know, that is the language of a child there, isn't it. Well yeah.

AEDM November 6th

2010-11-06T02:47:00.005-04:00

So I designed that bookcase which will hold the fat quarters and which will go under my Muse pictures. Now, I'm not really much of a woodworker, not yet, anyway, though I'm a little further along than being confined to building birdhouses; but I'm no cabinet-maker, certainly. So I kept it simple. Simple, but with some design to it; and I figured I could probably make something simple but with a bit of an Arts and Crafts sensibility in the proportions. That I can do.

So here's the sketch. I should probably redraw it on graph paper, since the proportions of the thickness of the wood are a little off (since 1" wood is actually 3/4"), and I want to make sure it won't look anemic; still, I'm pretty happy with it.

Again, I don't have a scanner right now so I had to take a photo, which I played around with to get some kind of readable contrast. I like the effect, though; it makes it look like one of Leonardo's sketches, don't you think?

Although, really, for the full Leonardo effect it should look like this:

I don't know yet quite how I'm going to do that thick top, or the moulding on the thick top, but I'll figure it out.

And oh yes, that's a sketch of Sir Isaac Mewton's head over there on the side. He moved, of course.

Altar

2010-11-05T22:26:00.004-04:00

All right. Now that's out of the way. Let's see.

The other thing I did last night, and while this may not sound very creative, it is in some ways more vital to my creativity than actually creating right now, as odd as that sounds, is that I hung up some pictures. I went and got photocopies of some of my art (I don't like hanging the originals up for some reason), dug out some frames, cleaned them up, cut some 'mattes' out of black pastel paper, and then hung them up. They are exactly at my eye level, which looks quite high given the low attic ceiling in my studio room.

Now this is the important part. These aren't just any pictures. This is the beginning of my altar to the Muse, you see. And so, well, that's what the pictures are. Two of them you may recognize as I've posted them here before, though without explanation (well unless you can read Greek); the third I finished up last week. I do not at present however have a scanner (as I borrow the sibling's, and it's not here just now), so can't really show it very well. But here they are, and just the presence of these pictures hanging there makes the space more numinous and magical and inspiring. I can feel it.

I have in my head the idea that I am going to make a bookcase to go beneath them, one that is rather taller than the one sitting there, which is not going to work for what I need it to do (which will be storing fat quarters for quilting, actually, and not books). I'd like it to come up to something like ten or twelve inches below the bottom of the frames (which are themselves about twelve inches tall). I like the proportions of that.

That middle one is the first thing I have hung on the wall since I've refinished this room, by which I mean, I took off the old wallpaper, filled it in, washed everything, then repainted everything—ceiling, walls, trim, doors, floor. I was very conscious, in a magical, spellwork kind of way, that it was the first nail I was choosing to put in those newly perfect walls. And hammering a nail is an expression of fate, and of fixing something as fate. It seemed an auspicious groundbreaking.

AEDM November 5th

2010-11-05T21:51:00.004-04:00

Art Every Day Month is always (well, okay, this is only my second time at it) kind of a mindfuck, honestly. Or at least it is given the way my mind works. I am a recovering insomniac and my productivity generally takes place in the wee hours. Which means I'm usually one of the last ones checking in at Leah's site and I feel like I've missed out on the discussion, or that I'm hopelessly behind and a disorganized loser or something.

I know. I'm just stating it. I do recognize that that's pretty silly. Also, dammit, I'm just not good with the pressure. Not, mind you, that I'm giving up on this already or anything; just that, as usual, I have to adapt the 'normal' way of doing things to my own deeply, deeply idiosyncratic brain.

I am finding the same thing happening that I did with the Goddess of the Week posts; that having an audience means I censor myself and am unwilling to, well, even start. I suspect I will just have to ignore that. I'm not sure what to do about it but the word 'freestyle' is coming to mind.

So with at least the scheduling issues in mind, I'm going to try something. It is ridiculously early by my usual schedule (it's not even 10pm here!), and I've already made something, which I will post below. I will try, also, however, to do something else, and post that tonight as well. But it will be after midnight and so will actually be tomorrow's entry. So that will put me a day ahead, which sounds (from here) to be lovely and relaxing, and should help relieve that feeling of pressure which is making me crazy. (Well, marginally more so than usual, ha.)

So. This is what I did today, for Art Every Day Month:

I still don't really have a lot to show. But I cut out some more grey squares for my Hallowe'enish nine patch quilt. Then I laid them down, and put my glasses on (that last part is important). Because once I could see them I was no longer so sure about the colors. So I cut out some of the plain grey cloth I had, and laid them down too. I think they are too dark. The effect is not what I want, really. Here's a look:

I corrected for color in Photoshop, but it's still a little on the magenta side, especially on the left.

The thing with grey, I am finding out, is that it has to be dead-on neutral (or ever-so slightly brownish warm) to read as grey. Even a little bit of blue in that grey means it's reading just as blue, especially in contrast to the orange, which is complementary and so tends to push it over. So I think I am going to have to just go with a solid ash grey, and one that is lighter than the solid I already have. Probably; this project is now in a stage where some mulling needs to be given space to happen.

You know, once in a while when I tell an artist acquaintance that I make quilts, I get a mocking response (honestly, usually from a dude artist). So I tell them what I have found to be absolutely true—that I used to think I knew a thing or two about color, and then I tried to make a quilt.

Because you are not only using other people's color choices and are not mixing any colors yourself, but you are also using patterns, which 1) do incredibly unpredictable things when placed next to each other, and 2) look entirely different whether viewed up close or from a distance. It is baffling and marvelous both.

So anyway, I'm going to put this particular quilt aside for the moment (at least until I can get some of the right color grey cloth). I don't know what I'm working on instead though. I'm sure I'll figure it out, though.

AEDM November 4th

2010-11-05T04:47:00.004-04:00

Well I did a fair amount of artsy stuff today but I don't really have much to show. First I went to an off-the-beaten-track fabric store to see about getting more ash grey calico for the orange-black-and-grey quilt I'm working on; I found some there and got it. When I came home I threw it in the washer, then the dryer (since I always pre-wash all my cloth), and—gasp—ironed it. (I never ever iron.)

Then I cut a bunch of squares out of the grey.

So, like I said it was a fair amount of work towards that project, but I don't really have anything finished to show.

However, one of the other bits of cloth I got was this stripey stuff in milk and dark chocolate browns. I'd seen a lovely square quilt on a blog which I would really like to link to but cannot now for the life of me find; it was made by cutting striped cloth and piecing it back together to make concentric (consquaric?) squares. So I took the quarter of a yard of chocolate stripe and made these:

Given how weirdly they're cut, that's all I got out of that quarter yard (though I have a lot of odd-shaped scraps now). They're about seven or eight inches square.

I would like to make this one in warm colors, like the old m&m autumnal color scheme: dark brown, light brown, red, orange, yellow, and that yellowish green. I have a feeling it's going to take a while, since I'm kind of picky about the cloth. But that's okay. Any time I actually find some cloth that will work, I'll make as many of these squares as I can from it, then throw them on the pile.

AEDM November 3rd

2010-11-04T03:48:00.006-04:00

I have a confession to make.

I don't like messy art.

No, that's not true.

I HATE messy art.

Still, when I was lying in bed last night trying to figure out what I wanted to do today for Art Every Day Month, I remembered I had the stuff to make monoprints.

We did them in art school. As you may have guessed by the name, unlike most prints, which are designed to be made in some kind of quantity, you only make one of these. What you do is ink up a sheet of glass with your ink and a roller, then put the paper (rice paper works well) face down on top. Then you draw on the back with a pencil or whatever, or, you can simply trace with a finger or fingernail. You can get some unbelievably black blacks with this, and they can be quite yummy.

So I set it all up, having first set the portable heater in the room to Quite Toasty; and sure enough, the cats could smell it and were soon scratching at the door to come in. They then promptly curled up and went to sleep in the lovely warm room, and I had my models. I am so clever.

I also did some sketches of hands and some drawings after some photos of trees I had.

I took a photo of the ones I liked since they aren't exactly scan-in-able all wet and sticky like that.

They are kind of fun, I guess, though not really my thing, like I said. And I got all paranoid about washing up afterwards, since the ink was oil-based. My studio room is also my sewing room, and black smudgy ink + nice clean cloth is not a happy thing. So, hmmm. Usually I do water-based paintings that have far less potential to get everywhere, but I've been wanting to do some oil painting, too. I don't know if it's going to be able to work in that room after all.

AEDM November 1st and 2nd

2010-11-04T03:35:00.005-04:00

Okay, I kind of knew this was going to happen and it's all right. Monday was one of those thirteen hour days spent cleaning and hauling stuff till I pretty much fell into bed, exhausted; and I knew it would be. So the very first day of Art Every Day Month was a miss.

For the second day, though, I found myself up in my new studio room sitting there wanting to make something but not knowing where to start. So, even though I want to be doing more 2D sort of art pieces, I fell back on a quilt I've started. Which is also fine. Quilts are art, and even if it wasn't quite what I wanted to be doing it is a way of priming the pump, you know?

I did a dozen more nine patches on this quilt Tuesday night; I've got sixty so far, and the thing is meant to be twelve by fifteen. They're about five inches across right now, and will end up four and a half(ish). Though the thing with me and quilts is that I know I've got the bar set pretty high: I want them to be functional, which means, I want them to actually go on a bed. My problem? My bed is king-sized, and nobody in my family with smaller beds cares about quilts.

Here's a shot of them laid out five by twelve. They are posed on a pinkish lavender bedsheet of mine.

The squares in between the nine patches are going to be ash grey. Except ash grey calico/quilting fabric is proving very difficult to find. Crappy old Jo-Ann's just doesn't bother with unusual stuff. I'm going to poke around some local quilting stores and see what they've got, but I may end up having to make the grey a solid. I'd rather not, though. For now there are six grey ones posed in there.

Here's another shot of it run through Photoshop with the pink changed to grey (more or less) so you can get a better idea of what I'd like the colors to look like:

Spooky, don't you think?

Art Every Day Month

2010-10-31T21:46:00.003-04:00

All right, I'm doing it again this year. I'm participating in Leah Piken Kolidas's Art Every Day Month, meant to be sort of parallel to the National Novel Writing Month, only for art. And with a lot less pressure, too.

The basic idea is to make some art every day, and to post about it with a picture on your blog.

I am not sure quite how it is going to work out, for a number of reasons, but I'm going to participate anyway, even if it is not perfect (and it won't be, ha). For one thing I'm in the middle of that major cleaning project that tends to involve working into the wee hours at physically demanding filthy work, at the end of which I have just barely enough energy to fall into a hot tub to get the grime off me, then crawl into bed. So I may simply not have the energy to do it every single day.

Also I'm a little nervous about posting projects that are not complete. They are at a very vulnerable stage when they are unfinished, I think.

But still. I'm going to try.

I am not sure if I want to have some kind of focus to this. I have plenty of projects that I am working on a little here and there, mostly knitting or quilting (I have started, what, four quilts now?) and could just pick up and do at any time. However I am itching to do something different. More typically arty, like two dimensional artwork-type stuff. Not that quilting isn't art; just that I've been doing it a lot lately and though I quite like it I'm feeling the need to explore or do something else.

I have a studio room now which should help. My drawing table is all set up there, ready and waiting. I have plenty of art supplies I have not even opened yet. I have plenty of media I have never even tried (like pastels for example). I would like to get my hands into that, I think.

Also I think I'm being called towards visionary art. Not called necessarily as in a vocation or Divine Plan To Change My Life; more this path looks interesting. Though perhaps that is the same thing.

Also, dammit, I want to actually get some things finished. I want to see if I can start things and then get them done. So I think I want to try to keep some focus.

Probably it will all work out just fine, so long as I go where the Muse leads me. He has led me to some amazing places so far, after all.

Harvest

2010-10-31T20:51:00.004-04:00

It's Samhain, and we haven't had a frost yet up in my part of New England; we're about two weeks overdue as the average first frost date is the fifteenth.

I did try to garden this year. I have had some success with it in the past. But this year the last week of May I started having some health issues which lasted all the way through to July, and which meant I really had to take it easy physically; and well if you miss June in the garden you'll never catch up.

That, and the critters this year were everywhere. We've had deer since a local supermarket put a giant new warehouse, with diesel trucks and lights running 24/7, right plunk in the middle of a large swath of woods just up the street; between them and the lily leaf-eating beetles (a truly horrific species in the larval stage, yikes) I've had to give up on the front lily garden. And of course we've always had groundhogs, the bastards.

But this year we also had rabbits. And my poor vegetable garden was inadequately fenced. Oh it had been well fortified once; but a couple years of poor maintenance (and luck) on my part meant the defenses were easily breached, and every time I jerry-rigged a fix another hole sprouted. And so anything I planted this year was pretty much immediately nibbled to the ground. That meant no beans, no cukes, no beets, zucchini, summer squash, not even any goddamned radishes, never mind lettuce. Even the stuff I put in as seedlings was eaten, though given that the tomatoes were eaten from the top down rather than the bottom up, I suspect deer rather than rabbits in that one.

All of course except for the one single jalapeno pepper plant. That one they left untouched. But given those health issues I now pretty much can't have spicy food. So I had an abundance of little hot peppers that I couldn't eat.

It was annoying, to say the least.

I used to check on it, though; hope, you know. But all that was left of the tomatoes were these inedible (to me) half-eaten things. So I'd pull them off the plant and chuck them behind the garden, into the tangled thicket of blackberry, wild rose, pokeberry and goldenrod that grew around an old woodpile. I was trying to keep the garden a little tidy, at least.

By the end of the summer I had pretty much given up on the vegetable garden for the year.

Instead we've been cleaning the yard. The short version (if you want the long version, again, check out the Tetanus Burger link on the sidebar) is that my father was a hoarder and the yard is (still) full of junk, though we've been cleaning it for years already. Seriously. It's a big project.

And so one day we were cleaning up a pile of transmissions or engines or something, over by the reclaimed area of my vegetable garden (the spot had once been a large brush pile). And there, in that area overgrown with blackberry, wild rose, pokeberry and goldenrod something red caught my eye. It was this:

Those are tomato plants growing there, thriving there, among the briers and weeds.

You have to understand, I have never had any luck starting tomatoes from seed, when done in the spring in little peat pots under a grow light. They get all spindly, or damp-off and die. I figured I just wasn't any good at it. So I was rather surprised.

But there they are, out in the open like that, healthy and uneaten.

Things will take care of themselves, I think. Our intent is worth something, even if it works out in ways we would not have foreseen. We can make a harvest of something we did not even realize we planted.

The Daimonic

2010-10-25T00:16:00.003-04:00

So, all right. About those other spiritual interests. And again, I'm not quite sure just how much I'm willing to let on. Or admit.

I guess I can start with what I've been reading recently. Mind you, I found my way to each of these places separately while looking for something else entirely. I believe that is called 'coincidence' of a kind that comes down to the Universe hitting one over the head repeatedly with a blunt object.

So, since it's the height of stupidity to attempt to ignore such a bonking (as the Universe will simply hit harder), I guess I'm in.

The blogs and books below all talk about the daimon and the daimonic. Though I am not quite sure how to define or explain that. Especially since each of the authors has a slightly different take on it, ones that are also different from my own. But they are close, and it really does I think come down to individual interpretations of the same phenomenon.

(By the way those of you in the know: feel free to sit over there and chuckle quietly to yourselves. Thanks.)

A good place to start would be with the blog Demon Muse, written by Matt Cardin. It was the opening paragraph of the latest post that got me thinking that it was, I don't know, safe outside, I guess. Here it is:

An ever-increasing segment of the population is becoming aware of and interested in the muse-based or genius-based model of creativity. More and more people are discovering the idea that creativity can rightly and fruitfully be viewed as an external or independent force that influences and works through a person in the manner of the classical muse, that divine spirit — or, for the ancient Greeks, the several divine spirits — whose function is to whisper inspiration directly into the human mind and soul.

I haven't had time yet to read all his posts there, as it is dense reading (my favorite kind), and, okay, 'muse-based model of creativity' kind of makes me giggle, as it's just so damned corporate sounding, but, still, so far, yes.

Then there is Patrick Harpur's book, The Philosophers' Secret Fire: A History Of The Imagination. I haven't read all of it either, as I don't own it (yet), but a preview at Google Books is available here. More dense reading, and I can't articulate any of my thoughts on it just yet, but, it too struck a chord, a deep and resonant one, about the nature of the realm of the soul.

There is also an article on Reality Sandwich by the same author, more specifically about daimones (I use the Greek spelling, like I do with everything else). That is a very good place to start.

And then there is Robert Moss's post on BeliefNet about creativity and the daimon. (Moss wrote the book Conscious Dreaming, which I have also read, and which I mostly liked. Only mostly, because a lot of the things he talks about as given have just not been my experience. And I refuse to sort angels into hierarchies.)

Those are all pretty good, though I have to say that the idea of the Muse as leannan sidhe, as vampire, strikes me as very much a symptom of living under a patriarchy. It has never been my experience. Then again, I'm a woman, and my Muse is not a man's Muse.

There is also of course the book I am always, always recommending: In Search of Women's Passionate Soul: Revealing the Daimon Lover Within, by Caitlín Matthews. This one is from a woman's point of view, as well as from a refreshingly Pagan point of view. Although, honestly, it didn't tell me anything I didn't already know.

So. Though I've been reading all that I'm still not sure what I want to say about it just yet; I suppose I must muse (there's that word) on it all a bit. I have taken a lot of information in at one go here, after all. (My usual modus operandi, I fear.)

But it intrigues and interests me that others are looking at this and are suddenly talking about it here and now. Actually, it blows my mind. I thought I was the only one. Or one of the only ones, anyway.

And now I'm going to ask a question, though it is cowardly of me. Do any of you have direct experience with a Muse, a daimon, your Muse, your daimon? Cowardly because I am, really, testing the waters a bit before I talk about (or own up to) my experience. Like I said, it is personal and I am shy. Also holy fuck that's my real name up there. Best not to think about that.

This should be interesting.

Honor

2010-10-24T18:54:00.006-04:00

Okay, this is going to be a little tricky, and I don't know how much I want to share, given that that is my real name at the top of this blog; then again, it's only been my real name for not quite a decade yet, so there is still a bit of camouflage there.

But Hecate's post got me thinking. And now here's the part I don't want to get into, much.

I should warn you all first, I suppose, that this blog may now well descend into the occasional navel-gazing; and I guess I have two things to say to that. One, this is a blog, and one can hardly be surprised, as hello, this is a blog; and, two, that one should rightly check one's belly button on a regular basis, as a lotus may be sprouting there. You never know.

This is the time of year when it is traditional to honor the ancestors. The veil is thin, so they say, and the ghosty sorts crowd us round, as the leaves fall and the trees shift through their annual deaths. I can't say I can really feel it this year, though, as I still have that cotton in my ears of necessity. But that's okay, as it really has done wonders for my anxiety level.

So now to that navel-gazing part I'm not sure I want to share, about the ancestors.

Or, rather, about my father. A warning to the stray cousin who may have wandered here: if you do not wish to hear anything bad about your Uncle Walter, you may want to leave now.

You see, my father was a deeply broken person. I say was, even though he is not dead, because he is now in a nursing home after a stroke several years back, and he does not remember anyone. This is a good thing; a great blessing, in fact.

He was seriously mentally ill. I mean, not that we recognized it growing up; I am only able now to see that there was something really wrong with him, or put a name to it. But he had a personality disorder, a severe personality disorder, one called obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. This is not, it should be noted, the same thing as obsessive-compulsive disorder, no. They are not even, as far as I've been able to find out, particularly related, other than the similarity of names. OCD is perceived as not-quite-right by the person with it; they know, on some level, that the compulsions and rituals they perform aren't rational.

But personality disorders are different. They are perfectly in harmony with the ego. Which means that not only does a person with one think they are perfectly rational in their behaviors, they think they are right in doing what they do. Especially someone with OCPD, with its focus on perfectionism. Other personality disorders, by the way, include narcissistic personality disorder, borderline personality disorder, and the ever-fun antisocial personality disorder.

Anyway, this made my father, well, not fun. Actually it made him an impossible completely opaque control-freak who could not be reasoned with, even a tiny little bit. Oh, and he was a hoarder, too, of an extreme sort. If you wish to hear about this more in-depth, really, go read my other blog, Tetanus Burger. There is more than enough about him and the effects his behavior had on us over there, as, well, that's the stated purpose of that blog. I would like to especially direct you to a recent post on his OCPD.

So, back to the ancestors. Though I know that honoring them is a big part of this time of year, and of this religion of Paganism in general, it has never been something I've been all that interested in doing. I suppose some of it is that my family (to either side) is not all that close-knit. As a family we don't really do family. And that's fine.

And some of my family are just, well, dysfunctional, as Hecate put it. And I don't wish to honor that. Acknowledge, sure, that's fine, and healthy, as denial won't get you anywhere, but honor? Not really, no.

My father's father, my grandfather, died when he was young, when my father was I think eleven years old. My father was the eldest of three boys; so his father also left a six year old and a two year old. My grandfather died suddenly, and unexpectedly, in 1934, right in the middle of that Great Depression which also wiped out the family's savings. Fortune, actually, one might even say, or so I hear. There was money on that side, once, as evidenced by the numerous rich houses my ancestors built, including a big stone number that now functions as the Historical Society for the next city over.

So, bad times. And one could reasonably surmise that that childhood of loss, insecurity, and deprivation triggered my father's later hoarding.

His mother, so I have heard, was also a piece of work, perhaps a hoarder herself. I don't know; I was very very young when she died, and I don't remember her.

So. Back to things of a Pagan nature.

A couple years ago, my father came down with some kind of raging infection in the nursing home. He was taken to the hospital where they started pumping him full of intravenous antibiotics. We went to visit him there. He was running a high fever, and was very very out of it. Or, almost, to my Witchy eye, very very in it. Some part of him, it seemed to me, was seeing very clearly. Oh, not in an intellectual sense, of course; but some part of him knew he was very close to the edge, very close to dying. And he was terrified. Because he was completely unwilling.

I'm not surprised; the man was terrified of any kind of change, even the littlest sort. And it doesn't get much bigger than death for changes, does it?

But as much as I have reasons, good reasons, to dislike the man, or, even, to hate the man, I am a compassionate person. I think I am, anyway. Though at that point, really, it wasn't my father there. Just a scared, terrified person.

So when I got home I invoked my ancestors, his ancestors, though I had never felt the need to before.

I did not honor them. I did not ask nicely. I told my grandfather, the one who died young, that I did not know if he left willingly or unwillingly, but that his leaving had caused a profound mess, a real fucked-up pile of shit, one that my father had happily passed on to the rest of us. And so I told him that it was now his responsibility to get his ass over to that hospital bed and be there for my father. And the same for my grandmother, too. Because I sure as fuck was not going to do it. As if I could have anyway.

So I don't know about honor. I figure the ancestors are dead already. They can deal with the unvarnished truth.

Or maybe that is honor. I have always considered the telling of that kind of truth, that level of honesty, where nothing is sugar-coated and I just tell it straight from the soul, to be a form of respect. So maybe it is.

The next day my father was much better. Remarkably so, and the doctors commented on it, even. Though I don't remember now if I thanked them. The ancestors I mean. They still owe me, a lot.

Funny

2010-10-24T18:34:00.003-04:00

I suppose I should say that I've no intention of shutting down or abandoning this blog; I fully intend to continue to write about Paganism, Goddesses, the numinous, &c. Just that right now I'm not sure what I want to write about, or if I wish to give the place a more precise focus. Probably not. I am a big fan of the organic, and forging ahead without anything but the roughest idea. I find that with that method what needs to come up, will. I have found it much more rewarding.

In art school we were taught to plan it all out thoroughly. Before brush hit canvas (or colored pencil Stonehenge paper) we were to have sketched it all out to a precise level of detail, rearranged all the elements to perfection, and have it all thought out intellectually.

This method is a sure-fire way to drain all vitality out of a piece of art. You want to lose that spark? Draw it once perfectly, then trace that onto the final piece and try to recreate what you just did. Or have it all thought out beforehand, so that anything that wishes to spontaneously arise can't.

I abandoned this long ago. I realize I am lucky in being able to do that. I am technically proficient enough that I can lean on that proficiency and know it will support me. I can wing it, as I go.

It is so much better to do it that way. I don't want to know what I am doing when I create. I want to look back on the process, this organic creation, this birth which involves a living creature, a living creation, a living work of art that is not me, and see what has come up. I want to see what it wants.

It's like sitting down to write when you don't know what you want to say. It is so much better, and you find out so much more, when you do that. Oh sure, sometimes it won't come, and you can't force it if it isn't ready; but if you ever find yourself thinking that you don't know what to say, then write. You will find out.

So then I guess I have answered my own question, the one I posed at the top of this as I just write this out straight and let it come: this blog, then, will likely focus on the creative process, from a Pagan, Divine, spiritual, numinous point of view.

Funny how that works.

Truth

2010-10-17T21:17:00.002-04:00

I took down the bit on the sidebar saying which Goddess I'm currently writing about. It has not moved in some time. And when I read the stated purpose of this blog, I no longer know if I agree.

I had hoped that writing about Goddesses on a regular basis would inspire me, and cultivate some momentum and motivation to work on the book for that Goddess deck of mine; instead, though, I am finding the whole thing a chore. More often than not I put it off, which is why though I am pretty good at starting the writing of my Goddess entries on Sunday, they frequently don't get finished (and published) until Tuesday or Wednesday.

So that, I think, is where all that stuff in the last post about when does a vocation become just a job comes from, for me, anyway. I have never been able to tell the difference between getting a 'hit' about something about me, and something that is about others; I have had to hope, mostly, that it all works out, and that in picking up stuff that applies to me personally I am also tapping into something larger that is useful for others. And it seems to be that way, judging by the responses I've been getting. Honestly, I am surprised.

I have been very busy lately, too, in a lot of other ways; and I've been dealing with some shit (and yes, that's the right word, honestly) that is pretty big, stuff which I've been documenting and exploring on my other (shared) blog, the charmingly named Tetanus Burger. I suspect all those endeavors are what made the idea of cleaning the junk from paradise a handy metaphor for the Goddess to use.

So I don't know. I've never felt very open here, perhaps because this is my 'professional' blog, one that is connected to my real name and all; and I get afraid to share in a meaningful way. Meaningful, in this case, meaning, truly from the center (there's that idea again) and truly from my Divine self, my Voice; but in such a way that is honest and which opens up others as well. I have so much more going on in my life right now, as far as visions, and encounters with the Divine, and the glorious Magic of it all that I just don't share here in this place, with its emphasis on some art work I did more than a dozen years ago now. I am afraid of being thought crazy, I suppose. And it's rather personal, too, of course, and I am shy.

Of course, if Goddess-worshiping Pagans aren't the audience than no one is. And I am an artist already of the esoteric, and, really, can probably count on a fairly wide latitude of indulgence from the world just because of that. And others do it, too, don't they now? I am hardly alone.

I don't know where I'm going with all that, or what any of that means. Just that I am feeling not myself here, talking about this old art, making myself write here out of some sense of duty that is perhaps, is probably, no longer serving me.

Not that I don't love Goddesses, the Goddess, or that I don't want to keep exploring that; the idea of writing about obscure Goddesses still intrigues and delights me. It is in some ways traveling upstream, pushing aside the overgrowth and briers and finding that spring from which eventually a mighty river will flow, and that is always numinous and valuable. But my interest I think is shifting to the mythic, to the personal, to that varied and creative and vital world of dreams, to the daimonic, if you will. Or rather, it has shifted, long since.

Talk about Deities, the established canonical cultural expressions of the Divine, seems to me now to be looking at the outside layer of things. Even Dionysos or Hermes is in my mind now a refined, conscious, version of that internal Guide we all have, the psychopomp, soul-guide who comes into our dreams and visions. That feels far more numinous to me right now.

Maybe it's just the time of year. The Dark grows deeper with every passing moment; and I want to go in, like I always do at this time. Maybe it is especially pronounced in me because I am such an introvert, I don't know.

So, like I said, I don't really know where I'm going with this. Perhaps I just need a break (No, no, says the Muse. Fine.) I am not ready just yet, I think, to abandon this all, to abandon this project in particular. But it may come to that. And I know that may give some of you palpitations. But honestly, that is too bad. My art has worth and strikes a chord in people I think because I do it for myself, because I explore that which has meaning to me personally. And so I think others recognize that meaning as something that is true. I have never been able to do something because others want me to. Or, rather, when I have, it has had no power, no meaning, no magic, no truth.

So let's start there.

Goddess of the Week

2010-10-17T18:47:00.004-04:00

And now we're back to Water, from Fire; this week's Goddess is Ganga, the Hindu Goddess of the Ganges River. She last came up on April 19th. The Hindu Goddesses seem to have been coming up a lot lately; I don't know if that means anything, or is just random. For whatever 'random' means, anyway.

Though She is a Goddess, and is sometimes depicted in human form with rivulets of water to either side, She is more often referred to as just the River; in Her case, the River is Her primary image. The Ganges is believed to descend from heaven to this earth and to contain great powers of purification.

In one tale the Ganges River was persuaded to descend to earth, so that humans and the earthly world might have a share in the Divine; but She feared that Her descent would be so powerful it would destroy the earth. So Shiva agreed to put Himself between the River and the world, thus breaking Her fall and keeping the earth safe. The Ganges is said to wander about in Shiva's hair, which is matted and tangled as befits an ascetic God, before falling to earth.

In another tale Vishnu, in walking the cosmos, accidentally stepped through the surface, breaking a hole in the heavens. Through this hole the Ganges descends; this time Her fall is broken because She lands on Mount Meru, the center, axis mundi, or omphalos (to use the Greek term) of the world.

In both stories it is said that the heavenly Ganges is the River, the source of all Rivers; and the earthly Ganges is but one stream. From Mount Meru the heavenly Ganges split into four rivers, thereby flowing in every direction and bringing the Divine into each corner of the world.

So the Ganges, and Ganga, then, are representative of the Divine River, what one might reasonably call the Divine Source, out of which all things flow. So this week, I think we retain the emphasis on the Center, and that which is located there; but it has shifted a little, to include the idea of that which flows out of that Center.

The thing about the earthly Ganges, though, is that, for all its divine powers of purification, in modern times it is one of the most polluted rivers on earth. Yet despite this pollution it is believed to still retain those powers of purification. Now, I personally feel rather uncomfortable with the idea of purity as a Pagan (or Neo-Pagan, to distinguish my religion from the 'pagan' religion of Hinduism, as Christianity would call it), as I have a great respect for the powers of breaking down, dying, and rotting (especially in a New England October); there is, perhaps, a metaphor in there: how has that which flows out of the Source been changed or polluted?

Or maybe that is not the best word. Perhaps we are talking more about a loss of clarity of vision. True, rivers change. The river that flows by is always different while always the same. Still, I am wondering about how, say, a vocation, a calling, can change into something that is just a job. How has that river changed? What muddies it, pollutes it?

How might you clean it up? What needs to be removed, screened out? How can you regain some of that clarity? Can you? Is it even possible? Is the river different?

I have a feeling She can shed some light, some clarity on all this. What does She say?

It all changes as it flows. The river that is downstream is not the river that is upstream. Of course not.

You know it does not work that way.

You are almost asking about a lost paradise; a place of shining light and purity from which you have fallen. You know that is not how it works.

If this earth, this River, is dirty or polluted it is what you have brought to it. If you have filled paradise with junk, it is up to you to clean it. That is not an accusation, really; I am simply saying that those with the power to dirty have an equal power to clean. Underneath it it is still paradise. It is still the River that flows.

Nothing is uncleanable, unfixable, irreparable. And you have allies, of course; Nature will take care of Herself, if given the space. She is in fact very good at that.

Not, of course, that you can get back to that exact origin, that original state. You know, I know, that the river is always different, always flowing. And yet at the same time it is always original, always springing up as something new. You do not have to seek origins in some mythical past; it is all around you right now. It is a trick to recognize it, though. Listen to your dreams. It is all old, and all new.

I think She is talking about the Unconscious, about archetypes, about the Otherworld, the imaginal realm if you will, which are eternal and spring up spontaneously, always themselves, always old and familiar, and always new and fresh.

What do you think? What flows from your Source?

Goddess of the Week

2010-10-10T23:16:00.006-04:00

It's Vesta's second time here; Her first appearance was back on June 13th, right smack in the middle of Her holiday the Vestalia. Though the traditional day of that holiday was the 9th, Her temple was open to the public (meaning women of the public, as it was always closed to men) from the 7th to the 15th of June.

Vesta is the Roman Goddess of fire, the hearth, and the center. Her little round temple was (is) located in the heart of the Roman Forum, the heart of Rome (both City and Empire) itself. It was believed to be very ancient, having been founded either by Numa (the second King of Rome) or even Romulus (the very first King after whom the city was named). Its round shape was thought to echo the primitive round thatched huts of the early shepherd-settlers of Rome. It was not properly an inaugurated templum, though, but an aedes, a 'house' or 'dwelling place', usually referring to that of a Deity; a templum, was, technically, a space officially marked out as one where the augures could read the signs. A templum was traditionally square or rectangular, probably because the cardinal directions played an important part in the readings; perhaps this is one of the reasons Vesta's 'temple' wasn't. Or, perhaps, it was just that old, and that central to the state religion, and so was something of an ancient exception to the rules.

In that little round house burnt a perpetual fire, one tended by Her famous college of priestesses, the Vestal Virgins. That fire, that hearth, was itself the official image of the prototypical altar, the hearth fire of the home; in early times, the family would gather around the hearth and offer to Vesta each day.

Vesta's temple, as a sort of emblem or symbol of the home, the hearth, the center, had a chamber at the center of it (though given the ruined state of the temple currently, the layout is not clear) called the penus, the name given to the pantry or larder of the house, and another expression of the idea of the center. (What is more central to a home than where the food, the nourishment, the prosperity, is kept?) In this aspect She was worshiped with the Di Penates, the household Gods of the larder, Who, with the Lares (household Deities) protected and watched over the house. On the national level, the Penates installed in Vesta's temple were the Penates Publici, Who also at one time had Their own temple a little further up the road from Vesta's temple on the Velia.

The penus of Vesta's temple contained sacred things, things that were central to the ritual safety and prosperity of Rome. No one knows quite what they were nowadays, but possibly those sacred things included statues of the Penates Publici and the Palladium.

The Palladium was a statue of Pallas Athena (Whom the Romans equated with their Minerva) said to have been brought to Rome out of the ruin of Troy by Aeneas. Before that it was said to have miraculously fallen out of the sky to Dardanos (or Ilos), the legendary founder of Troy; its presence was thought to keep the city safe. (Not unlike the the ancient olive-wood statue of Athena Polias kept in the Erechtheion, which was also said to have fallen from heaven).

Now, these are the Romans we're talking about, so it's safe to say that much of that is pure political propaganda, to establish a link between the old great Greeks and the hoped-to-be-great Romans. (Which to be fair, they were.)

Now that's all a bit of a tangent, I suppose; but you never can tell. For some reason this week the Penates and the secret hidden chamber, in some way a holy of holies was really resonating with me. It wasn't until I started doing the research, however, that I found out that the festival dedicated to the Penates is October 14th.

So. Vesta both is, and guards, the center of things, the hearth, the heart, the fire, the source, the holiness in the very middle of place and self. What is in there, for you? How will you enter into that place, that innermost part; what defenses must be penetrated (yes, it is a related word) to get into that place? How do you act (or not act) as the guardian of your own holy places? Do you know how to get there? It may be easier than you think. After all, all roads lead to Rome, they say.

What does Vesta say to all that?

Dear, start with warmth. If you can feel that glow, that warmth, that aliveness, that fire within you you are on the right path. It is unmistakeable; you will know. What makes your heart beat? What makes your veins run with fire? Not just the light, but the heat, this time. Not with your eyes will you see it; but with your skin, your body, will you feel it. Track that warmth, be drawn to it like the fire at the hearth when you come in from the cold and the rain.

You will come home.

What do you think?

References:

Dictionary of Roman Religion, by Lesley Adkins and Roy A. Adkins

The Acropolis in the Age of Pericles, by Jeffrey M. Hurwitt

A New Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome, by L. Richardson, Jr.

Goddess of the Week

2010-10-05T01:57:00.004-04:00

This is Oshun's second appearance here; Her first time was nearly a year ago, in the first week of November 2009.

She is one of the Orishas (Spirit or Deity) of the Yorùbá people of western Africa, and the Goddess of the Osun River, which flows through southwestern Nigeria. Her sacred grove and the shrines and sanctuaries within it, which is located just outside the city of Osogbo not far from Her river, was declared a World Heritage Site in 2005.

Oshun is a Goddess of love, kindness, sweetness, beauty, and wealth. Like other Orishas, She has a color, yellow, and a number, five; honey, peacocks and pumpkin seeds are associated with Her.

Oshun is said to be the principle wife of Shango, the God of lightning and thunder; His other wives are Oya, Herself a storm Goddess, and Oba, the daughter of Yemaya and Goddess of a river named for Her the Oba or Obba. Where Oba's river meets Osun's river there are dangerous rapids; this is seen as a manifestation of the friction between the two of them.

She is said to be especially receptive to prayers, answering them quickly.

This week we are in the thick of harvest-season up here in the North, and there is really no way of avoiding the season right now; even the local Catholic Church down the street from me is overrun with pumpkins today. Pumpkins, both for their yellow color, and their remarkable number of edible and fertile seeds, are associated with Oshun. What did you plant? How did it grow? What are you finally harvesting right now? It may not look anything like you thought it would, by the way. How did it take on its own life? What will you do with it now?

What sweetness are you harvesting now? What tastes of honey in your life?

So what does She say, then?

Oh honey. Slide into that River with me. Bake pumpkin pie with honey and cardamom, and share it with a friend. Create sweetness now, in your life, in the lives of the ones you love. Pour honey over the bitterness in your life; honey is a healer, you know, and I mean that literally as well: bacteria does not grow in honey. The bee-sisters are wise, as ever.

And look to your sisters, to the women around you. Make sweet community with them. I am Harmony, too, you know. Work together and see how much beauty you can create now.

What do you think?

Goddess of the Week

2010-09-26T21:29:00.008-04:00

The Hindu Goddess Uma is this week's pick; this is Her first time here. Well, sort of.

The thing with Hindu Goddesses is that they tend to slide into each other, especially given that reincarnation is a tenet of Hinduism; Sati, for example, Shiva's wife, is said to have been reincarnated in Parvati. Kali, Who came up both last week and two weeks before that, can be considered an aspect or even emanation (to use that word imprecisely) of Parvati, or Sati, or Durga (Herself sometimes an aspect of Parvati), and could even reasonably be said to be the same Goddess as Uma. It is assumed that a Goddess, or the Goddess, has been worshiped in India since prehistoric times; in medieval times a Goddess called Devi, 'Goddess' or Mahadevi, 'Great Goddess' was said to be the underlying principle behind all Goddesses, and ultimately no less than the very essence of reality. The Mahadevi is especially associated with this particular cluster of Goddesses—Parvati, Durga, Uma, Gauri, Kali, &c.

Now to Uma specifically. She is an aspect, or emanation, or independent Goddess Who was later attached to Parvati or Sati, Who personifies, represents or incarnates the practice of devotion and asceticism. She is closely tied with Shiva, the God of ascetics, and said to be His wife (Such is Her fame, however, that Shiva is often called 'Husband of Uma'). Her power derives from Her ability to practice austerities and in Her renunciation of the world; and in this form Shiva, Who is also the God of the phallus and eroticism, cannot deny Her.

Her name is said to come from Her mother's reaction when She learned of Her daughter's desire to become an ascetic: U! Ma! She cried—No! Don't!

A Goddess called Uma Haimavati is mentioned in the Kena-upanishad, which probably dates to the first or second century CE; the name Haimavati means 'She Who Belongs to Himavat', Himavat being the God of the Himalaya Mountains. Uma Haimavati is in later writings a name for Sati-Parvati, and indeed Parvati's name means 'Daughter of the Mountain', Her father also being Himavat or the Himalayas. Uma Haimavati is earlier than Parvati, though, Who is not mentioned by that name in the Vedic texts; She was perhaps attached to Parvati at a later date, or the early mention of Uma was assumed to refer to Parvati, perhaps to give Parvati a more ancient provenance.

Sati, Shiva's first wife, is sometimes called Uma in the stories when Her devotion to Shiva is being emphasized. However, when Sati's father insulted Shiva, such was Her devotion to Shiva that She killed Herself; and Shiva, Who hadn't cared about the insult at all, mourned Her death with such world-destroying intensity that the other Gods had to resort to a ruse to get Him to stop.

Parvati, as the later reincarnation of Sati, was destined from birth to be married to Shiva; but Shiva Himself, perhaps a little wary of marriage after that experience, did not want any part of it at first. So She withdrew from Him, and devoted Herself to a fierce type of asceticism.

Parvati as Uma surpassed even the greatest sages in all the traditional austerities, such as standing on one leg for years, living on leaves and air, and sitting between four fires at the height of summer. This type of practice is believed in Hinduism to generate tapas, a kind of inner heat or fire; this fire can get so hot in the great sages that the Gods fear for the safety of the world. This is turn means They are usually more than willing to grant the practitioner a boon.

Now Uma had focused Her devotion on Shiva; so, in time, it was He Who came to grant her dearest wish. That dearest wish? That she marry Shiva. And, having proved Herself not only His equal but His type, He readily agreed.

This week looks to be a continuation of the themes in play for the last three weeks, since Kali, also an aspect of Parvati, first came up. The problem is the same one that had you reaching into the darkness and the depths and the destruction; but the focus this week is on the work that must be done with it. It is hard work, but good work, and not something you can't handle, I don't think. Find that focus, and let your mind run on one track for a while. You will be able to achieve more than you thought was possible.

What does She say?

Practicing denial of the flesh so that one may unite with the Beloved? It has its twisted logic, doesn't it? But I know what I'm doing. And so does He.

And so do you.

An Amused Question

2010-09-23T02:42:00.004-04:00

A bit of levity, sorely needed I think with the great Kali showing up twice in three weeks.

Okay all you vision-havers and dream-interpreters out there, I got one for you.

What does it mean when one is entertaining a bit of a crush on a young Peter Gabriel, yet one is having recurring dreams of Phil Collins?

I can't figure out if I love or hate my brain.

Goddess of the Week

2010-09-19T19:12:00.006-04:00

This week's Goddess is Kali again, the Hindu Goddess of destruction and death, showing up for the second time in a month as the year tips towards the dark here in the north. The first time She was here was only the week before last; in between Her appearances we have had Sunna, the Germanic Sun Goddess. We have been taken to the black Void, then to the brightest Light, then back to the black Void. I do not know what is going on here.

Kali is the Goddess Who represents that which is outside of civilization and society, the messy reality of things which don't fit into the neat categories we create. She reminds us that those messy things are also necessary, sacred, and a part of the whole.

Though She is unquestionably destructive and horrific, as the primeval Void, She is also infinite potential. The waters of the underworld, where embryonic demons wait to be incarnated, are said to be Her womb, and indeed as I mentioned in the earlier post, Kali is revered in Tantrism as the shakti or primordial female principle, She Who underlies all reality, and Who is both formless and unmanifested, and manifested in infinite forms.

Maybe it's the time of year; after all at the equinoxes both hemispheres see day and night, the light and the dark in balance. This time of year is about just that, balance, not just the shifting seasons, in the growing or fading warmth, or the growth or death of the plants, but in the emphasis, the weight of things moving into another position. Autumn is here in the north, and summer has ended; and we must change ourselves to fit it.

Look this week to both your darkest dark and your brightest light. Find out how they are joined, and how they move in balance (for they are not static) to make a complete whole. Though you may not have to look very far; the 'energy' now feels pretty unsettled to me, and they may very well make themselves known all on their own. Try to take it in stride, I guess.

What does She say?

I am here, always here. I am the root and the dark; I am at the bottom of all things. And yet, go far enough down in the cold Earth and you will find heat and light, will you not? Within is without. You know this by now.

But look on the black side! Not all is blinding-brightness and burning heat. The dark can be very soothing, and offers healing and renewal in its own way. Things are waiting to be born in the lightless waters. Call them forth! Receive them! Be willing! For They will come anyway. And remember that when something is born, something else dies.

That is as it must be. Do not pretend to be surprised.

Well. What do you think?

Goddess of the Week

2010-09-12T20:34:00.004-04:00

Sunna came up (ha) for the first time here just about two months ago, on July 5th. She is the Germanic Goddess of the Sun; Her Norse equivalent is named Sól. Both names just mean 'Sun.'

Sunna's sister is one Sinthgunt (Who may be a star Goddess, or a doubling of Sunna Herself), about Whom not a whole lot is known; in one of the so-called Merseburg Incantations, dating from the 9th or 10th century CE, both sing charms to cure Baldar's horse, which had become lame.

In Norse myth, Sól, the Sun, was created from the brightest ember that had escaped from Muspellsheim, the land of fire to the south. She was set in a chariot, drawn by two horses called Árvakr ('The Early-waking One') and Alsvin or Alsviðr ('The Fleet One'), which She drives across the sky every day, pursued by a wolf named Sköll ('Treachery'). She is said to be the wife of Glenr ('Opening in the Clouds').

An alternate myth says that Sól and Her brother Máni (the Moon), were originally the mortal children of a man named Mundilfäri ('Travels Like a Pendulum', perhaps an alternate name for the Moon), who were so radiantly beautiful that Mundilfäri named them for the heavenly lights. The Gods, however, were angered by Mundilfäri's hubris, and so snatched the children away, tasking them with driving the chariots of the Sun and Moon.

Sól is sometimes called Álfröðull, meaning 'Elf Disk', though this term is equally applied to Her chariot which holds the Sun.

I am glad to see Her after all the black of last week's Kali, I'll admit. Though I can't help but think the two are connected, as They are so markedly opposite. One week it's black as the Void and then the next it's the brightest of the Lights there are? Something's going on. I don't know if it's both/and or an either/or, though. The latter sounds like it could cause some serious whiplash. Take it gently, if that option resonates with you.

If the former, know that the digging in the dark from last week will allow you to stand more firmly, and be more grounded and rooted in the earth, which will form a stable base from which to reach towards the Sun.

Sunna is a healer, too; bask in Her warmth, and cultivate a sunny outlook if you can. It will help immensely at this time.

What does She say?

I am Healer, I am Light, I am the Sun, the Day-Star; I fly across the sky, regulating time, marking the day, and cutting the night up into manageable pieces, so there is never too much dark. Follow my example. Cut your darknesses up; make them into small things, and take them one night at a time. And do not despair. I am ever followed by the Wolf; yet, I do not let him catch me. Not yet, anyway. We will all be caught some day, it is true; in the mean-time, blaze forth in glory.

Goddess of the Week

2010-09-06T16:00:00.006-04:00

Well, last week before I picked the card which would turn out to be Morgana, I thought for a moment, and tried to guess, or predict, Who it would be. And I came up with black, black black black. And I thought, Oh, Kali.

But it was Morgana, for whatever reason.

And now here Kali is. I guess I was off by a week.

She is a Hindu Goddess of destruction, death, blood, disorder, and that which is outside of order and civilization. One meaning of Her name is 'The Black One', and She is always said to be black or dark. She was the first card I did, apparently out of nowhere, when I knew very little of Her, and before I had any idea that I would be doing an entire card deck of Goddesses; She should properly be much darker in Her skin tone. I apologize.

Kali is said to have been born of the wrath of a Goddess, either Durga, Parvati, or Sati, depending on the tale. As Their personified rage, She is so powerful and out of control in Her bloodlust that She threatens to destroy the world.

There are many tales of Kali involving Her frenzied behavior on the battlefield. Like Sekhmet of the Egyptians She is said to go into a battle fury and gleefully drink the blood of Her enemies, or anyone in Her way, really. Only Shiva, often Her husband, and no stranger to chaos Himself, has the power to calm Her, either by lying down in Her path and pretending to be a corpse, or by taking the form of a wailing baby. Either way, He attracts Kali's attention, and stirs Her compassion, so that She is calmed.

As Kali She is described as wild and dangerous, bloodthirsty and violent. She is depicted naked and emaciated, with fangs, claws, and a long lolling tongue; Her skirt is made of cut-off arms, Her necklace of skulls or severed heads, and Her earrings are the corpses of infants.

And yet.

In Tantrism, She is very highly venerated as the primordial shakti, the female creative principle. In the Mahanirvana-tantra, Shiva says:

Thou art Kali, the original form of all things... Resuming after Dissolution Thine own form, dark and formless, Thou alone remainest as One ineffable and inconceivable. Though having a form, yet art Thou formless; though Thyself without beginning, multiform by the power of Maya, Thou art the Beginning of all, Creatrix, Protectress, and Destructress.

And in the Nirvana-tantra, Kali is described in terms of the primeval ocean: She is like all the waters of the sea, and Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma are merely the water filling the hoofprint of a cow; and from Her those three arise like bubbles from the ocean's depths.

She is underlying reality, in all its mess, blood, disorder, and death. Yet She must be made peace with, and must be accepted, to be whole and to achieve salvation and enlightenment in Tantrism. She is a reminder that our desire for order goes against the nature of life itself.

So this week? Well, I won't lie. This is big stuff. Big ugly stuff, that is of necessity also truth. How well you are able to deal with it, face it down, accept and even love that ugliness will determine how well you do with it, and what you learn from it. There is powerful knowledge and wisdom here, remember.

Now. What does She say?

I am black. Black as the void, black as the all-swallowing Winter that approaches. Black as a hole, black as the heart of the Sun, black as the heart of you.

The Void is not nothing; that is the irony, the mystery at its heart. It is all potential, all material, all that is, waiting to be born, to be manifested. Yet until it is it is nothing. That is the mystery; that it is nothing, and everything, at the same time.

I am not that frightening. Or, well, maybe I am; but you will have to get over that. It is inevitable, you know, that you come back to Me. It is not something you can escape.

But take heart; you have come home to me many many times. This death is not your first. You are an old hand at dying, really.

And at any rate you do it all the time, don't you? For I am here now.

Reference:

Hindu Goddesses, by David R. Kinsley.

Goddess of the Week

2010-08-29T16:38:00.009-04:00

This week's pick is Morgana, also known as Morgan le Fay, the great sorceress and healer of the Arthurian legends. Though considered human in the late works, Morgana's divine origins are hinted at in her epithet 'le Fay,' meaning 'faery,' 'Fate,' or 'Otherworldly woman.' The strands going back are rather tangled, but she does seem to have a good part of her origins in an old Gaulish river-Goddess.

In the Arthurian legends, Morgan le Fay is one of three daughters of Gorlois, the Duke of Cornwall, and Ygraine, her elder sisters being Elaine (one of many in Arthuriana) and Morgawse, who would be mother of the infamous Mordred. They are half-sisters to Arthur, who was gotten on their mother by Uther Pendragon through a ruse (which makes it rape).

Morgan was unhappily married off to one Urien of Gore; their son was Ywain. She was very skilled in magic and much associated with Avalon, an Otherworldly island long connected with Glastonbury. She is usually thought of as a fierce enemy to Arthur; yet, when he was wounded at the end of his reign, she was one of the women of Avalon who took him in to be healed.

Those are the basics of the Arthurian legends. Let's look a little deeper now.

Her husband Urien (and their son Ywain) finds his origins in a real sixth-century king; his son Owain ap Urien was famous for battling the Angles. This fame got them both incorporated into legend, starting with the Welsh. Owain features in a tale of his own called The Lady of the Fountain; however in the Welsh Triads (Trioedd Ynys Prydain, Triads of the Isle of Britain), he is called a son of Urien and one Modron.

Modron is usually remembered as the mother of Mabon in the Welsh tale of Culhwch ac Olwen; he was said to have been taken from his mother when only three days old. Though there is not much information about either of them in this tale, there is something powerful and primal underneath it: for 'Mabon' simply means 'son', and 'Modron' simply means 'Mother.' Which means that Mabon ap Modron means 'Son, son of Mother', unusually enough; especially given that the ap part, meaning 'son of' is literally called a patronymic, meaning 'father-name,' it is remarkable that there is no mention at all of a father. And though he only has a bit part in the tales as handed down to us, yet Mabon gives his name to the collection of Welsh literature called the Mabinogion (or Mabinogi, more properly). Now Mabon does have Divine origins—ultimately he has his roots in Maponos, a Celtic God of Roman Britain often linked with Apollo. This is the Mother and Her Son.

Now as for Modron Herself: She in her turn derives from the Goddess Matrona, the eponymous Goddess of the Marne River in eastern France. Her name means 'Divine Mother'. She is probably a singular form of the old Matronae, 'The Mothers', Who are Celtic mother Goddesses going by a Latin name, usually shown in triple form, posed with various emblems of fertility such as bread, cornucopiae, or babies.

There is also a folk-tale that tells how Urien came upon a washerwoman at a ford; though she does not give her name, she tells him she is a daughter of Annwfn, i.e. a fairy-woman or Goddess, as Annwfn is the name of the Welsh Otherworld. She later has two children by Urien, Owain and a daughter Morfudd (mentioned as Morfydd in the Triads). And all that actually does connect Her with the great Irish triple Goddess of sex and battle known as the Mórrígan, which She is usually said not to have much relationship with, despite the similarity of names; for the Mórrígan can take the form of the Washer at the Ford, an Otherworldly woman seen washing bloody clothes in a river, Who presages the death of the person whose garments she washes.

You will notice, that even in the late legends Morgan is associated with triplicity—She is one of three daughters, a triplicity which is all the more pronounced given that Her sister Elaine has almost no story of her own; it's as if she is just filler brought into the stories to round out the number. And in the Vita Merlini (Life of Merlin) She is said to be one of nine sisters skilled in magic who live in Avalon.

So, then, what of all that?

It is remarkable to me how some things survive, and how despite layers and layers of camouflage and how various consonant, though unrelated stories can accumulate on an idea, one can still trace back to that source, that wellspring. In this case, literally, as Matrona has a shrine near to the source of the Marne River. I am tempted, then, to say that this week will be one of detective work and a search for origins; may it be as fruitful for you.

However Morgan le Fay, or Morgana, as I've called Her here, is perhaps calling us to remember our roots in a different way. She is never said to be anything other than human in the late tales; yet she still retains that 'le Fay' appellation. Work this week, I think, to discover your own fay-ness, if you will. We are not as separate from Nature as we would have it. We are certainly (and I realize I am rather preaching to the choir here) not un-magical beings, though we are human.

Her tale is of an ambiguous character, too; though Arthur's enemy she is also a great healer. Perhaps her story has merely been framed in a unflattering way by the storytellers who sided of course with Arthur; perhaps, also, it is a comment on the nature of magic being dark, complicated, many-sided, and rich, a characteristic that lovers of duality (who like to reduce everything to good and evil) cannot understand or endorse.

I think, though, that the main lesson this week is that you will have to figure it out for yourself. But this week marks the beginning of the end of summer, and the beginning of the turning of things, or at least that is what it has always felt like in my area. How is your world, your earth, changing now?

What does She say?

I am everywhere like the tide; the tide of the breath of the body, the tide of the seasons; I infuse it all. I am the undercurrent of the magical in all. I am that feeling of aliveness, that subtle body, the feeling of being alive. What is that after all but Magic?

Do not think that it is not all related, that the enlightenment of the Buddhists or the Christ does not also have its place, its name, its recognition in the older messier Ways; it is reality, after all, and it has always been, and has always been seen. Find the other definition for it, the one that is closer to home for you. It is there.

What do you think?

References:

The Dictionary of Celtic Mythology, by James MacKillop

Wikipedia, believe it or not, which proved handy for keeping things sorted out.

Goddess of the Week

2010-08-24T17:31:00.007-04:00

Nut is the ancient Egyptian Sky-Goddess; this is Her second appearance here, the first being last Valentine's Day (or Lupercalia Eve, if you prefer). She is one of the nine primeval Deities of the creation myths of Heliopolis. (Though the name Heliopolis is the one usually used, it is the Greek one; the old Egyptian name was Iunu Mehet or On. It is the modern Tell Hisn, a suburb of Cairo now). Several regions or cities in ancient Egypt had their own creation myths; in Iunu Mehet the story went like this:

In the beginning of days there was only Nun, the watery abyss, Whom the Egyptians called the 'eldest father'; out of Nun the Sun-God Atum emerged. Atum then created a mound of silt, which was the first land; after this He created two Deities, the Air-God Shu ('Dry'), and the Moisture-Goddess Tefnut ('Moisture'). From these two were then born another pair, Geb, the Earth God, and Nut, the Sky Goddess.

Geb and Nut then coupled, quite passionately.

In a slightly different strand of the myth, the Sun God Re (also of Heliopolis, and equated with Atum) then had Them forcibly separated by Their father Shu, the air, for He feared being overthrown by Their children. He further cursed Nut, and forbid Her from giving birth on any day of the year.

Luckily Thoth (Tehuti), the very clever God of Scribes, made a bet with the Moon and won, thereby gaining enough light to create five more days, bringing the total to 365 when it had been a nice even 360, or twelve months of thirty days each. (Of course 365 days is not the actual length of the year, it being more like 365.25 days, and they knew it; but the ancient Egyptians loved their round numbers and their order so much that, honestly, they kind of just let it slide). So Nut was able to give birth at last, and bore Osiris, Isis, Seth, Nephthys, and the elder Horus. Nut and Her five children, plus Geb, Tefnut and Shu, were considered the Heliopolitan Ennead ('group of nine Gods of Heliopolis').

Not counting Nun, apparently, and not naming the mound as the first bit of dry land, either, oddly enough.

As Sky Goddess Nut was said to swallow the Sun each night and give birth to it the next morning, making Her body, though the sky, in some ways a form of the Underworld; She was sometimes depicted as a sow, as they bear innumerable young (here equated with the stars) and have a reputation as cannibals who eat their young, as Nut alternately swallows the Sun (to bring night) and the stars (when it is day).

This week then is about waiting, pregnancy, and the anticipation of a good thing, I think, even if (like me) you have no desire ever ever ever to become literally pregnant yourself (or if, you know, you're a dude or something). Something Wonderful is coming—it is, in fact, just around the corner. The best part is that it's not something out of the blue, but something you have been working towards for some time that is about to bear luscious fruit.

Not, incidentally, that you need to do much about it at this point; it is, pretty much, inevitable that it comes at the appointed time. And that means whether you work at it or not at this point. Sure, keeping the momentum going is a good thing; but if you are tired or worn out, know that if you are unable to keep up your former pace now it will make little difference.

You may not even know you have been doing this work, incidentally. It may be one of those things that have been working themselves out on a deep dream-level, in your unconscious mind; perhaps something along the line of realizations about past circumstances that give you a new strength and purpose.

Just relax, and let it come, and be its own thing. Though like a child, it will almost certainly not be quite what you think it will be.

What does She say?

You are all my children. You are all born from me, as innumerable as the stars; and when your long day-life is over you will all come back to me, stars and gods and humans, devoured by the dark to be reborn sure as sunrise. Always devouring, always giving birth; it is the way of things, to be dark and light, joyous and fearful in their times. Though the fear is not really necessary, you know.

Granddaughter of the Void, they say; and I bear His nature, never forget.

Off For A Bit

2010-08-05T15:23:00.002-04:00

I'm about to go out of town for the next couple of weeks, which means that posting (and comment moderating) will be off until about mid-August. See you when I get back!

Goddess of the Week

2010-08-01T23:14:00.000-04:00

This is the first time Sedna, the Inuit Goddess of the Sea, has come up as Goddess of the Week. She lives at the bottom of the Sea in Her realm of Adlivun, the land of the dead, and She has control over all the animals of the Sea. She is the Inuit Great Goddess.

The Inuit, who live in the Arctic regions of North America, from Alaska to Greenland above the tree line, are popularly known as 'Eskimos'; however, this is generally considered a slur, as it means 'Foul eaters of raw meat' (a name given to them by the Algonquian Indians). 'Inuit' isn't quite right, either, as it's a little more narrow than 'Eskimo', but it is better, and I use it here. It derives from the word inua, meaning indwelling spirit.

Though most Great Goddesses are Earth Goddesses, Sedna is a Sea Goddess, which makes sense given the harsh climate that has forced the Inuit to turn to the Sea and its bounty to survive. As befits the Goddess of any Sea, but especially one so cold and harsh, Sedna is a mercurial, sometimes malevolent Goddess, Who can both give and withhold Her blessings.

The more well-known story of Sedna is from Greenland, where She is known as Nerrivik, a name which means 'Food-dish'. Nerrivik was once a lovely maiden who was reluctant to marry. She was finally persuaded by a handsome suitor; but when she went with him to his home she found she had been tricked, and he was a petrel-spirit in disguise. Her father and relatives found out, and rescued her; but on the way home the petrel-spirit raised a great storm which threatened to overturn their umiak (hunting canoe) and kill them all. In a panic and desperate to save himself, Sedna's father threw her overboard in an attempt to appease the petrel-spirit; but Sedna grabbed hold of the side of the umiak. Her father then took his axe and cut the ends of her fingers off. She still held on; he cut the rest of her fingers off. Still she held on, and he cut off her hands; unable to hold on anymore she then sank to the bottom of the Sea.

Her fingers and hands became the sea-animals, the seals, walruses, and whales; and Nerrivik became the Goddess of the Sea and ruler of the land of the dead.

A lesser-known story of Sedna is that She was the daughter of two giants and was born with an insatiable appetite. So insatiable and greedy was this appetite that Her parents were wakened one night to find their infant daughter attempting to eat them. Horrified at Her cannibalism, they took Her far out to Sea and threw Her overboard. Again, She clung to the side, and Her father mutilated Her, cutting off Her fingers, joints, and hands, which as above became the animals of the Sea.

When times are scarce, and the hunters cannot find any animals, the angakok or shaman of the people journeys to Her realm. This is a hard path, full of dangers, including an icy whirlpool and an abyss that can only be crossed on the edge of a knife, but if he or she makes it before Sedna, he or she then massages Her limbs and combs Her hair to soothe Her. If She is pleased, She can then be persuaded to tell the angakok one of two things: that She will send the animals, or that the angakok's people must move their settlement to another area.

She is also called Arnarkusuagsak ('Old Woman') and Nuliajoq.

The key, I think, in Her story is that though the environment is harsh and unforgiving, still, compassion plays a role. It is compassion that is given Her when the angakok combs Her tangled hair, as without hands She can no longer do it Herself. In some stories the angakok dances before Her, helping Her to forget Her harsh existence for a while.

Should you find yourself this week journeying to that dark cold realm inside you, remember to treat what you find there, the discarded, the hurt, the mutilated, with compassion.

Also, I think, have respect for those aspects of yourself, too. So often the metaphor is of going into the dark places and shining a light; this sounds in this case to be unnecessary, rude even, like suddenly shining a flashlight in someone else's eyes. Let your own eyes adjust in this case, and acclimate yourself to the dark. You will see more, and with more subtlety, if you do. Remember that though it is a part of you and you have the right to be there, that you are in some ways a guest, too. Do not just barge in and start demanding answers. Be respectful of what and who you find there.

What does She say?

She is the swell of the Sea, dark and huge; I can feel my body swaying, like you do after spending an afternoon swimming at the shore. She has dark eyes, like a seal, and does not smile.

You must understand, I did not give the animals freely. They were taken from me, and are mine, and I want them back, as I want the pieces hacked from me returned so that I may be made whole. You know this, you who discover truths; to live you must kill your brothers and sisters, the animals, the plants. You must kill me.

Though I endure. I am here at the bottom of the Sea, the cold, dark, icy Sea. Do you not think I have died? This realm is the realm of the Dead, is it not? How should I be here but that I am also dead, and that my injuries, my mutilation, have killed me? Does that not also mean that the animals who were my fingers, my joints, my hands, are all that is left of me alive?

You see why I do not let them go easily.

References:

Native American Myth and Legend: An A-Z of People and Places, by Mike Dixon-Kennedy

Recipe for Lughnasadh

2010-08-01T22:51:00.003-04:00

No, it's not for sun-dried tomato herb bread, or little saffron rolls shaped like the Sun, but it does use the first of the tomatoes from my garden and some home-grown fresh sage.

Really I just threw this together this afternoon, but holy MOLY it was so delish that after I ate it I spent the next few hours desperately craving more and so found myself outside with a flashlight picking more sage. I'm eating it right now.

It's pretty simple, and goes together real fast.

Pasta with Browned Sage Butter, Tomatoes and Parmesan Cheese

And that's all the ingredients right in the title. Instructions are for one serving, since that's what I made but you can multiply as necessary.

Put pasta of your choice on to boil.

In a skillet, heat oh about 1/3 stick butter (three tablespoons or so, or more if you want; enough to act as sauce for your pasta) over lowish medium heat.

Wash, dry, then chop up about a dozen sage leaves, then throw them in the butter, where they will fry and become crispy. Keep an eye on it as it cooks, since you are trying to brown the butter, which can be tricky. It can take a while, which is a pain, but it's better to do it slowly than to burn it. The butter will get to a point where it's foamy; start watching then. The milk solids will start to precipitate out and turn brown, and the whole thing will smell nutty. You don't want it too brown, but it ought to be a little more than golden. You'll smell it. Take it off the heat when you think it's good.

In the meantime roughly chop a bunch of fresh, room temperature, never been in the fridge tomatoes. Throw them into the butter when you take it off the heat to warm up a little.

Grate a decent sized pile of parmesan (I used the smallest holes on the grater, so my pile was pretty fluffy), then, drain the pasta, throw it in a bowl, pour the butter/sage/tomato sauce on top, then the cheese. Mix it all up and eat!

Goddess of the Week

2010-07-25T16:12:00.012-04:00

Al-Uzza is the Arabian Goddess of the planet Venus as the morning star from the time before Islam. Her name means 'the Mightiest One' and She was one of the main Goddesses of the Nabateans, an Arab people who lived in the area of Jordan and northern Arabia from about the 4th century BCE to the 3rd century CE. Their capital was the rock-cut city of Petra in Jordan; al-Uzza was likely the patron Goddess of that city.

She has come up twice before here as Goddess of the Week; once in January 2009 and again in December of the same year.

It is a little hard to be definite about al-Uzza; the evidence is distant and confusing, and there is a fair amount of disagreement even among the experts.

In Islamic sources (i.e. late sources), the Goddesses al-Uzza, Allat ('the Goddess' or perhaps 'High One') and Manat (probably 'Fate') are considered separate sister Goddesses, with Manat the eldest, Allat the middle sister, and al-Uzza the youngest (or the one Whose worship was the youngest). They are even called the daughters of Allah, and in fact there was a famously redacted Sura in the Koran speaking of Them, the so-called 'Satanic Verses'. (Even Islam found it difficult to completely eradicate the underlying Pagan beliefs of the earlier culture.)

In early Islamic times al-Uzza was the main Goddess of the Quraysh tribe, from the area north of Mecca, while Allat was worshipped by the Thaqif tribe from Ta'if, about 60 miles southeast of Mecca. All three were said to have 'idols' in the Ka'aba at Mecca, that mysterious cube at the center (literally) of Islamic worship. The Ka'aba was already a major center of pilgrimage before Islam, and was apparently a Pagan temple or shrine, as it was said to house 360 'idols', which Mohammed had cast out and destroyed. The Quraysh, in particular, were said to invoke all three Goddesses as they circumambulated the Ka'aba.

It should be noted that the forms above are the Islamic versions of the names; the Nabatean versions are al-Uzza, Allatu, and Manotu (or Manawatu).

The Greeks of the time identified al-Uzza with their Aphrodite Ourania, Heavenly Aphrodite, presumably because She was a Goddess of the planet Venus, and Allat with Athena (I have no idea why). Al-Uzza, at least in Petra, also seems to have been associated with, or at least shared some iconography with both Isis, the Egyptian Great Goddess, and the Greek Tykhe, Who started out the Goddess of Fortune, but Who later took on a role as the guardian spirit of cities.

Allat and al-Uzza in a lot of ways blur into each other, and it may be that al-Uzza was originally a title of the Goddess Allat, Who splintered off into a distinct Goddess. Some scholars believe that al-Uzza was the main Goddess of the Nabateans, though She was known throughout Arabia, as a Sabaic (southern Arabia, modern Yemen) form of Her name is Uzzayan.

A late fragment of poetry mentions al-Uzza and Her 'two daughters'. There is debate as to Who Her consort was; perhaps it was Dushura, the mountain God, and Her two daughters may be Allat and Manat.

In Petra there are numerous dedications to al-Uzza (and none to Allat); the so-called 'eye idols' are assumed to represent Her.

She is sometimes called a warrior Goddess, though I'm not sure now where that comes from; perhaps it is by comparison with Ishtar, also a Goddess of the planet Venus, as well as the meaning of al-Uzza's name, 'the Mightiest One' which does sound appropriate to a bellatrix, it's true. But I haven't found anything that supports it in the more scholarly sources (as opposed to the more popular sources) and that's one reason I redid the artwork last year.

This week both grounding and growth are needed. Remember that a tree cannot grow tall without the support of its roots, and that the depth and size of the root system of a tree mirrors the height and size of its trunk and branches. There is just as much below the surface as above. As below, so above, in this case. Thinking about things in that order will I think make sense of your current circumstances.

So, keep your feet firmly planted on the earth, but look to that star shining above you. Take your cue and inspiration from its rhythms, as well as the rhythms of the earth. It is a curious sort of balance called for this week, I think.

What does She say?

I am the Stone, the solid, the square, the haunted djinn-block. The sands shift around me but I may not be moved. I am that which is constant and unmoving.

And I am the Star, the bright, the shining, the distant one. I wander through the heavens to either side of the Sun. I am that which is constant and moving.

I support and I shine. Look to Me in both these places, in the Stone beneath your feet and the Star high above. And remember I am the Mighty One. Call on Me!

What do you think?

References:

The Religion of the Nabataeans: a Conspectus by John F. Healey. Accessed through Google Books, alas. Imperfect, I know. But the damned thing is a $200 book!

Also, again, The Book of Idols, by Hisham ibn al-Kalbi. Again, warning on that site; though this part is just a straight-up translation without commentary of the original book, the site itself is some Christian propaganda anti-Islam site. The only other on-line version I could find of The Book of Idols had no paragraph breaks and crashed my browser.

Goddess of the Week

2010-07-20T23:08:00.004-04:00

Melaina is a dark, angry aspect of the ancient Greek Earth Mother Demeter, which She took upon Herself in response to a time of great pain. She has come up once before, in November of 2008, the beginning of the dark time of year here in the north.

One of the most well-known myths of Demeter involves Her beloved daughter Kore, Who was abducted and raped by the Underworld God Haides when just a girl, vanishing without a trace into His realm under the Earth.

When Demeter found Her daughter suddenly gone, She dropped all Her duties as Earth Mother and began the long search for Her, wandering the earth in frantic grief. But She received little help; for Kore had been abducted with the tacit approval of Zeus, and few wanted to cross Him.

In the midst of this dark time, the Sea-God Poseidon conceived a lust for Demeter. When, unsurprisingly, She was in no mood, He pursued Her; and though She tried to escape from Him by taking the form of a mare and running with the wild horses of Arkadia, Poseidon soon enough found Her, and in the form of a stallion He raped Her.

This was simply too much for Demeter, on top of everything else She was going through, so She clothed Herself in black and shut Herself up in a cave in Mount Eliaos, near to the town of Philagia. From the rape She bore two children: the immortal horse Areion or Arion, Who could speak like a human, and a daughter, Whose name has not come down to us. Not, for once, because She was unimportant, but because She was considered a most holy maiden, and Her name was secret, given only to initiates into Her mysteries. They have kept that secret, and Her true name is not known. Her title, however, has survived: Despoena, the Mistress.

Demeter was eventually coaxed out of the cave by the Moirai, the Fates; They are said to have persuaded Her with Their words, perhaps reminding Her that while She was in hiding, and while Her powers of fertility were withdrawn, the crops of the world (and so the people of the world) were dying. That is the usual story, anyway; I am more inclined to think the Moirai did not persuade Demeter with talking, but by listening to Her.

This is a very dark and violent tale; and I suspect it has been quite twisted in a particularly patriarchal way. But this time the casualty is not just the Goddess, but the God as well, Poseidon. There is evidence that He and Demeter may have formed a cult pair in early times; Their names are mentioned together in Mycenaean Linear B tablets from Pylos, Their names written in that syllabic script as Da-ma-te and Po-se-da-wo-ne. Poseidon's name means 'Husband of Earth' or 'Consort of Earth', and even in classical times He was remembered for His connection with the Earth, as the 'Earth-shaker', Ennosigaios, the God Who brings earthquakes. I suspect Their relationship was in earlier times rather less antagonistic.

The Phigalians accounted that cave sacred to Her, calling Her Demeter Melaina, 'the Black', supposedly after the black clothes She wore; and they set up a wooden statue, described by Pausanias in the 2nd century CE thus:

The image, they say, was made after this fashion. It was seated on a rock, like to a woman in all respects save the head. She had the head and hair of a horse, and there grew out of her head images of serpents and other beasts. Her tunic reached right to her feet; on one of her hands was a dolphin, on the other a dove.

Melaina is Demeter in Her chthonic aspect, literally meaning of the Earth. She appears dark and monstrous, but it should be remembered that the serpents and horses may simply be symbolic of the earth.

Go into the dark a little this week. It may be that it is time to bring a traumatic or difficult aspect of your past to the light, where it may be healed; conversely, it may instead be a time to shut yourself off from the world. It is hard to tell, and can go either way; be gentle and compassionate with yourself, and do not do anything if you are unwilling, or if you are not truly ready. You will know. If you are unsure, don't.

The dark is, as it ever is, not nearly as frightening as your fears make it out to be; keep that in mind, also. Also keep in mind that acknowledging something is as good as accepting it in a lot of ways. It needn't be that difficult. You might be surprised.

As ever, I ask Her what She would like to say.

Darkness, it is all darkness. But of your own choosing; your anger, your pain, your hiding, your hibernation away from the light, your rest, your time of healing. Sometimes shutting yourself away from the world is necessary. Sometimes, even, stewing in your own anger is necessary. Do not be afraid of the dark, in all its manifestations. It is an aspect of Me, always.

Comment Moderation Enabled

2010-07-13T18:39:00.004-04:00

'Cause I'm sick to death of the ?? spammer comments.

To the asshole who keeps spamming my blog comments:

This means that no one but me will ever see your comments. You may as well not waste your time, correct?

Also, may you get what you deserve, thrice over.

Goddess of the Week

2010-07-12T18:08:00.006-04:00

Idun, the Norse Goddess of springtime, renewal, and eternal youth, makes Her third appearance here as Goddess of the Week; though She is Goddess of spring, She keeps showing up in summertime, Her first appearance being June 29 of 2009, and Her second on August 24th of the same year. She is said to grow the apples that keep the Deities young, which She keeps safe, giving them out when needed.

Idun is the daughter of Ivald, one of the Dökkálfar ('dark elves') or Svartálfar ('black elves'); they were generally considered to be the same as, or generally confused with, the dwarves, though if you're a Tolkien fan that may seem incomprehensible; in Norse myth the Dökkálfar/Svartálfar/dwarves were said to have been born from the maggots that fed on the corpse of the primeval giant Ymir, out of Whom the world was created. They are called 'black' or 'dark' both because they did not like the light, and because they were thought spiritually unenlightened; in myth, daylight turned them to stone, so during the day they dwelled underground.

Idun is mentioned in stanzas six and seven of the Hrafnagaldr Óðins, or The Incantation of Odin's Ravens, a late Icelandic poem:

In the dales dwells
the prescient Dís,
from Yggdrasil’s
ash sunk down,
of alfen race,
Idun by name,
the youngest of Ivaldi’s
elder children.

She ill brooked
her descent,
under the hoar tree’s
trunk confined.
She wuld not happy be
with Nörvi’s daughter,
accustomed to a pleasanter
abode at home.

I could find no mention of Idun's mother, but She must not have shared Her father's (and brothers') intolerance of the sunlight, for not only is she said to have lived in the dales or valleys, but 'Nörvi's daughter' refers to Nott, the Goddess of Night.

She is called above a Dís, usually translated as 'lady' or 'Goddess'; the Dísir as a class are a bit difficult to pin down, but are female Deities or spirits Who may have roots in the dead, or in Goddesses of the earth; Freyja was called Vanadís, or 'Dís of the Vanir' in Her role as fertility Goddess.

The Hrafnagaldr Óðins tends to baffle scholars, who can't even agree on an approximate date; it may describe Ragnarok and the ending of the world. The stanzas about Idun above seem to refer to an unwilling descent into the earth at that time, one She had foreseen; as She is the Goddess of springtime and youth, this may refer both to the ending of the Deities' lives, and the coming of the Fimbulvetr, the three-year-long winter that will usher in Ragnarok.

Despite Her family's unenlightened origins, Idun was considered a major Goddess; She married the God Bragi, son of Odin and the giantess Gunnlod, and had a place at the feast table in Ásgarðr. She was well-loved by most of the other Gods (though Loki lit into Her once without cause), though one wonders how much that had to do with the fact that She held the apples that guaranteed Their eternal youth.

I wonder. Her name means 'the Ever-Young' or 'She Who Rejuvenates'; how much of Her is based in an Earth-Goddess (for want of a more precise term)? She is a daughter of the earth-dwelling Dökkálfar, She tends to and harvests the apples of youth Herself, and there is a story of Her descent into the earth at the root of Yggdrasil. The Earth of springtime might certainly be called She Who Rejuvenates; and spring itself, though young each year, is ever-ancient in its cycle.

So what does that mean for this week? Though it is summer (or winter in the south), look to a current cycle; something is in a springtime phase, now, one of renewal and rebirth. But a gentle kind, less a painful sloughing of skin like a snake, and more the refreshment of a good night's sleep. Look also to the echoes of past cycles in this one. For example, I was quite surprised to find, in comparing journal entries over a year or two, that the same very specific mood (down to a liking of moody black and white photos!) would come up at the same week from one year to another. Now is a good time to see the similarities across the years; see what you can find. It will help make sense of what is happening now.

What does She say?

Be renewed. I am the Goddess of stem cells, that heal, renew, repair. I am rejuvenation; I am hoarded health. You may call on it now, that which you have kept saved. You are stronger than you think. Tap into it now, if you need it.

All is well. The new grows from the old; the new destroys the old as it grows. Health destroys disease as it grows. All is well.

There is always the new. Never fear.

What do you think?

References:

An Introduction to Viking Mythology, by John Grant;

bit of Wikipedia, again, though it was significantly less helpful this time;

and the Benjamin Thorpe translation of the Hrafnagaldr Óðins accessed at Northvegr

Goddess of the Week

2010-07-05T21:41:00.003-04:00

This is the first time the Germanic Sun Goddess Sunna has come up; appropriately enough up here in the north the summer is just getting started. The sun is high and what is usually the hottest month of the year has begun.

Sunna is the personified sun in Germanic myth, and Her name, as you may have guessed, means 'Sun'; She is said to be the sister of the Goddess Sinthgunt, about Whom not a whole lot is known, though She may be either a Moon or Star Goddess (the former being problematic as the Moon was generally thought to be male in the Germanic/Norse system). Both of them are mentioned in the Merseburg Incantations, medieval German magic spells from the ninth or tenth centuries; in them the sisters, with Frija, Volla, and Wodan (Freja, probably Fulla, and Odin) cure the horse of Phol (possibly Baldr), which had sprained its foot. So Sunna, then, was at least thought to be skilled in magic, and to have healing powers.

In closely related Norse mythology, the Sun Goddess is called Sól, which also means 'Sun'. Here is Her tale:

At the very beginning of things was Ginnungagap, the Abyss; it held at once everything and nothing. Out of the void came Yggdrasil, the World Tree; self-created, it would run through the center of all the nine worlds.

At Yggdrasil's southernmost root was Múspellheimr, a land of heat and fire, from which embers constantly drifted; these embers in turn melted the ice of Ginnungagap, and the quickened steam and water became the first of the frost giants, Ymir. At the same time a cow, Audhumla, was created; She fed Ymir with Her milk, and licked at the salty blocks of ice, within which was another creature, Buri, the ancestor of the Gods. After three days licking Buri was wholly freed of ice; but in this time the sleeping Ymir had created both the first humans (in this version, anyway) and a six-headed son named Þrúðgelmir, Who then 'gave birth' to Bergelmir, the ancestor of the frost giants.

Buri also had been busy, and had had a son, Börr; the two lines, then, frost giants and proto-Gods set themselves at war, as is perhaps inevitable in Norse mythology. The war lasted for the usual mythical aeons, but then a giantess named Bestla married Börr and by Him had three sons: Odin, Vili, and Ve. With Their help Ymir was killed; and from Ymir's body Odin, Vili, and Ve created our world, Midgard, the world of mortals. And, and this is where this all becomes relevant, from the brightest of the embers of Múspellheimr, They created Máni, the Moon, and Sól, the Sun.

Máni and Sól were then charged with driving the Moon and Sun across the heavens in chariots. Sól's chariot is drawn by two horses called Árvakr ('Early Awake') and Alsviðr ('Very Quick'), but like Her brother She is pursued by a wolf; at times he nearly catches up with Her, which is said to cause eclipses. It is foretold (or has already come to pass) that at Ragnarok the wolves will catch up with Them and destroy the Moon and the Sun.

I will note that as is annoyingly usual in some patriarchal creation myths, the female element has in large part been disappeared. Þrúðgelmir, after all, cannot 'give birth' alone, can He? And if 'He' did then by definition He's a She, isn't S/He? I know, pesky logic. The Norse myths were written down for the most part fairly late, at least a couple centuries after the lands had already been Christianized; like Welsh myth, it can be hard to discern the underlying layers (and I am no expert in Norse myth, trust me). So I don't know if there is something more under there. It is, certainly, a heavily Indo-European tradition, which makes it especially remarkable that the Sun is coded as female and the Moon male. At any rate.

I very much want to interpret this card as a positive sign, of rising fortunes and brighter times this week; but I keep coming back to the fact that this is Norse myth, where the warmth never lasts and all the world begins and ends in ice. However, I suppose, though the summer in the high north is not as warm as it is further south, the Sun is out for far longer in the summer days; this year on the solstice in Stockholm, Sweden, the sun rose at 3:31am and set at 10:09pm, making the day more than eighteen and a half hours long. Perhaps then, this is more about light than heat. What is being illuminated now? What can you get a good, long, look at now?

What does She say?

I draw the darkness after me. This is not frightening, or terrible; it is just night, and night is normal and natural. You need not fear if the light does not last. For though it may not seem it I always come again. Sure as sunrise, don't they say?

Enjoy me while you can. This also, is not terrible, nor a threat; simply a reminder to appreciate what you have while you have it. Your day in the sun is now. Live it, enjoy it, bask in it. Let yourself be warmed.

What do you think?

References:

An Introduction to Viking Mythology, by John Grant;

and surprisingly enough, Wikipedia is pretty thorough on Norse myth.

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Goddess Stuff

2010-07-01T02:03:00.008-04:00

Yeah yeah, Goddess blah blah Serious Scholarship blah blah Deep Thinky Mystery Religion Stuff blah blah blah and et cetera.

So (ha!) this isn't Pagan (probably. Maybe it is; I don't know). But I am speechless and simply must share. I absolutely cannot keep this in.

See, I know the band below (well not personally), and have been listening to the pre-1976 stuff for years; yet somehow I never actually thought to look up a live performance on YouTube. And so I'm just stunned, though really I shouldn't be.

I went to high school in the 1980s. So (ha again!) I first knew this singer from that time period, and that is the image of him I'll probably always hold in my head. I mean, sure, I had heard the guy used to have a predilection for red cocktail dresses and fox masks, but still. Damn.

Because the mad March merry hare scrawny adorable long-haired pixie in the glam makeup is fucking Peter Gabriel. With that angel's voice of his mature and unmistakable though he is only twenty-three years old. Unbelievable.

P.S. I don't want to hear anyone say, Peter Who??? and then whine about being born in the 1990s or something. Oh, and get off my lawn!! Damned kids.

Goddess of the Week

2010-06-28T01:04:00.009-04:00

Kore is the cult name of Persephone, the Queen of the Underworld in Greek myth, in Her aspect as the Goddess of springtime and daughter of Demeter, the Goddess of the Earth and agriculture. She last came up in the early spring, which I thought at the time a fairly literal sign of the changing seasons; this time, as it's just after Midsummer's, I'm more inclined to interpret it a little more abstractly.

Kore, Whose name simply means 'Maiden,' was just a girl when She was abducted and raped by Haides, the King of the Underworld. Demeter, in Her grief, rage, and worry for Her daughter, dropped all Her usual duties to find Kore, which meant that while She searched, the Earth and its crops, and the people dependent on them, suffered. As did the Gods, in time, when humans could no longer manage to make sacrifices to Them (what with the starving and all). This, incidentally, was the reason Zeus eventually relented and ordered Haides to return Kore—not so much that the humans of the Earth were suffering greatly, but because He wasn't getting his special snowflake honors. Dick.

When Kore was finally returned it would not be wholly, for She had eaten several pomegranate seeds while in the Underworld, and Divine Law decreed that whoever had eaten there was compelled to remain. But Demeter would not hear of it, and threatened the Earth with permanent barrenness, so a compromise was reached: Kore would spent part of every year in the Underworld, and the rest on the Earth.

This was given as the explanation for why the different seasons exist—for while Kore is in the Underworld, Demeter, still outraged by Her daughter's abduction (as well as, one suspects, the subsequent 'compromise') withholds Her gifts and it is winter; but When Kore is released back to the upper world, Demeter welcomes Her with the luxuriant growth of spring.

Of course, Persephone was most likely the Queen of the Underworld first, not second; but myths can be like that and get things inside-out. Her tale of abduction and release of course also formed the thealogical basis for the Eleusinian Mysteries, which promised its initiates a life after death, based on (probably) the idea that Persephone, Goddess of the Dead, goes on to give birth in the Underworld. There is Life even within Death.

At the final point in the Mysteries, initiates were shown a cut ear of wheat as epiphany. The symbolism of the cut grain is very complex, of course; part of it in this story is that it represents the point in the cycle that is both beginning and end, where the grain is ripe, cut, harvested, and can now serve as food; but at the same time it is a seed, the beginning of the next generation and the key to continuity though it is now dead and cut. Which is why Mother and Daughter in this tale are so close, and depicted in art both as adults, the Mother and Her grown Daughter; They are in many ways the same figure, just at different points in the eternal cycle.

There are so many layers to this, so many spiraling cycles, of course; another one is that even while Persephone is underground, buried, She represents the Seed biding its time, that little thing, that germ, which contains within it the entire pattern of the full living thing, and which though it may appear to be inert or dead, is quite definitely alive.

Sometimes I think that all religion boils down to that one little idea, the Seed.

This card this week means a corner has been turned. Though it is (officially) modern summer up here in the north, the theme is yet that of springtime, of emerging from a dark place into the light to a place of growth and thriving. Especially, I think, as far as health and the body are concerned, our own little personal pieces of Earth. Things are improving, and healing, and getting better all the time. If this does not feel true for you, nevertheless know that it is, and that after a space you will almost certainly be able to look back on this time and trace back to the one little thing that changed it all, though it may seem insignificant now. Trust, I think, is a large part of this.

As ever, I ask, What does the Goddess have to say?

Put your feet on the earth, get your feet good and grounded; you must be grounded first for growth to occur. Preferably at the proper planting depth for you. Work on this, this grounding. Connect. Feel the Earth, your home, my home, our home. You need a strong foundation to simply stand up straight, which you must do before you can expect to build upon it. Feel it; it is yours, your birthright. You belong here.

Once you can do that, then you can unfurl into the light, the rain, and the air. So many get the order incorrectly, then wonder why things collapse around them. You must start with the basics; they form the base, after all. Air, Light, Water, Food: seek these and the balance of them now.

What do you think?

Goddess of the Week

2010-06-21T17:17:00.006-04:00

Well now that makes sense. The faeries are legendarily quite active around Midsummer, especially on the Eve. The veil between the worlds is said to be quite thin now, as well. I've always thought that it's because in the northern lands (and even here in New England, which isn't all that far north really) at Midsummer the sky never quite gets entirely dark, and keeps a bit of that luminous twilight glow to it even in the wee hours. And if there's one thing the faeries love it's the twilight and the in-between places.

I'm not sure there's much more to add to that. Get out this week into nature, and find that twilight liminal realm for yourself. Spend some time with the magical, the wild, the overgrown and the in-between, whether in the outer world in its green tangle, or the inner world of dreams and visions. Seek the memories of magical times, or the luminous dreams you once had; it will be restorative to the soul.

What do They, for They are always plural, say?

Leave some garden for the groundhogs.

Well I suppose we can't expect 'serious' of the faeries, can we? Still, that's in line with leaving the last apple on the tree for the apple-tree man, isn't it?

Goddess of the Week

2010-06-13T17:08:00.003-04:00

This is the first time Vesta, the Roman Goddess of fire and the hearth, has come up. She held a central place in Roman religion: Her round tholos temple was set in the heart of the Roman Forum, and a perpetual flame was kept burning there. She has Her equivalent in the Greek Hestia, and unlike many of the other Roman Deities Who were equated to Greek ones, the two do seem to stem from the same root, and have some similarities in worship as well as name. As the hearth is the primeval altar, both Vesta and Hestia held places of honor in rituals involving more than one Deity, if at opposite ends of the rite: for while the Greeks invoked Her first in ritual, the Romans invoked Her last.

As Goddess of the hearth and the hearth-fire Vesta represents the heart and the center of the community, whether the home and family or the state. She also symbolizes the communal meal, as the hearth is where bread was baked; and in time She became somewhat of a patroness of bakers. On Her holiday on June 9th (just last week!) millstones were decorated with garlands, and loaves were hung about necks of the asses responsible for turning them.

She was one of the few Roman Deities to have no image; the naked flame was taken to represent Her.

I think this week is about being grounded in fire, though that may sound an odd thing to say. Vesta is about the center and the hearth and the flame that burns there. One normally grounds in relation to the earth; but remember that at the center of this planet deep fire burns. Tap into your own fire this week; it will be more centering and more stabilizing than you might think.

Vesta's rites were overseen by women: the famous college of Vestal Virgins. It was women's work to hold the center of Rome sacred and true. Remember that also this week.

What does She say?

Burn hot, burn warm, burn fierce, burn gently. All of these things are Me. I hold to the center; it all turns around Me. I am first and I am last if you are to do anything well and truly. Honor Me by honoring the sacred fire at your own center, your heart, the fire in your belly, that infinitesimal yet infinite Star at the center of the Soul. I live in each of you. Honor Me by honoring yourself.

Reference:

Dumézil, Archaic Roman Religion

Goddess of the Week

2010-06-07T21:22:00.006-04:00

The Greek Goddess Hera comes up here for the first time. In myth Hera is the sister and wife of Zeus, the great Olympian king of the Gods, and so Queen Herself. But Zeus has a wandering eye, and Hera takes the role of the scorned, jealous wife Who savagely punishes Her husband's paramours; She has the reputation of a shrewish, jealous woman. A passive-aggressive conniving bitch driven to behind-the-scenes power plays, actually.

Well, that's the classical version of it anyway. But I think we know better by now, don't we?

The truth is that Hera pre-dates Zeus. She was the principal Deity of either sex of the area around Argos, Her Archaic temple at Olympia is earlier than the one Zeus had there, and Zeus is called posis Hêrês, or 'spouse of Hera' in Homer. The likely explanation for the structure of the later myths is that when Zeus came along, Hera, as the main Deity of the region, was joined to Him as His wife, an obvious Queen to His King. The same process may account for many of Zeus's 'lovers' (in quotes since some of Them were clearly raped): the local Goddess was joined to the new King, as expression of Her status, or by way of absorbing the indigenous religion. That the other local Goddesses kept some of Their original importance is played out in myth as the conflict between Hera as the 'official' wife and the rest as mistresses. Though Hera and Zeus are associated from fairly early times, Zeus's earliest wife may well have been the prophetic Titaness Dione.

We don't really know what Her name means, though an early form, Era is mentioned on Mycenaean Linear B tablets. It may be connected to springtime, or to a word for 'Protectress'; She is very much associated with heroes, which word is related to Her name.

She was probably originally a fertility Goddess, as much as that term is a vague one. She is associated from earliest times with cows (one of Her epithets is Boôpis, 'Cow-eyed') the seasons, especially springtime and its flowers, and to trees: She had several xoana, rough wooden statues, planks, or pillars, either aniconic or barely iconic, generally considered (by the Greeks of the time) as indicative of ancient worship.

Her story is one of uncomfortable adaptation into a new system, with Her fighting it the whole way. I am not sure what to make of it, as far as interpretation for card for the week goes; and I am inclined, as ever, to make more of origins than later interpretation. Especially since Her story is not a happy one, and She becomes locked into a losing battle through circumstance and the brutality of the culture and Her husband, Who was plainly abusive at times. So I'm not sure. Survival, perhaps, and doing what it takes to live in a gamed system may be the theme this week. But remember, if you can, that the system is unjust, even if you have to play along to survive. And that if the rules are immoral, there is no moral reason to follow them.

On the other hand, there is great value in uncovering that which is lost, or buried. Dig down to those origins if you can; what you find promises to be surprising, and healing. Find those roots, whether of the problem you are trying to work through or out, or of your own innocence or authentic self. Remember who you were, and who you are, and find the thread that connects the two.

What does She say?

I am wronged, very wronged. We, I, are all wronged, We this Earth, We the Goddess, I the Goddess, I all of Woman; We are wronged. And though it is not the responsibility of the wronged to make it right, that is the only way it will happen. Those wronging us are not about to stop of their own accord. They have made that quite clear.

So we must take what is ours. Earth will right Herself, at whatever cost; though She uses a broad brush, and will take the innocent with the guilty. It cannot be helped. Survival, after all, is first. And She may not be judged.

References:

The Transformation of Hera: A Study of Ritual, Hero, and the Goddess in the Iliad, by Joan O'Brien, through Google Books. Oddly enough I can't find a copy for sale through the usual places. Which is really weird as it's neither too old nor too new, being published in 1993. Really, not one used copy available anywhere?

And Theoi, as usual.

Goddess of the Week

2010-05-31T20:38:00.002-04:00

We haven't seen Her in nearly a year, but Amaterasu, the Japanese Goddess of the Sun, is making Her third appearance here. (Her other two: in July of 2009, and early November, 2008.) She is the principal Deity of Shinto, considered the foremother of the Imperial line, and said to have invented weaving, agriculture, and therefore civilization. Her name, given in full as Amaterasu-Omikami, means "The Great Goddess Who Shines in the Heavens."

Amaterasu is the daughter of the first couple, Izanami ("She Who Invites") and Izanagi ("He Who Invites"). After creating the islands of Japan, Izanami and Izanagi then desired to have a child Who would rule over all; and so Amaterasu was born. It is important to remember that Amaterasu is not just an important Goddess, but the supreme Shinto Deity of either sex; in my reprint of Myths and Legends of Japan, which was originally from 1913, the primeval couple ask Themselves "Why should we not produce someone who will be the Lord [sic] of the Universe?" since of course the Deity at the tippy-top of things must be male, from the western author's point of view.

Now, it's true, Japanese myth is not my strong suit, but my feminist nose is smelling some revisioning of the myth. In the story of Amaterasu's parents, Izanami (Her mother) and Izanagi (Her father), came together to an island. Having decided to marry, They set up a ritual pillar, which They walked around in opposite directions (it would be interesting to know Who walked sunwise, and Who walked widdershins, wouldn't it?). When They met, Izanami exclaimed, "How wonderful! I have met a beautiful young man!" This angered Izanagi, however, since He felt He was entitled to the first move, and the first speech, since He was male (and that is specifically the reason given); He insisted They do it over, and when They met the second time, He said, "How wonderful! I have met a beautiful young woman!" And this, according to the legend, made everything right with the Universe.

Yeah, well. That's a pretty literal account of men being rewarded for taking credit for something women have done first, down to the words from our mouths being stolen; and also it strikes me as a pathetically transparent justification for building a society on a sexist foundation. So transparent, that I wonder what is there to prove? It if really is just as it always has been, is there a need to justify it like that? So I wonder if this is a remnant, a remembering in myth, of a time when Japan was not patriarchal. From what I understand of history, Japan does have a matriarchal (or whichever word you choose to describe it) past; the Chinese are said to have been surprised when they first encountered the Japanese tribes, as the leaders of those tribes were often women.

Now Izanami and Izanagi's next child was the Moon-God, Tsukuyomi; and though They thought He and Amaterasu a perfect pair, They argued almost from the first sight of each other. And so Amaterasu rules without a consort. Which She doesn't need anyway, being brilliant, canny, inventive, hard-working, and an excellent archer to boot; and She always uses Her gifts to further civilization.

This week I think it will be about sunshine; specifically, the kind of sunshine that illuminates the dark places. Perhaps it will involve taking credit where it is due, or shining the light on someone else's misappropriation; it may also involve bringing dark areas of your past to light in the name of healing. It may be somewhat painful to look, I fear, but it is a good time, if you choose. Stand in the sun; be aware, and warmed, and visible. The light will prove a great source of strength.

Take credit for the good discarded or buried things that are yours, but also recognize what isn't yours--perhaps shame, guilt, or the like which you have been carrying around with you. This week will provide a very good opportunity to see things with remarkable accuracy and clarity.

She is brilliance, and warmth, and growth. She draws the flower to Her; the plants grow towards Her, longing to reach Her.

What does She say?

Reach for me, unfold yourself, unfurl yourself in my warmth. It is safe here. I am the Truth that stands in the Light, and I will not be denied. I am strong, and intelligent, and prepared to defend myself and you; and I cannot be fooled. Grow towards me; use my warmth and light to grow strong. Remember I am always here, even in the winter; and even if my light is low, I always return. Come out into the light!

What do you think?

References: Larousse Encyclopedia of Mythology

Goddess of the Week

2010-05-24T18:33:00.004-04:00

This is the first appearance of the Welsh Goddess Cerridwen, Who keeps the cauldron of inspiration. The meaning of Her name is a little obscure, but it may be related to words for 'poetry' or 'cauldron' and the -(g)wen on the end, which usually means 'white', may, since it is used of a Goddess, mean 'blessed' or 'holy'. She is said to live at the bottom of Llyn Tegid (Bala Lake) in Wales. Her story:

Cerridwen was the mother of a girl and a boy; the girl, named Creirwy, grew up to be the most beautiful woman on earth, but the boy, Morfran, ('Great Crow') was conversely relentlessly ugly. To make up for Her son's hideous looks Cerridwen decided to brew a magical potion that would confer upon Him divine poetic inspiration and the gift of prophecy; this potion, however, was a large undertaking, requiring a year and a day to brew. To help Her in this She enlisted a blind man and a servant boy, Gwion Bach, to attend to the fire and stir the cauldron.

At the appointed hour She set Morfran by the cauldron, and exhausted, went to sleep; but something went awry, and the three magical drops intended for Morfran fell instead on Gwion Bach.

And so the first thing Gwion Bach understood with his newly acquired gifts of prophecy and inspiration was that Cerridwen was going to kill him. So he quite wisely fled, taking the form of a hare.

Cerridwen awoke in a rage and pursued him in the shape of a greyhound. He changed into a fish, and She became an otter; then he became a bird, She a hawk. Finally he fled to a granary, where he took the form of a single grain of wheat. Cerridwen, not to be thwarted, became a hen, Who without much trouble located him and ate him.

But of course this is myth; and so soon enough Cerridwen found Herself pregnant with the boy. When He was born He was so beautiful She could not kill Him, as She had intended; still, wanting nothing to do with Him She set Him adrift in a coracle, a small boat. Three days later, on Calan Mai (the first of May, or Beltaine) He was found, caught in a fish-weir; and in time He grew up to be the divine poet Taliesin.

Though Cerridwen is quite clearly a mother She also has crone or hag like elements, perhaps because of Her reputation as a sorceress, or because She is a negative or devouring mother. Which is perhaps a little unfair; after all She was quite determined to help Her elder son Morfran. And perhaps it can't be broken down that simply anyway. She is probably more properly thought of as a Goddess of transformation--of the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. Though Her cauldron is specifically a source of awen, poetic or prophetic insight, in other tales from Celtic lands cauldrons are a means of regeneration and rebirth. The tale of Branwen from The Mabinogion features a wondrous cauldron: if a man slain that day is placed within it, the next day he will be alive again and his strength at its peak; the only caveat being that he will lose the power of speech. Death, after all, is silencing, and one does not come through a transformation without change.

So this week is about transformation and inspiration both; but there is a very strong element of unpredictability. The best laid plans, well, they will go awry, and all your hard work may seem dashed. If you can see it through, however, things will loop around to something really quite wonderful, perhaps more wonderful than you could have imagined. Trust this process, if you can; at the least patience will help.

Or it could be that you do get what you want, and things go off without a hitch; but you come to the realization that what you thought you wanted wasn't. Because you have changed. Perhaps those plans have not yet come to fruition; this may be a good time to reevaluate things in light of where you are now. Do those plans still serve you? How have you changed?

In the story above, do you identify with Cerridwen or Taliesin? Your answer will offer insight as to where you are in your transformation. And yes, we are all in the middle of that process, always.

Me, I always felt more for Cerridwen than for the boy. In fact I felt compelled to write Her story, the first one I wrote for the Goddess deck book, because I had read Ari Berk's version of Taliesin's tale for his and Brian Froud's The Runes of Elfland book; I wasn't intending at all to write stories (or rather, I wasn't intending to channel stories, 'cause really, I swear I'm not writing them myself) at all. But She demanded I take down Her side of the story.

So what does She say?

Would you be divinely inspired? It will cost you. Of course. That is how it is.

Throw it all in the pot. ALL. Your life's work, your life's blood, your life. Boil it down to its essence. Boil off the distractions, the extraneous, the unnecessary. Be transformed. It is the only way.

But you know this already.

Goddess of the Week

2010-05-17T16:49:00.005-04:00

For the first time we get Medusa. She is one of the Gorgones, three monstrous sisters with snaky hair, fangs, and great wings of bronze Who live out in the furthest West; and Medusa is commonly said to be the only mortal of the three sisters. In the classical myth, Medusa was once a beautiful maiden famed for Her glorious hair Who incurred the wrath of Athena by having sex with Poseidon in one of Athena's temples. Or She incurred the wrath of Athena by being raped by Poseidon in one of Athena's temples. Ancient patriarchies of course (and modern ones, alas) don't really distinguish between the two. And so in the story Athena punished Her, Medusa, not Him, Poseidon, quite savagely, by transforming Medusa into a monster so ugly Her merest glance turned men into stone.

Now, I like Athena. A lot. But I'll have no truck with this blaming the victim crap. None at all.

I suppose you could rationalize it by theorizing about why Athena wouldn't want to go after Poseidon--He is too powerful, it could start a very big war, it wasn't going to end well, whatever--and so, eminently practical Goddess that She is, Athena took out Her anger on the next nearest target, His victim.

Or we could just say it's the fucking patriarchy putting words in Athena's mouth and assume it's all been twisted out of recognition. I lean towards this interpretation myself, but then, I really like Athena. So I am not unbiased.

The thing is, though, Medusa as a transformed maiden doesn't really make much sense. Now, okay, it's mythology, and so it is no more linear and logical than a dream; and ordinary reason does not apply. But Medusa has those two sisters, Who are always spoken of as monstrous, snaky-locked, bronze-winged and fangéd. That is just how they are, and always have been. Why should Medusa be any different? I suspect part of it is the Perseus myth, where the hero cuts off Her head (while She is asleep!) on a dare, helped along by the typical heroish accoutrements of winged sandals, a helmet of invisibility, a mirrored shield. For him to be able to do this Medusa has to be different than Her sisters: She has to be mortal.

She also has to be 'guilty', I think. When Perseus cut off Her head, two beings leapt out from Her severed neck: Pegasos, the magical winged horse, and the hero Khrysaor, about Whom one hears very little except that He was the father of the three-bodied Geryon. Poseidon is said to be their father.

Think about all that a minute. It is usually glossed over, or made invisible, but that means Medusa was pregnant when Perseus killed Her. She was also, as far as I've ever heard, just minding Her own (albeit monstery) business. It's not like She was harassing the locals and threatening to eat a princess or something (i.e. Andromeda).

Something here has been re-cast, the story changed. I'm not sure how though and am truthfully just going on instinct, on the fact that something smells off to me; but Hesiod (one of the earliest sources), though he does call the Gorgones monsters, also makes no mention of rape, or of Athena's temple; instead, he says that 'Poseidon, he of the dark hair, lay with [Medusa] in a soft meadow and among spring flowers.' From what I can tell, the story of Medusa's rape in the temple comes from Ovid. While it's true he may have been repeating something said earlier, still he is not only late (the first centuries BCE and CE), he is in fact also Roman.

There is also the matter of Medusa's name. It means 'Mistress,' 'Guardian,' or 'Queen.' Those are not usually negative words. Her sisters, incidentally, are Sthenno ('Strength', Whom I have painted), and Euryale (either 'Wide-Stepping' or 'the Wide Salt Sea'). They are daughters of the Sea-Deities Keto (Who gives Her name to the order of whales, cetaceans) and Phorkys.

They are certainly elemental, primeval creatures, as are Their siblings, Skylla, the Graiai, and the dragon Ekhidna. And civilization does tend to demonise the primeval, to make monsters out of the natural world which can be so unthinking of the needs of us humans.

But there is something else about Medusa.

When Perseus cut off Her head, Athena caught up some of Her blood. That from the left side of Medusa's body killed instantly, but that from the right had such healing powers it could bring the dead back to life.

So. She is primeval, and powerful, and not entirely monstrous. Perhaps that is why in the later legends She is said to once have been beautiful. The story of Her blood is part of the reason I painted Her as beautiful, and why Her snakes are that deep red color.

So for this week then? I think last week's theme, anger and the primeval power of the natural world will continue to play out; also the Gorgones' connection with the Sea make me think of the gushing oil in the Gulf of Mexico. Although of this writing I hear it has been capped somewhat, the effects of the spill are going to be with us a long time. There are consequences to be dealt with, Work to be done on that.

On an individual level, keep paying attention to your anger. What does it ask of you? Keep an eye towards fairness and justice, never forgetting to turn it towards your own self. And blood, too, however you interpret that, though it need not be dire. Myself I tend to see menstrual issues in this card, if only a warning that you may be in for a crampalicious week.

Whatever it is it's pretty primal or basic. Be aware (or as aware as you can manage) of the forces, emotional and physical, that are moving about under the surface. Don't assume your conscious mind has the full picture right now.

What does She say?

I am blood. I am old, old as blood, old as seawater; I move within each of us, in tidal rhythm. I am slow, and powerful, and ancient. I inhabit the furthest west, that place where night meets the Sea; a liminal realm, threshold to another. I guard that border. You cross only in accordance with my will.

Sisters, remember me. I am also that which is made monstrous by fear. And I am truth. Seek out the truth of me. Unbury me from your stories. I am not what you might think. But you will have to find your own truth of me.

To read Her story, go here.

References: Theoi's Medusa and Gorgons page.

Goddess of the Week

2010-05-10T19:51:00.005-04:00

Pele comes up again as our Goddess of the Week; She showed up just over a year ago, on March 14th and April 5th of 2009. She is the Hawaiian Goddess of volcanoes and their power, said to live within the crater of Kilauea on Hawaii, perhaps the most active volcano on the planet. The Pu'u 'O'o cone, part of the Kilauea system but not located within the main crater, is currently erupting, and has been since January 1983; just this morning as a matter of fact it ate a webcam.

Here's an aerial view of Pu'u 'O'o:

(Picture from Google Maps)

In legend Pele quarreled with Her elder sister Na-maka-o-kaha'i, the Sea-Goddess; an angry Na-maka-o-kaha'i pursued Her through each of the Hawaiian islands in turn, destroying Pele's efforts to set up homes there. But when Pele came to the Big Island She took refuge in the crater of Kilauea; this proved to be too high for the Sea-Goddess to reach, and Pele was finally able to make Her home there.

Pele is capable of immense swaths of destruction, and is accorded much respect, as is proper; but Her acts of destruction are at the same time acts of creation. There is no land in Hawaii that is not born of a volcano.

As for this week: Eyjafjallajokull in Iceland is causing problems again, or, rather, our dependence on air travel is causing us problems; the volcano is really just doing what volcanoes do. I think that may be part of the lesson here--distinguishing what is in our control and what is not, and then accepting the situation. Seriously, would you argue with a volcano?

Also I can't help but think that it has gotten to a point where the Earth has begun to push back. Well, not push back, per se. Really it's all a natural and normal reaction to the crap She puts up with from us humans--the pollution causing rising temperatures, the oil pouring into the Gulf due to our own greed and insistence on using everything up--and we should not be surprised. That we are is testament to our hubris.

On a personal level, what are your volcanoes? I once had a nightmare in which a new volcano formed a street over from my house; it was quite terrifying. When I woke it seemed to be warning me of anger I held within myself. What do you hold inside? What threatens to erupt? Kilauea rarely explodes catastrophically, since it is constantly spewing lava; I won't call it a 'gentle' eruption, as it is after all a volcano. Still, there is a lesson there, about being open to expressing our anger regularly so that it does not build up to explosive levels.

What does She say?

I rumble from within. Lava is my blood and it boils. I destroy, all the time, constantly; I create, all the time, constantly. I am partial to neither. It is simply what I do.

Learn that you are small. Very small. Keep this in mind. You must learn some respect. Well, you will or you will not; it will not matter, really. You are just so small.

There are some things that are beyond your control.

What do you think?

Goddess of the Week

2010-05-03T20:17:00.004-04:00

Vivian is the Lady of the Lake in the Arthurian legends. This is the first time She has come up as Goddess of the Week.

Her name is variously spelled as Vivian, Viviene, Niniane, Nimianae, Niviene, Nimue, &c. She was said to live at the bottom of a lake and to have been Lancelot's foster-mother, (which is why he was called 'du Lac') and to have given the magical sword Excalibur to Arthur. She was also the pupil and lover of the great magician Merlin; in time She became more powerful and learned than he, and imprisoned him in a tree or a cave, depending on the version of the story.

Now. I'm primarily concerned with Goddesses; and when I did the art for these, some dozen years ago now, well, first, I was operating with a fairly loose definition of 'Goddess', and, second, I was going more by intuition than anything else, which in this case, told me that Vivian, Nimue, &c., had Her origins in some sort of Celtic Goddess.

Which is probably true. However, tracking it down is nearly impossible. The Arthurian legends are extraordinarily dense and tangled, having both been transmitted orally back and forth between quite a few cultures, Irish, French, and Welsh to name a few, and copied and recopied in writing (frequently badly, with many misspellings and misreadings, which may account in large part for the myriad variations on Vivian's name, especially when you consider medieval styles of calligraphy, in which U, V, N, and M look very similar).

So in researching this, frankly, I'm over my head, and just about cross-eyed from trying to sort it out in a succinct manner. Still, I'll take a stab at it.

She is quite likely related to Morgan le Fay, at the very least as far as the elements to Her tale(s) goes; Morgan in turn may (or may not) have some affinity, or may derive from, the Irish Goddess Macha and/or the Mórrígan, and/or the Irish Modron ('the Mother'), famous as the mother of Mabon, Who derives (this one at least is certain, or as certain as these things get) from the Gaulish Matrona, Who gives Her name to the Marne River in France; Matrona in turn is related to the triple Matres of Gaul in the time of the Romans. That, at least, is (some of) the Morgan side of things.

She has also been linked to the Irish Bébinn, sometimes anglicized to Vivionn (though my Dictionary of Celtic Mythology by James McKillop says the Irish and French names are not related, others disagree); this name is one born by several women of Irish legend, one of Whom is an early Irish Goddess of childbirth.

None of this is clear cut, though. There are elements and influences from stories that reminded the tellers of others they had heard, and so were partly incorporated into their tales; and I'm sure the general idea of a sea, river, or lake Goddess or fairy got stuck in there somewhere.

Perhaps this doesn't matter that much, and I should just concentrate on Her role in Arthuriana; but I like origins, and digging. It is tangled, and perhaps cannot be separated. And maybe that is the message this week. At the river's mouth, who can say what part of the water originated in which stream?

I would expect this week to be rather tangled then, but rich. The search is nourishing, even if you don't get to the bottom of things. A big part of the Arthurian appeal is the longing for an older, more magical time, one that is (supposedly) long past. I do not know to what extent this is actually an illusion; but enjoy the pleasant melancholy anyway, if you can.

Though keep in mind, also, that it may be a distraction from the real heart of the matter. It is the week after Beltaine after all, and the faeries are said to be out and about; and they are tricksy types. Try to keep a clear head.

What does She say?

Of course I'm a Goddess.

Trace back and back yet there is no real source is there? All the water on this earth has been around and around the globe many many times. All waters are one water. This is the key part you must remember.

There are no clear boundaries, either, with water. It all flows into itself and a line may not be drawn. By nature it is always in-between.

Remember, also, that a good deal of your body is water. This is your nature too.

What do you think?

References:

Dictionary of Celtic Mythology by James MacKillop.

"Morgain La Fee and the Celtic Goddesses," by Roger S. Loomis. Speculum, Vol. 20, No. 2 (Apr., 1945)

Happy Beltaine Anyway

2010-05-01T17:54:00.002-04:00

Well I spent most of Beltaine in bed. Which sounds quite lovely in a nudge-nudge, wink-wink sort of way until you factor in the chicken soup, orange juice, tissues, cough drops, and enormous quantities of snot.

I hear it was a nice day, though.

Unnnnngggh.

A Story

2010-04-30T20:59:00.004-04:00

A favorite story of mine I 'wrote' a while back. Though I didn't write it with Beltaine in mind, it seems appropriate. Enjoy!

*****

He begins:

"Once there was a girl so beautiful the lilies hung their heads in shame; though the roses, who were the jealous type, turned theirs aside and pretended not to see. But this girl, as beautiful as she was, had absolutely no idea of it; for she had grown up alone and poor and mirrorless, and no one had ever been there to tell her so. But that was part of the nature of her beauty, for it was a defiant kind that thrives in spite of hardship and neglect, like the flower that forces its way through a crack in the paving to bloom lush and fragrant.

"And so she lived alone, as she always had since she was a child, when she had lost her mother; and she looked after her garden and tended her hens and did all right, really. But she did not mingle much with other people.

"Though every week or so she would go to the market, a couple hours' walk from her home; and there she would sell some eggs, or some vegetables if she could spare them, and pick up the few things she needed but could not grow herself. And though she might have gotten a pretty penny for them, still she never could bear to pick the lilies or the roses.

"And so this day she gathered up a basketful of eggs, and put on her old indigo dress, the one that had once been deep blue but had faded; and she set off for the market.

"Now, this time she had gotten a bit of a late start, and so she hurried more than usual, worried that she might miss the ribbon-peddler, for she needed a new needle; and she was paying less attention than she might have.

"And so she missed the turn by the hawthorn thicket, by the bend in the road; but, still, she wasn't all that addled, and after a few yards' walking she realized her mistake and turned back to go the right way.

"And then she heard the singing.

"It was coming from within the thicket, that old hawthorn thicket she'd seen countless times on her tos and fros from the marketplace; and looking closely between the tangled branches she realized there was a house in there, one she had never before noticed.

"And it came to her that because she had been running late she had left without eating; and she was suddenly quite hungry, and quite thirsty too, for she had brought no water with her.

"And so she stepped into the circle of hawthorn trees, and was lost to this world.

"Now, in that house lived a man, a man of the Shee; and he had been the one she had heard singing. And when he heard the knock on his door he was greatly puzzled; for who of mortals had ever even been able to see his home?

"He was so surprised by this he did not stop to think, and so simply opened the door, curious.

"And there before him was a beautiful, beautiful woman, in a gown the color of the sky of early springtime; and he could see immediately that her physical beauty, though considerable, was not the reason the lilies had hung their heads. For she had a strength to her that ran beyond beauty, though it had created it; and looking on her his heart was lost.

"For her part she saw the door opened by an old man with skin as smooth and brown as a hazelnut, one whose look of mischievous amusement soon turned to naked wonder; but looking in his eyes she could see there was a glamour on him.

"'I am Koeroc,' he said then, giving her his true name without thinking; and as he said it she saw him as he was, a man tall and beautiful as only the Shee are; and she knew, also, what his name meant: Hidden Heart.

"Yet she could also see that the name was suddenly no longer true. 'You are my Beloved,' she said simply, as she drew him into her arms; for her heart, too, was lost.

"And so she clear forgot about the marketplace that day, and the next, and the next; and the two of them passed their time as lovers do, though perhaps with a larger proportion of ecstasy than most; the Shee, you know, are very skilled in these matters, so they say.

"But after a few days she remembered her garden, and her hens, shut in their house with a dwindling supply of feed; 'I must tend to them,' she told him, 'They are in my care.'

"But then, 'How long has it been?' she asked, worried, for she knew that time flows differently with the Shee.

"'They are well,' he said, 'It has not been long.'

"'I must go,' she said sadly, though she knew she would be back.

"'Yes,' he said, though he was worried that she would not; and a fear grew inside him then, one borne of his experience with glamour. 'You will forget me.'

"Well, her look put the lie to that.

"And so she made ready to leave; but as she came to the hawthorn circle he said, 'Wait.'

"And she stopped, and turned to him.

"And with the middle finger of his right hand he thrice traced a circle on her forehead, then leaning in kissed the spot; and she felt something cast about her, light but warm, like a silken scarf.

"'There,' he said, 'you are marked as protected.'

"She nodded, and stepped out from the hawthorn trees.

"It was colder than she remembered, and darker; but the way was not far, after all, and she was soon home. Once there she found the hens had eaten nearly all their feed, and were quite grateful to be let out; and the garden had a few weeds, though they were easily seen to. And as she picked the vegetables she thought she would like to bring some back with her to share with him; and also that she should gather up some clothes. Though really, she thought with a smile, she had not had much need of them with him; and distracted by that fond memory she entirely failed to see the new hole that had appeared in the path, dug by some critter after her carrots no doubt. But said hole made itself suddenly quite known to her, as she caught her foot in it and fell over into the dirt with a lurch; and as she fell she heard a rather nasty crunch, coming from her ankle.

"'Christ!' she said, quite out loud, 'what's with the damned human crap?'

"And then she reeled a bit as her eyes filled with tears, for it hurt quite a lot; but after a good cry she was able to examine it, gingerly. And it was not broken, that she could see; but it was quite badly sprained.

"'Fuck, fuck, FUCK!' she cried then, for she knew she would just be able to manage the bare minimum of care for herself and her chickens; but there would be no way she could make it back to the hawthorn thicket. And no way to send a message, either, for she did not have any neighbors.

"And so for the next few days she stayed off her ankle as best she could, and tried to take care of herself and get plenty of rest, in the hopes that it would heal quickly; but it was an agonizingly slow business. And she despaired, for she knew time flowed differently for the Shee.

"But after a few days there came a knock on her door, which was quite unusual; in fact she did not recall ever having heard one. And her heart leapt; for someone was here, someone who could perhaps take a message to him; and so she hobbled slowly but with determination to the door.

"And when she opened it she saw an old peddler-woman; but she knew his true name, and could not be fooled. 'Oh, Love,' she said, 'I am hurt and cannot walk.'

"'Ah,' he said, his fear and confusion vanishing with his disguise; then seeing her ankle, 'Oh.'

"And he helped her back to her chair by the window. And he knelt beside her, and gently put his hands upon her poor, swollen ankle, and he began to sing. And she felt the torn tendons knit themselves together and become strong again; and though it would still need a few more days, it was much, much better, for such is the magic of the Shee.

"'Oh,' she said, 'I'm sorry.'

"'Shhh,' he said, 'I am here now.'

"And he looked around at her little, poor cottage, which did not even have a mirror.

"'I will stay,' he said, though he was a little afraid; and she nodded.

"And he did, and they thrived; and a circle of hawthorn grew around the yard, though no one had planted it. And though they certainly made a lot of love they remained childless, which suited them; and in time she grew old, though she was no less beautiful. But he remained young, or young-looking; for time flows differently for the Shee.

"And her life ran down towards death, as it is with mortals; and he sat with her by their bed, and held her hand between his. And he looked on her, as the light in her eyes faded and became further away.

"'I am sorry," she said, her voice only a whisper.

"'Shhh,' he said as she died, 'I am here.'"

He stops then, falling silent.

"Oh," I say, "that's very sad."

"Shhh," he says quietly, "it is not finished." And he continues:

"And then she found herself standing up in a place of light, in a body suddenly strong; and the many dull aches she had grown used to with age had now vanished. And looking down at herself she saw that she was young again, as young as the day they had met. And there he was before her, smiling at her, and holding her hand between his still.

"'Oh,' she said, in great joy.

"'Yes,' he said, 'I am here.' And he took her into his arms, and kissed her hair.

"For that is the nature of the Shee, that they live in both this world and the Other."

He pauses again, before quietly saying, "The end."

Merry Blessed Rutty Beltaine

2010-04-30T20:32:00.004-04:00

Riffing off of Ruby Sara's most recent post over at Pagan Godspell, here's a bit of art I did a while back whilst listening over and over to the song she quotes, Greenman by XTC, as perfect a Maypole-dancing song as I have ever heard (and I have, in fact, danced a Maypole to it). No matter how many times I hear that song, the opening swell still pins my heart chakra open wide. So glorious. So beautiful. So daimonic.

So there's my Green Man, in springtime antlers, covered with that fuzzy velvet which covers the antlers as they grow, and provides nutrients and blood. I imagine they are very sensitive in that state, and that they throb.

Merry merry blessings of May to all of us!

Goddess of the Week

2010-04-26T19:00:00.005-04:00

Hekate last came up eleven months ago, in full riot of May. I have to admit that I find it strange that a Goddess of the Dark should keep coming up in Spring. Last time She spoke of tempering the light and growth with a little bit of darkness; it is good, I suppose, to remember that the light grows from the darkness, as the flowers of spring grow out of the dark earth. All that has come before us, the visions, the dark times, our Underworld journeys, have contributed to the glory we create and we are.

Hekate is a Greek Goddess, said to be of Thrakian origin (parts of modern Greece, Bulgaria and Turkey). She is a Titaness, one of the older race of Deities, the daughter of Asteria ('Starry One') and Perses ('Destroyer'). Sometimes Nyx, the Goddess of night, is said to be Her mother instead of Asteria; at any rate She is associated with the night sky.

In the war against the Titanes She is said to have sided with the Olympian Deities; this is the reason given for why, after the Titanes were overthrown, She was still given honors by Zeus, Who allowed Her to keep Her power over the realms of sea, sky, and earth (including that under the earth). I mean, that's the spin that's been put on it, anyway. The Titanes were said to have been cast into Tartaros, the Underworld; but as that was one of Hekate's realms already, how should casting Her there take away Her power? So I have my doubts.

At any rate Hekate always maintained a certain independence, an apartness from the other Deities; when Kore was taken away to the Underworld, few save Hekate helped Demeter in Her search. They were all too afraid of Zeus.

Hekate is associated with the Moon, especially the dark Moon; and She was said in late times to be an eerie sort, walking the night trailing spectral hounds and ghosts. She is a Goddess of witchcraft and the night, of herbs and spells. She is also accorded a psychopomp, one Who guides the soul to the Underworld, much as Hermes does, and in fact She is occasionally said to be His consort, in His guise as Hermes Khthonios, Hermes of the Underworld.

But She also leads the soul out of the Underworld. For though Kore must spend part of the year in the Underworld as Queen Persephone, Hekate remains with Her as minister and adviser. And when the Maiden returns to the upper world to be greeted by the full glory of Spring, Hekate brings Her forth into the light.

She is also the Goddess of crossroads, especially those where three roads meet, and She was given offerings at little shrines at some of them; and She is said, also, to protect the lonely traveler on dark roads. Which is why I think I have always found Her somewhat comforting, though it is very much at odds with Her ghosty reputation. But choices, and the path trodden, and being able to see in the dark: that is what Hekate is about.

So, this week's theme then is that of dark journeys that lead to the light. Where are you on that journey? Are you still in the dark on that lonely road, or have you come out into the Spring and warmth? How has that journey shaped your experience of the light? How has it created or given birth to the light? How have you changed?

And what turnings has that, is that, journey taken or taking? What crossroads have you, do you, face? Where three roads meet, remember there are two choices forward, and always, one choice back.

What does She say?

Firm your feet on the ground. In the stillness of night the wind dies down. Listen now. Scent the air. Be not afraid. I am here, and you are with me. We are akin, you and I, if you call yourself Witch; I will guide and protect. Call on me and I will help you.

Now look. What else is with you in the dark? You bring something with you, always. That may be good or bad, depending on what it is. Look.

But know that to be reborn you must always die first. The serpent sheds Her skin; do you think this is painless? It is hard, it is always hard. This is as it must be. But I am here, and I am a Guide in the place between.

Where do you wish to go?

References: the ever-excellent Theoi, of course.

Goddess of the Week

2010-04-19T21:08:00.003-04:00

And we're back to water, aren't we?

This is the first time Ganga, the Hindu Goddess of the sacred Ganges River, has come up. She is the personification of the Ganges River; I say 'personification', because, though She is certainly a Goddess, in the case of the Ganges the river itself is the primary image, the human form secondary.

In the Hindu tradition, rivers are sacred, and said to originate in the heavens; and they are a link between the divine world and this one. They are associated with purity, as running water is believed to have great powers of cleansing, both of the ordinary and the spiritual kind. The Ganges, especially, is revered for Her ability to cleanse even the worst pollution.

Ganga the Goddess can be depicted in both human form, or as half-fish, like a mermaid; or She is shown with rivulets of water flowing to both sides of Her. She was sometimes depicted flanking the doorway to temples with another river Goddess such as Yamuna, Goddess of the river of the same name; They can be seen as ritually purifying all who enter into the temple.

So this week then is about the flow of the divine into this world through the medium of, well, you. How can you open up to it? What is the source? The Ganges River originates ultimately in the melting glaciers of the Himalayas; how are the stored snows of winter, the visions and the time of rest you have come out of recently, now flowing? What do they bring with them?

It is also about purification, both spiritual and physical. What needs to be cleansed? Sadly, though the Ganges is spiritually very pure, in physical reality it is one of the most egregiously polluted rivers in the world. What physical actions can you take to cleanse not just your body, but the environment around you? Earth Day is coming up this week--though we Pagans know that Earth Day is really every day, consider doing something this week to clean your local area, if you can manage. You live there, after all.

What does She say?

I dance. I flow. I am always moving, always cleansing, always sweeping away your pollution. Where do you think it goes? Quite a metaphor, isn't it? That I come from heaven, and connect the worlds, and purify, and am yet filthy. This is not my fault. Look to yourselves. And stop it. Even a loving Mother will lose patience with Her children.

Oh, and drink your water. It's good for you.

References:

Hindu Goddesses, by David R. Kinsley

Hindu Myths, translated by Wendy Doniger O'Flaherty

Goddess of the Week

2010-04-12T19:50:00.008-04:00

This is Sekhmet's second appearance so far; She last came up more than a year ago, in December 2008. She is one of Egypt's lioness Goddesses, and represents the fierce heat of the Sun.

Her name means 'the Powerful One' or 'the Violent One'; She is also called Nesert, 'Flame.' She is part of a triad of Deities centered on the city of Memphis, with Ptah, Her husband, a creator God and patron God of craftsmen, and Their son Nefertum, the Sun as the emerging lotus blossom.

I wrote about Her usual legend, in which She is an instrument of revenge against humankind, in the earlier post; in addition to Her ferocious and bloodthirsty ways, consonant with Her form as a lioness, She is also considered a bringer of plague or disease, especially fevers, since She is associated with fire and the Sun.

Which of course then connects Her with healing, since a Goddess Who brings disease can also prevent it--if She may be prevailed upon, that is. And in fact Her priests practiced healing magic and medicine, such that the title 'Priest of Sekhmet' came to mean 'doctor.'

In Late Period Egypt, the deified human Imhotep was adopted as Ptah's son. Though in real life he had been a vizier and architect, the one who designed Djoser's Step Pyramid, as a God Imhotep was known for His great healing powers, such that the Greeks associated Him with their Asklepios. Though not said to be Sekhmet's son, Her association with healing and medicine may well have played a part in His adoption into that family of Deities.

This week then, I think the theme of healing will continue; though of an altogether different sort--for last week was healing through water, while this week is through fire. I think, also, it will be more about casting out the bad than invoking the good, if that makes sense. At any rate the former must be done first to make room for the latter.

Or it could be that last week was about soothing rest, while this week will be about getting your energy back. Or that last week was about working with the flow of things, while this week is about kindling your own fires and taking the initiative. How would you interpret the switch from water to fire?

Let's see what She says:

Fire, fire, fire. Beat down the sun I wade in blood up to my knees, the blasphemers, the liars, the slanderers, all cut down before me, before my red red rage. Red for fire, red for blood. It is in the blood, the fire. Red, it is red now!

I don't know that I am a healer, or maybe it doesn't matter. What matters is my power over that which harms. I choose. It is up to me.

It is up to you, too, for you have this power as well. Remember that!

What do you think? How do you think we can be healed by fire?

References:

Ancient Egypt, by Lorna Oakes and Lucia Gahlin

The Atlas of Ancient Egypt, by John Baines and Jaromír Málek

New Art of Kybele

2010-04-08T00:35:00.012-04:00

I am in the middle of rethinking what I want to do with that Goddess deck of mine. I mean, not to worry, I still plan to publish, finish the book, &c; but lately I've been looking at the thing as a whole, trying to bring it into some kind of balance. To that end I've decided to swap a few cards out, mostly the monotheistic sorts, to make room for some other Goddesses. First one so far: I'm switching the Black Virgin out, and replacing her with Kybele. Here She is:

My version of the Black Virgin had strong elements of Kybele anyway, but I think I'd rather have the real thing. I did most of this last week sometime, then put it down, not sure if I liked it; but tonight I went back in and finished it, tweaking the colors and putting in those darker outliney sort of shadows. It's amazing to me how those little shadows always make the thing look dramatically better. It's exponential, I swear.

So, this Kybele (I'm using the Greek spelling rather than the Roman 'Cybele') is sort of a combination of the Roman imagery, which usually shows Her enthroned with a lion, and the very very very ancient and startlingly similar image of the Neolithic Goddess from Çatal Höyük (from, seriously, 6000-5500 BCE), thus:

(Image from Wikipedia, by one Roweromaniak)

I do like Her (and I like Her more the longer it goes), but I'm not sure if She's quite rattle rattle BOOM!! enough. It's a little weird; Kybele has a reputation for wildness, but all the statues of Her (the Roman ones, anyway) are very staid and proper looking, with the stately pose, the throne, and the mural crown. So it's a little tricky.

Still, I think I do like Her.

And, oh yes, a pine cone for Attis.

Update

2010-04-07T01:40:00.002-04:00

Well, the bridge on my street may be open, if only in a jerry-rigged and temporary way, but the one in the last post with the historic triple-arch (built in 1822, with no mortar!) I just found out is closed indefinitely. Which makes getting across town, to, say, the dump (sorry, 'recycling center') to pick up compost for the garden a real pain in the ass; the quickest detour makes the journey (usually a mile and a quarter) at least five or six miles. Not fun. Another old bridge, hard by a dam that was threatening to let out, is also out of commission, as one of the slabs shifted and collapsed, leaving a rather large gap. And today they announced that a third bridge has been closed, over on the other side of town.

As a selectman said, my town is now a place 'where you can't get there from here.'

Oy.

Goddess of the Week

2010-04-05T22:58:00.003-04:00

Diana comes up for the second time since I've been pulling these; the last time was just over six months ago in the middle of September.

Diana is originally a Latin Goddess, Who was taken up in time into Roman beliefs; Her cult was centered in a lake in the Alban Hills in Aricia, not far southeast of Rome itself. There She had a shrine on the shores of the near-circular lake, located dramatically in the crater of an extinct volcano; the lake itself called the speculum Dianae, or the Mirror of Diana.

Since Diana was equated with the Greek Artemis from very early times, it is hard to separate out the original Diana; but, like Artemis, She is a Goddess of women, the moon, the wild, and healing. Many many votive deposits, given to petition for healing and health, were found at Her shrine on the lake.

I have shown Her here as Diana of the Witches, a (more or less) medieval concept of Diana, but the frog She holds is understood to be symbolic of healing and of transformation. Through water, I am tempted to say, but I may just have water on the mind; through something witchy and dark and female, at any rate.

So then this week is about healing and transformation, through channels of a 'feminine' sort, for example through the unconscious mind, say via dreams or night visions. The Moon wanes down to nothing this week, down to the dark and the still point. It is a good time for visions.

I'll tell you this past week I have become much more aware of the paths of the rivers and brooks in my town, and how they are far more enduring and powerful than the paths we humans have laid down. It is a humbling perspective, and a profound shift in thinking, to see the network of water as primary. How can you shift your own perspective in a similar way? (Without, of course, a minor natural disaster to help things along!)

Rereading this post I am struck by the words 'center' and 'circular'; take that as advice to be especially mindful of centering and grounding at this time. Go within for a time this week and find your center in the quiet and the dark.

What does She say?

Heal yourself. Put your power forth and direct the light to your own hurts. Do this first or you will do nothing else. Right now. It is a very good time for self-healing.

Find that undercurrent, that hidden strand. It knows what you need to be healed. Find it and listen to it, then act. Draw down the Moon, the light, My light, into yourself; focus it within.

And above all trust yourself. Trust that you cannot hurt yourself in healing yourself. Trust that you will take exactly what you want and need. Trust that you know how to heal, and what to do to be healed. This is the perfect time. Right now.

What do you think?

Quaint

2010-03-31T22:02:00.004-04:00

Hey, I told you my town was quaint. Looking up the local town website (yes, we have a website) to check if there was any 'official' news (not particularly), I wandered into the list of town officials. Check this out. THIS is how quaint we are, and oh my God I am NOT making these up:

Fence Viewer
Inspector of Milk
Town Physician
Measurer of Wood and Lumber
Moth Superintendent
Field Driver/Poundkeeper whose job is 'to "take up horses, mules, asses, neat cattle, sheep, goats or swine going at large in the public ways, or on common and unimproved land within his town and not under the care of a keeper" and to impound the same. The poundkeeper, who ... is the same officer, is then charged with feeding and providing water to the "beasts" which are in his custody.'

Seriously. NOT MAKING THAT UP.

Here is a quaint picture from the center of town, where the local river runs through. Now, you have to understand. This house is a local landmark, an old colonial turned into a saltbox at one point or other; and as far as I know it's always been cantilevered somewhat precariously over the river on a couple of lollycolumns. Usually, of course, the river is much lower, by several feet. Astonishingly enough, this house does have a cellar, on the more landward and less rivery side of things.

And here's one of the other drystone bridges in the town, right by the same saltbox, this one a triple arch, though you can barely see them for the water. The bridge itself was closed to traffic, because the water was so high.

And here, to give you an idea of the major PITA this is all going to be in my neighborhood, is the satellite view of the area. The blue circle (blue for water) is where the bridges over the mill streams gave out (the white in the upper right is water reflecting the sun). As you can see, there are a LOT of people on this side.

Here Comes The Flood

2010-03-31T20:13:00.006-04:00

Hi. I live in New England. Massachusetts, to be precise. In an area of the state that yesterday and the day before got oh I don't know something like EIGHT inches of rain.

It's a quaint town, my town, though the local news doesn't seem to be able to get the name right. The one they're using is I suppose technically correct, but certainly no one here uses it. Really we're two villages, of differing names, complete with their own post offices and habits. It's a bureaucratic fiction, my town. But anyway, it certainly is quaint. Unbelievably quaint, in fact, and old, very old, for a New English town, anyway. Old enough that a good number of the important bridges in town have arches made of stone, set dry with no mortar. Little antique bridges that cars regularly drive over and all, since they are on some of the main, old, streets of the town, like the two little arched bridges that went over the mill streams just down the street from me. Cute little things, those drystone arched bridges.

That's 'went', past tense.

They washed out yesterday, something they didn't even do in the '38 or'54 hurricanes. Which is very sad; they were awfully historic, those little bridges. But--

My road, and my neighborhood, are set on a little space of land squoze in between the old mill streams and a larger local river. And though the space is small, there are an awful lot of people over here--there's a whole island community at the end of it as well as a school for developmentally disabled adults.

And.

There is one road in.

Was, that is, past tense. Those bridges were it.

Well now.

Now there is a bit of a way around, but it's not actually a road. There are a couple of ball fields above where the mill stream bridges let go, and a way can be sort of made through there to the main street, behind where the original mill was, though it's mostly flooded and mudded itself. So today they were shuttling people into the rest of town (you know, where the bank, post office, and pharmacy are) in these way cool wicked awesome moon-rover-mud-bus things. Behold the muddy glory:

('So,' I asked the cop who'd driven it, after he'd let me off, 'what color is that thing supposed to be?')

By the way that may look a little familiar, if you saw the national news tonight. One of the stations, I think NBC, flashed a picture of the thing, taken literally three houses down the street from mine, for about two seconds in their piece about the rains up here. I was all OMG THAT'S US!!! at the screen, then it was gone.

Ah, fame. So fleeting.

I don't know how the selectfolk (since we have two selectmen and one selectwoman, not sure quite what that correct plural is) are going to figure this one out. The bridge isn't going to be able to be properly fixed any time soon; they've dumped a bunch of rocks (some really big ones, too; watching the news last night I felt one dropped into place. The noise came down the chimney and shook the house) and some gravel down, and apparently it's at least okay for emergency vehicles, which is good, but not for regular cars, which is bad. But properly building a new one? Years, I'd imagine.

The rumor is that they are going to try to build a temporary but real (as in paved) road through the ball field area. But that too will take some time, with eminent domain, and permits, and all the bureaucratic hoops through which the town will have to jump. And until then? Will they use the moon-mud-busses? How are we going to buy groceries? Without a car it'll be limited to what you can carry and are willing to schlepp home. Now luckily like I said I only live a few doors away; but it's at the top of a hill, which, though it meant this house wasn't flooded more than maybe an inch in the cellar (enough that we did move the litter box so Sir Isaac Mewton didn't have to wade, which, you know, is manifestly unfun for a cat), but it's a real drag, man, to carry stuff up it.

So I don't know. Though today was fun, it's true, with the local kids having the day off from school, and everyone in town it seems out walking to look at the damage, whoa. Almost like the fourth of July, in some ways. Even the cops were in good moods. And luckily I work from home, so I don't have to go somewhere else to work every day.

But how is this ever going to work?