Once upon a time I was in a coven. It was a while ago now; we split up when some of us moved north and others of us moved south and it just wasn't working, geographically, anyway.
In this coven, like a lot of others, when we cast circles we used the correspondences of east as air, south as fire, west as water, and north as earth.
I went along with it; it was what we did, and I guess I didn't think about it too much. But one thing always bothered me and never made any sense to me at all, and that was putting earth in the north.
North is winter. Winter is cold, dead, sleeping, comatose; none of this makes sense to me as earth. Oh I get that earth represents the Void in some ways, the black primal matter from which all else arises; but in my experience with the Void, or the wings of my daimon, shall we say, that black is not dead, but vibrantly alive, teeming with potential: radiant, even. And north and winter just don't fit that, for me.
If something is going to function as the I guess archetype of the element, then I'd expect that element to be awake, at least, and for earth, that means growth, luxurious unbridled inexhaustible life, zoë, as Kerényi would say. In other words, not winter.
But then in my wanderings about the internet I found this article: Re-Thinking the Watchtowers, by Mike Nichols. If you've never read it, go do that now, and then come back. I'll wait.
He makes a fairly compelling argument for doing it this way: east as earth, south as fire, west as water, and north as air.
So I tried it, since north as air fit with what I'd always seen, here in New England, which is so much like Old England, in both the lay of the land (once in fact the very same land, which split off with continental drift) and, more or less, in climate. North as the place from where the cold winds blow? Yes, that makes sense to me.
And it worked. Holy moly it worked. Everything got upped, got more powerful. I could feel it. Mostly, I think, because, like Nichols says in his article, you get a sort of 'generator' effect, of alternating 'feminine' and 'masculine' energies, of the obviously horizontal (earth and water, that which literally is the horizon and that which seeks the level, east and west) and the vertical (fire and air, both of which can flow upward, heat rising through the air, south and north); and it really does feel (to me, anyway) like an radial engine firing, round and round and round, building up power.
Now. One of Nichols's arguments for putting air in the north, is that it corresponds to the layout of the land, specifically the British Isles. When you look on the map, to the west is the Atlantic Ocean, to the south, the warmer lands (and eventually the equator), to the east, the great land mass of all of Asia, and to the north, the cold blustery Arctic, which, incidentally, is not land anyway, being a frozen ocean.
But then the other night I was again wandering about the internet and came across another web site talking about the elements and the directions; alas, I don't remember what the site was, so I can't link now, but the author recommended trying all kinds of different correspondences, to see what fit best for you. Everyone, after all, has different associations with things depending on circumstance and experience, or on how one's individual brain works.
So then I thought: well, much as I like England and wish I were there (I've been and it felt like home, oh my god it felt like home), I am not. I'm in New England. And when I look at the map of where I actually am, the land I am supposed to be grounded to, my landbase, as Hecate would say, what do I see? I see water, that same Atlantic Ocean, to my east, and the great mass of the rest of the country to my west. Now I know, west as the Sea over which the Dead pass, sure, that's very ingrained in folklore. Folklore that I've certainly read, and which resonates, because my family does ultimately come from those lands, but folklore which is still specific to a place that is not where I am now.
So I switched it again, putting water in the east, and earth in the west. It still has the same horizontal/vertical, feminine/masculine tension to it.
Now I've only just come up with this, and so I've only had one chance to try it, and that wasn't in a full circle, just as part of cleansing a space. But as I faced east, I could picture the ocean before me, the ocean I know and am familiar with; and facing west I saw the rest of the land, all the way across the Mississippi, over the plains, over the mountains, all the way, all this land, and I knew where I was. I could feel my feet firmly planted in the reality of this land, this specific place.
So I'd say, if you live on the eastern seaboard of the US (Hecate, yeah, I'm totally looking at you), give it a try. It grounded me instantly, profoundly, unthinkingly, just as a matter of course, because it represents where I am.
Showing posts with label Gaea. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gaea. Show all posts
Friday, March 2, 2012
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Attention
In a recent post, Co-Creation with the Landbase Requires Deep Attention Hecate asked:
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.
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.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Goddess of the Week
Just shy of a year ago, on March 7th last, Gaea came up as card of the week. I considered it auspicious then, and I consider it so now, as She is a Goddess of fruitfulness, growth, and creativity; and as we ascend inevitably towards Spring in the north, Her appearance heralds the approaching growing season, as we, like Persephone, come out into the light.
She is Greek, and Her name means 'Earth'; She is the eldest of the Gods, sprung directly from primeval Khaos. She alone created the Heavens (Ouranos), the Mountains (the Ourea), and the Seas (Pontos); then with Ouranos She gave birth to the Titanes, and many other Deities besides. Her children are legion; They include Time (Khronos), Memory (Mnemosyne, Who would be mother of the Muses), Necessity (Ananke), the Fates (the Moirai), and many, many, more.
Gaea is also mother to innumerable monsters (such as the 'unmanageable' Ekhidna), Whom She loved and defended just as fiercely as Her more beautiful children; She knows They are an integral part of the whole, all necessary, and so all loved.
This week then promises to be very fruitful and creative. Things will start to come together, and momentum will build; and luxuriant growth will be all around. Now, I know, 'growth' is often a euphemism for painful experiences and the hard-won lessons learned from them; in this case I think we are talking about a genuinely gentle and good sort of growth. This is the kind of growth that feels like the first good, long, satisfying stretch after a season of hibernation. We are waking up, and starting to see signs of spring, up here at least; and probably the best advice I can give is to watch and observe the Earth at this time. That's good and grounding advice at any time, I know; but this week especially there are profound truths to be seen.
In the southern hemisphere it is perhaps a little more literal, in that it is fast approaching the autumnal equinox and the beginning of the harvest season; look around you to see what is coming to ripeness at this time.
Either way, this is a time of luxury, of lushness and richness, for Gaea is above all bountiful. Inspiration is everywhere, if you will look; and the life-force is strong and unstoppable. It is all a dense tangle of green.
What does She say?
Devote yourself to green.
I am everything. Everything you do involves me. Everywhere you go you rest on a part of My Body.
The problem lies in where and when you forget this. Remember this, and you will solve half your problems. Really. It is quite simple.
You are all My children, monsters and angels, creation and destruction. I am ever moving, ever changing, ever growing--and ever collapsing, ever rotting away to something else.
How do you honor Me? Simple things. Wear green. Pick flowers. Paint. Put your hands in the soil. Look up at the sky. Watch the Sun go down. And be at home.
References (of course!) from Theoi.com.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Goddess of the Week
This week while I shuffled I asked, as usual, what messages do the Goddesses have for the world? But under it, I could not help also asking a question for myself: What do I need to know about my creativity? Or, How can I get my creativity moving? For I am still feeling blocked, though I do think it is moving, if slowly.
So I thought it a very good sign when I picked Gaea. She is the primeval maker, mover, creatrix; and She is bursting with creativity and joy and life.
For all of us. She created this world. She made it all. The earth, the mountains, the rivers, the oceans, the animals, the plants, the Gods, and us humans, too. Great foremother Gaea.
She is also the source of inspiration and prophetic powers; and the Oracle at Delphi was originally Hers. So whatever is up this week, it looks to be a time of growth and creativity and fruitfulness. Perhaps it is because spring is coming. Can you feel this too?
I asked Her what She had to say to us. She said:
I know what it's like to be dead.
Hey now, I tell Her, though perhaps I should not be so argumentative with a Goddess, that's just a Beatles quote.
Well yeah, but that doesn't mean it's not true. I am all. Everything. How do you think I am so well-acquainted with prophecy? The dead return to me, and I welcome them; and I listen to them. Find the parts of yourself that are dead and dying. Welcome them; listen to them, hear what they have to say. The decaying and the dead never really go; they are transmuted into the new. Be aware of this through this process. The closer you listen to what has passed, and the more gratitude you can muster for your former self, the more you will learn and the more useful it will all prove. But let it decay. From decay, from rot, from compost spring the brightest, tallest, healthiest flowers.
Pay attention also to the season about you. Late winter, earliest spring? It looks stuck, looks in stasis, but it is not. Hard work is being done, though much of it is unseen right now. But it is well under way; and it cannot be stopped now. Before long, before long at all, buds will laugh and burst and new green leaves will be shining, the bees will be buzzing, the thousand flowers will bloom. How do you fit within this cycle, this energy? You are not separate from it. Believing you are is a great part of the source of your problems.
And to my non-northern children? I am all seasons at all times. Bring in your harvest and your glory. Kiss the leaves as they fall to the ground. Things are beginning to decay around you. It is rich, and it will lead to further richness.
What to do with this then? It feels intuitively right, to me, anyway. It is about trust that things are moving, even if they don't seem to be; and about honoring what has passed, an important and often-overlooked part of welcoming in the new.
What do you think? Any ideas?
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Orphic Hymn to Nature
Ancient mother,
holy artist,
queen of constantly
unfolding creation,
we honor you.
Untamed all-tamer,
eternally splendid,
bright serenity,
first born.
Lady of the shining stars
dancing breathless circles,
gem of divine powers,
finite, infinite,
known, all knowing
yet secret within us,
you invoke yourself.
Lead us, mother of life,
give us wisdom,
grace us with beauty.
You are justice
supremely strong
ruling every chaos.
You are spiritual and earthy,
a friend to piety,
sweet to goodness
and bitter to evil.
You are the most powerful;
you nourish all.
Your pure mind full of seeds
gives crowds of stars and flowers
creating worlds streaming
to receding horizons.
Your hand holds up space.
You direct the wind.
You hinge the world
with the bolt of force.
Courageous, fatal,
all conquering queen,
hear our song.
Care for us.
Grant plenty,
adventure and comfort,
constant peace and health.
(From The Hymns of Orpheus, Mutations by R.C. Hogart. Another entry for Brighid, as part of the 4th Annual Brighid in the Blogosphere Poetry Reading on Imbolc.)
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