I prepare for winter by tipping sweet balsam to make my wreath. Always an intentional undertaking, I honor all evergreens during this month and next as I weave myself into the Circle of Life with fragrant boughs…
I gather my balsam candles and put lights on my little Norfolk Island Pine in preparation for the Festival of Fire, scattering crimson cranberries around her base. Adding acorns, hemlock cones, moss and lichen attach me to ‘All There Is’.
Inside and outside are One…
“I am a lady in waiting”… I have learned that Nature decides when it’s time to engage in any ceremony that helps spin the wheel – I listen for the call.
Does God love me more than She loves my doggies? Does She love animals more than She loves trees and flowers? Does She love trees and flowers more than She loved the first cells that formed in the waters of our planet? Did She not also love the atoms and particles of atoms that coalesced to form the earth?
In her books Sacred Gaia and Gaia’s Gift Anne Primavesi questions the notion that the dialogue between God and the world began with “our entry onto the scene.” Primavesi argues that “human exceptionalism,” the view that the world exists for us, and that we are an “exception” to the world, has been and is the predominant Christian view. In the stories of Adam and Noah, God gives dominion over the creatures of the earth to man. Theologians asserted that of all the creatures that inhabit the earth, only man is in the image of God, and the image of God in man is found in his rational intelligence, which is shared with no other creature. Because he is in the image of God, man will escape death, which is the lot of every other living thing. Rather than challenging human exceptionalism, modern science furthered it, asserting that “matter” was “dead,” and that therefore it was right and just for man to subdue “nature” through technology and to harness it for his needs.
Moderator’s Note: This was clearly written closer to the Thanksgiving holiday but we feel that it has a message that still holds strong.
Owens Cross Roads, Alabama. Long before Owen’s claimed his crossroads, the Land I live on was stewarded by the Shawandasse Tula, the S’atsoyaha Yuchi and the Cherokee.
We just got through another Thanksgiving an American holiday built on domination and patriarchy. Several years ago, I became vegetarian, but my adult son’s boss bought all his employees turkeys. An estimated 46 million turkeys give up their life every year so that we can celebrate our heritage as Pilgrims.
I cooked the turkey so that this one would not have given up its life in vain. I will make sure that my children who are still carnivores enjoy it.
As the story was told to me, my parents were listening to composer Claudio Monteverdi’s Lamento d’Arianna when my name was decided. I would be called Arianne, after mythical Ariadne’s melancholy refrain, sung to the heavens after being abandoned on a deserted island by her lover, Theseus. Raised on the Greek myths as bedtime stories, my father regaled me nightly with tales of gods, goddesses, and mortals twirling in the maelstrom of life. I was in awe of Cyclops and Sirens, but it was the myth of Ariadne and the Minotaur that I requested most often.
I watched with confusion and a guilty sense of disgust – maybe this was the way things were done in India? My aunt had reached across to the cluster of letters strung together by a single piece of wire twirled around a nail on the wall, and gently dislodged one of them. They were from my father to his mother. I didn’t know what to think. After all, she went on to say, Your father is so good with language; just listen to this, just how beautifully he writes, before reading out aloud a lengthy passage. She was a good reader; gentle, perfect cadence with pauses in the right places. But I wanted to turn away on this intrusion of privacy, on this emotional voyeurism, but then thought, Wait, just last evening and the evening before that, and the many evenings before that she had spent the only free time she would get – from the large extended family who, hearing of her generous spirit, had congregated in her home in Bombay, that city of big dreams but of tiny square footage (blissfully unaware that they were now indebted to her for life) – on her rudrakshamala, deep in meditation, in union with god. So pious a woman! So pure a heart! Such a giving soul! Surely then there can’t be anything wrong here. Especially if it’s to say something nice about someone you cared for. And, after all, those letters were right there in the kitchen above the dining table, weren’t they? Not tucked away in some corner of a chest of drawers hidden from sunlight.
My mom lives in Mexico part of the year. She lives in a beach town that we first visited as a family back in 1979 when I was about five or six years old. It was a random pit stop during a road trip from Los Angeles to Guadalajara as we drove south to visit our relatives. My siblings and I loved it so much that we begged our parents to bring us back the following year. They did, year after year, as it became our family vacation spot—spending almost every summer there as I was growing up.
As my parents planned for their future, they ended up buying a house there and deciding to make it their part-time home during their retirement years. My dad didn’t get to enjoy that kind of retirement for very long, barely six months, before a heart attack ended his life. Still, because of their return to Mexico year after year, my parents developed a strong and connected community of friends with whom my mom still gets to share daily life. And when I say daily, I really do mean daily.
Recently I had a very strange experience. I had fallen and was dumped into a nursing home to ‘recover’.
Since I have written about other aspects of this terrifying experience on this blog and published some pieces elsewhere, I am turning my attention to what happened to me after being drugged senseless, and then being stripped of every aspect of personal autonomy.
After I refused the 17 drugs, I incurred hostility from some nurses and aides who blamed me for having diarrhea and many other infractions none worth mentioning (one of the consequences of stopping the drugs was loose bowels).
The one medication I needed was routinely withheld. Each time this happened I became more frightened and anxious. Shaky. These same caregivers either ignored me or intoned “all you have to do is relax, breathe”. They dismissed my PTSD/Anxiety disorder as some kind of psychological problem or were too ignorant or indifferent to care.
***Trigger Warning: Discussion includes sexual violence***
Father Ted and his friends helped me move in 1978. I have a bandanna on my head and Father Ted is behind me.
In early 1977 when I was 21 years old, I was followed into a building and attacked with a knife. I was raped. It is hard to express the rent in your soul when something like that happens. And yet it is a common trauma in our patriarchal world, used as a weapon of war and, in general, to control women’s bodies. When I think of Israeli women being raped even as they were murdered, I don’t even know how to process that level of evil. As for myself, I was an easy mark as victim because I had been groomed to be meek by childhood abuse.
Stage Twelve – Return with the Elixir – Surfacing/ReEntry – Personal Symbols
How would I share my newfound knowledge with my community, tribe, clan, sisterhood or family upon my return? From my vision quest on Crete, there will be much to share over time, but I will start with these three pieces as my Heroine’s return gifts to you.
The heroine needs time and space to surface, and to gently manage re-entry.
Why? When you have immersed yourself in the matriarchal culture (Ariadnian or Minoan), in the peaceful personal rightness of this culture that existed 3000 to 5000 years ago, it is very difficult to suddenly be plopped back into the patriarchy we live in, in 2023. It’s startling for body, mind and spirit. I offer the teaching of self compassion as you adjust to reality. My leave-taking from the bosom of Mount Ida and from Her gentle ministrations during my convalescence was paradoxically heart-wrenching.
Feminism and Religion 