Ovid – Feminism and Religion

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.

During the last few years I have spent hours listening to the haunting cries of Sandhill cranes, awaiting them at the river, stunned each time as I glimpsed a flock float to the ground, great gray wings extended to break their fall as talons touched earth, attended to enthusiastic family greetings and muted conversations, felt a sense of devastating loss when these birds circled overhead to say goodbye each year before heading north to breed (while I lived in New Mexico), and then discovering to my joy that they live and breed here in Maine. I still experience the same hunger to glimpse families in Fryeburg each October and lose time watching their loving family dynamics. I continue to feel intense grief and loss at crane leave-taking remaining baffled by the intensity of my own responses. In the last week I think I have finally uncovered the roots of the story behind the cranes and me…

These birds are prehistoric in origin and have the strongest family ties. The families never break up and when separated greet each other joyously even after a few hours as small groups fly to different feeding areas. Incredibly poignant. There is always one that stands watch at night, a protector, so the others can sleep in peace, one leg extended, usually in water. I am in love with these birds but until a few days ago did not understand the powerful pull their presence exerts over me.