Hecate – On the Way to Baba’s

31 07 2006

 

Hecate is the Greek goddess of the crossroads. She is most often depicted as having three heads; one of a dog, one of a snake and one of a horse. She is usually seen with two ghost hounds that were said to serve her. Hecate is most often mispercepted as the goddess of witchcraft or evil, but she did some very good things in her time. One such deed was when she rescued Persephone, (Demeter’s daughter, the queen of the Underworld and the maiden of spring), from the Underworld. Hecate is said to haunt a three-way crossroad, each of her heads facing in a certain direction. She is said to appear when the ebony moon shines. Barbara Gordon Walker sees Hecate as being derived from the Egyptian goddess Heqit and from the pre-dynastic Egyptian term heq, or ‘tribal matriarch.’ Originally, before she was demonized by Greek and Christian patriarchs alike, Hecate formed a trinity (often called a triple-goddess) together with the maiden Kore (Persephone) and the matron Demeter. In this trinity she represents the waning moon and the wise old woman or crone.

“Hecate is fearsome….Power is fearsome. When we approach Her, we come once more and after long wandering into the presence of our own womanly power. It’s been lost so long–buried, derided, dismissed until we all but forgot what it meant to have it. Now we fear it. Can we stare into the face of that fear and tell it to get lost? Hecate can teach us so much if we break through our fears.” Ramona Gault

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The Goddess Doll Speaks (Edith)

31 07 2006

I am the Goddess, the personification of the Divine Feminine. You are to take me with you wherever you go as a tangible reminder that I am with you always. By following my path, you shall grow into a Warrior of the Sisterhood of the Divine Feminine. Every time you call on me for help I shall grace you with a gift. Sometimes my gift to you will be one of Courage, or Power; other times it might be Hope, or Faith. Each time it will be just what you need to help you move forward on your spiritual journey. As you progress along this path you will grow into Wisdom, Compassion, and Beauty. You will learn to hear and follow your intuition and inner guidance, which already lies deep within you, but which is only beginning to rise slowly.

As you begin this journey I want you to listen for the voices of all the Goddesses who have always been, and who await your call. Remember then Kali from India, Tara in Tibet, Kwan Yin in China, the Black Madonna of Czestochowa, and many of their sisters. Learn from them. They have much to teach you. Remember too that Baba Yaga, she whom you fear, is also a Goddess. She is the Goddess of Strength, Change, Life Cycles and Transformations. She will help you learn how to face your fears.

But first I want you to meditate on the following Four Noble Truths. These truths have been guiding principles for many diverse cultures through the millenia, and are rich and deep sources of ancient wisdoms. Learn them and they will serve you well.

1.SHOW UP and choose to be present to all that life offers. Be a good model — by walking your talk.

2. PAY ATTENTION to what has heart and meaning for you and resonates within your soul.

3. TELL THE TRUTH without blame or judgement. Say what you mean and mean what you say (indigenous peoples call this ‘’speaking with spirit tongue’’ ) or KEEP NOBLE SILENCE. From an empowered position, choose to remain silent.

4. STAY OPEN, BUT NOT ATTACHED TO THE OUTCOME. Deeply care, from an objective place. Break old patterns. Practice discernment.

(The Four Noble Truths are taken from The Woman’s Book of Spirit by Sue Patton Thoele.)





Walking to Baba’s — therefore musing

31 07 2006

SOFT SILENCE

A drift ‘cross a meadow will never pass unseen,
whether dashed in haste or strolled in pleasure.
See the oft lonely footprints in the morning dew,
or the tiny flowers bruised in the skipping dance.
Measure the depth of the grooves of weary boots,
or the point at which indecision caused a switch.
All can be found beneath the smile of EverLight.

But how to mark passage of the moonlit escape,
or the storm masked crawl from the brink of lost?
Life’s worries cause tendrils to overgrow faire grasses,
and the winds of sorrow erase the faintest clues.
When rocky shards yield but stumbling, lurching ascent,
and shifting sands of fear hold not a single print;
how do I retrace the steps in search of a friend?

I have come to wander the ancient paths once more,
not to create new dreams or hope of easy climb,
but to stroke creation in simplest form of Now.
My brief presence here can define the choice of will,
if all I leave is a soft, silent memory,
repeated in the scurried smalls and hidden birds;
that you, in heart, shall know I was forever near.

I speak of Spiritual Currents as you surly know,
best viewed during deep meditation and self-love.
Know that the faintest love trail you enjourney here
is ever kissed by the passing wake of caring drift,
kept alive as a whisper of humanity.
From ancient markings to the chime of stars beheld,
never pass alone, nor ascend with less than my hand.





Syren

31 07 2006

Syren

Photomontage on Terragen background: Lori Gloyd (c) 2006





Getting shrunk…

30 07 2006

A few years ago I had gone to see a psychiatrist. I had been getting into arguments more than usual and was paying for it by using tattoo make-up almost daily to cover bruises on my neck and face. the full hand print around the neck was especially difficult and painful to cover daily. some days I just would not be able to outside at all. So I had run the problems over and over in my mind and figured the only way to deal with this situation was to numb myself and just go about my days as a zombie and just hope that god would be kind enough to have my husband die first while I still had some years of active living left in me.

If this arguing went on much more it was a pretty good bet I would make it to the pearly gates fairly soon and would have not the smallest of chances at ever having the experience of “living”. Living was something I tasted briefly during his years on drilling rigs and building refineries in North Africa. Ouch, it hurt to smile. He hit me pretty hard last night.

The shrink was an expensively suited fop with expensive tastes in office furniture. He sat a good six feet away, the distance held by a heavy mahogany desk. His bald head at the other side of the great desk gave him the appearance of a turtle. He listened to me explain that I was tired all the time and edgy. My husband joined in saying I was easily angry and tense and we were no longer having sex as we used to. He left out that he used me for a punching bag. I had hoped in the reaches of my mind that this would actually have been a really sharp doctor who could pick up that I was being used as a punching bag and in need of saving from my daily horrors. How he would be able to save me I did not know, but I had hear of safe houses but no idea how to get into one.

Of course he was not very sharp picking up on my cues and instead sided with hubby that I was being unreasonably tense and wrote me out a large prescription of pills which would make me docile as a lamb, and my husband could have sex with me again. He did not ask if I would like that. I had hoped he would give me a little private time so I could drop some hints to my situation, but that never happened. so many times there were chances for people to come to my aid but never being without my jailer all I could do was drop careful hints and hope their training would have them clue in to the horror I was going home to. No one saved me, no one even tried.

inhereyes





Night Ride, Part III

30 07 2006

Being in the backwaters of my own mind, distance had no meaning, and Syren delivered me to the lighthouse almost immediately. We stopped in a clearing in front of the lighthouse, a single tower of stone with the light I had seen on the beach still pulsing at the top. Like the beach, there was no sound and no other movement.

I dismounted and slowly approached the door. Embedded on the door was an intricately decorated tile with a calligraphic symbol embossed in the middle. I fingered the symbol and studied it.

“Destiny.”

I jumped and spun around. Standing behind me was an old woman. She was red-cheeked and wrinkled, wearing a dress and apron that reminded me of traditional Russian peasant garb. She carried a bucket of water in each hand.

“It means ‘destiny’. Could you please open the door?”

Still staring at her, I pushed open the lighthouse door. The old woman set the pails of water on the ground and stepped through the open door.

“Could you please bring those dear?”

I picked up the pails and followed her in.

“Set them there. Could you throw some wood on the fire and get a kettle going for tea?”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” I said. “First, who are you?”

“The Keeper of the Lighthouse, of course. Fetch me my wrap please. It’s a might cold.”

“You’re the lighthouse keeper? Excuse me, but it doesn’t seem that you get many ships out here from what I can see. Not much action of any kind. So what’s the need for a lighthouse?”

“Oh, no, we don’t get any ships out here; you’re right about that. But I need to keep the light burning, nonetheless.”

“Why?”

“Oh, you know why, my dear.”

“No, I don’t. What’s so special about that light?”

“Please, don’t trifle with me. I know why you’re here. You’re here to steal the light.”

“What are you talking about? I just came out here to look around.”

“You can’t have the light! I’m the Keeper!”

“Fine, whatever.” I edged towards the door. Things were getting a little weird and I wanted to jump on Syren and go.

“No! You can’t leave. You’ll tell others about the light.” The old woman advanced towards me.

“No, I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“You lie!” Suddenly, the woman’s face contorted. Her chin began jutting outward until it had curled up over her mouth. Her nose began growing until it hooked down. Her face took on the appearance of a large-mandibled insect. Her eyes turned puss-yellow and her finger nails grew out until they curled under into claws.

I screamed and scrambled to open the door. Just as I slid out, I felt something grab the tail of my shirt. I yanked away and called out:

“Syren! Let’s get out of here!”

The horse bolted toward me and I swung up and into the saddle. “Go!” I commanded.

Syren took off down the beach. I craned my head around looking for our pursuer. I remember the tales told by the other travelers at the Inn. This must be the Baba Yaga and what she did to her victims was horrific beyond description.

Suddenly, a thought hit me so powerful that I reined Syren to a skidding stop.

“Syren! What’s wrong with all of this?”

Syren bellowed.

“Yeah, I thought so too.” I wheeled her about and we headed back to the lighthouse.

When we arrived, the hag was gone and the old woman, placid and calm, sat in front of the door peeling potatoes. I jumped off the horse before she had come to a complete stop.

“Hey! Listen to me, you old bat! This is MY unconscious; therefore, this is MY lighthouse, and if I wanted that light it would be mine too! Now, take a hike!”

The old woman dropped her knife and potato. She laughed so hard she had trouble staying on the stool.

“Of course, my dear, of course it’s your light!”

“What?”

“Yes, I wondered how long it would take for you to figure it out.”

“Excuse me? Did I miss something?”

“Apparently, not until today. Yes, that is YOUR light. It is the light of your intuition. It’s been here in your unconscious all these years, pulsing, waiting for you to come claim it. Here.” She handed me a lit lantern.

“Well….. I’m confused…. Why all the theatrics?… Why didn’t you just say so?”

“If I had just offered it to you, you wouldn’t have wanted it. I had to make you work for it. I had to make you want it. With the light of your intuition in hand, this world in your mind will now come alive. Just wait and see.”

With that, the Baba Yaga started laughing again and then vanished.

Still holding the lantern, I climbed aboard Syren. “Let’s go home now.”

Syren whinnied. I looked into the sky just in time to see a purple pig with polka dots fly by.

Lori Gloyd © July 29, 2006





Windfall

30 07 2006

I’ve given up trying to engage the ferrywoman in conversation. I’d value the distraction of talking to her, anything to relieve this sense of apprehension and impending disappointment but she hasn’t spoken a single word despite my repeated attempts. A glimmer of pity flickered in her eyes once, but then she turned away to concentrate on her task of guiding us safely to the Isle of Ancestors.

I’d so love to see Beverly again. We had a joyous visit. With so many loved ones who’ve gone on before, why do I have this feeling of dread?

“You’re not wanted here.”

I come empty handed. What do you bring when you don’t know who you’ll meet? When I reach the orchard I’ll pick some apples. Last time they turned to dancing slippers. The thought makes me smile.

“Thief, fortune stealer !”

I shiver in the night breeze and wonder why it’s so different this time. Live in the present, I think, as I struggle with the inner flaw that always threatens to split my mind in two like the San Andreas Fault. The past is gone, let what will happen come to pass.

” It was mine, not yours. to take.”

The water’s like ink, the shoreline barely discernible, how the ferry woman finds the shaky dock is beyond me. I know the path will wind through the orchard and lead to the cave; there’s no chance I’ll get lost, still, I step off the boat but go no further. “I’ve changed my mind, take me back,” I say, aware of the pleading in my tone.

She shakes her head. Her weathered face seems carved from stone, but a tear slides down her cheek as she bars my way with her pole when I try to climb back on board. “You will survive,” she says brusquely and pushes off. Within seconds the blackness envelopes her and she is gone.

Thin clouds veil the moon blurring the outlines of the dirt road that leads to the orchard I remember so well. The trees sway, as though daring me to pluck their fruit, as I hurry past. I stoop quickly when I reach the end of the grove and gather two windfalls, then run the last hundred yards to the cave. I am inside before I stop, grateful to find a torch to light my way down to the main chamber.

The flame crackles in the dank air, offering neither a welcome of love nor acceptance this time, only mistrust and hatred. Shadows assault me, my legs grow heavy with fear and I continue only because the light ahead, despite what it will reveal, is less terrifying than the dark.

A cloaked figure sits, back to me, crouching near a blazing fire in the center of the room. I approach and wait in resignation and submission.

“So. One of you has finally come.” The voice is old and bitter and cracks like parchment.

“Forgive me Ancestor, but do I know you?”

“Forgive!” she roars, “Well you should ask for forgiveness, but you won’t get it from me.” Her ancient eyes spill such hatred, I take a step back. The apples fall from my hands and land at her feet.

“An offering of apples. You steal all I own and offer me apples?”

“There’s been a terrible mistake. I’ve never taken anything that didn’t belong to me.”

“Nothing from Nelly Porter?”

The name cracks into my brain like a whip and I drop to my knees. “I’m so sorry. Oh, Nelly, we didn’t ask–it just came. My parents were both ill and they took it with such gratitude.”

“It was meant for David,” she said, her mouth a grim straight line. “He helped me after Chester passed. He was a fine young man, like a son to me.”

“I’m sure he was. We knew someone was contesting, but we never learned who. Aunt Martha needed George’s share for a car. It was totaled in the hospital parking lot while he was recovering from a stroke.”

“Who are you?” she asked sharply and for the first time looked me in the face.

“Barbara.” My name meant nothing to her, so I tried to explain. “Walter’s daughter. My grandfather was your cousin George, and grandpa’s mother your Aunt Mary.”

“Aunt Mary was your great-grandmother? The money traveled three generations?” she asked in disbelief.

“It was an old will, you must have forgotten to make a new one,” I said gently. “Great-grandma died, then grandpa. Then it got split among the three brothers, at least on our side,” I added, “I didn’t know the others.

“I remember now, I left it to three, but I meant to change it,” she said.

“It was divided among almost twenty.” It was some time before she spoke.

“I hated you. I meant it for David.” Then as if remembering a bad dream, “he cursed me, you know, when he didn’t get the money. I saw him walking through my house swearing, damning me to hell for all the time he’d wasted helping me.” She began to cry and I reached for her hands and held them. “He hated me and he shouted and threw things and said my Chester would call me a fool.”

“Hush, now, it’s over, Nelly. I’m sure Chester loved you. He wouldn’t be angry.”

“How long have I been here?” she asked with a start. “When did it happen, how long ago, what year?

“It must be thirty, no thirty-one years, I think.”

I have never heard anyone wail before. The cry she made pierced my heart like a sword and all I could do was keep holding onto her and telling her it was going to be all right. She cried all night. How we knew when the dawn came, I don’t know, but we both did.

“Come, Nelly, you need to leave this place.”

She shook her head. “Too late for me. Go.”

“We each get a question, you know, that’s how it works.” A flicker of a smile cross her wrinkled face. “You asked my name; now it’s my turn.”

“I am a foolish old woman who spent thirty years hating others for my own mistakes. What more can I tell you?”

I try to think how to buffer the harshness of it, but all I can do is ask the truth. “Do you want to see Chester again?” Her face nearly breaks from the pain of it.

“Yes.”

The apples still lay at her feet. I pick one up and place it in her palm. Red fades to yellow, the round fruit withers and flattens into a ferry ticket with today’s date.