Sometimes, if my mother naps in the afternoon, I try to get outside a walk a bit. Only I can’t go out of earshot, because if she wakes up and can’t find me, she’ll spiral down into one of her dementia episodes.
So, like a prisoner let out into the prison yard, I walk in circles around the open area outside the front of the house. I go out in between snowstorms, when most of the snow has melted. I leave my footprints in the mud of now, rather than in the sands of time.
I find that I prefer to walk “widdershins,” which is, in the rituals of myth and magic, counter clockwise. And which, if done while chanting an incantation, is supposed to generate productive energy.
What should I chant, I think, as I pace around my imprisoned yard. “Freedom!” If only.
Meanwhile, it’s March and there’s still a good deal of snow on the ground. Inside, the seeds I planted have already sprouted. I thought it would take a month. Now I have to transplant them all into pots and figure out where to put them. The windowsill is not an option. The cold radiating in would wipe out the whole crop. Sometimes my timing really sucks.
I’ve been trying to find the time to plant the seeds I want to grow for my planter garden this spring. (No more dig-in-the-earth garden, where pests of all sizes devoured what I had last year.)
The sunny day seemed auspicious for planting, so I got out my supplies and got to it.
I planted seeds for flowers that might not be too tasty to the critters who munched and lunched here all last summer. Mostly, I planted ornamental hot pepper plants — colorful fruit and foliage, and inedible by, or unappetizingly firey to, any living creature. But they sure do look pretty in pots.
Perhaps the full lunar eclipse tonight will also mean that it is an auspicious time for planting seeds. I guess I will find out in a few weeks time.
Meanwhile, I hope this also is an auspicious time to open up my CPU and insert more RAM. I printed out instructions, and am ready to tackle another project I’ve been waiting to find time to do.
My mother has had a few days of either sleeping for 16 hours straight or being up for 16 hours straight. Her 92nd birthday was on Monday. On Tuesday, we had a local Polish Catholic priest over for lunch. They knew each other well back at the old parish in Yonkers. She doesn’t remember him. But he remembers her and tried to talk to her about the old days. She sat and listened, and the only thing she seemed to be able to say was “How long have you been here?”
She is growing smaller and lighter, a drying pod waiting to fall.
Over in the corner, seeds wait to wake.
Now I will go out and watch the eclipse.
Then I will tackle the RAM.
Auspicious days are too few.
I sat down this afternoon and finished “The Adventures of Flash Jackson.” (See previous post.) I couldn’t put it down.
As the story pointed toward its closing, an older woman/mentor (Miz Powell) gives spunky, sassy, wild girl/woman Haley (AKA Flash Jackson) some advice that I just can’t help sharing here:
“Don’t be afraid to be all the things that a woman can be…. [snip]“You can be a mother and still be Haley,” she said. “You can cook dinner for your family and still be free. I’m not saying your life is going to be independent of the people involved in it. You have to make the right decision. But you can have a baby and still be yourself. You can fulfill traditional roles if you want to, without letting them define you. Who you are will change when you have childen, of course, but you could let it be an improvement, not a detraction.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but how do you know all this? I [Haley] said. “You never did any of those things.”
“No,” she said. “What I have done is be a woman, with all my feminine qualities intact, in a world that was run completely by men. And you know something? They appreciated it. They didn’t exactly move over and make room for me –I had to carve out my own space among them, but that was nothing different than any of them had had to do. That’s something some women don’t seem to understand. Nobody is accepted right away. Everyone has to prove themselves. The world will never make room for you– you have to make it yourself. You have to make your own place, and stick to it. And there’s nothing weak whatever about those same feminine qualities, Haley. That’s what I want you to recognize. They are not a liability. They are a strength.”
One would think that this novel was written by a woman, given the right-on Croney point of view, but it wasn’t. And adding to my delight in the book, the author, William Kowalski, brings my favorite myth, Lilith, into Haley’s final learning curve as the girl confronts her fear of snakes.
“The snake, she’d [Miz Powell] explained, is the oldest symbol of feminine power in the world. It’s not a FEMALE power — it’s a FEMININE power. Miz Powell was very clear on this point, because men and women alike have feminine energies within them — as well as masculine ones. People were too obsessed with gender these days, she said. Really, there weren’t nearly as many differences between us as we like to pretend.”
Who was this Lilith anyway? Miz Powell, ever the walking mythological dictionary, was only too happy to explain…..
[snip]
“Lilith has been many things, my dear,” said Miz Powell. “There are goddesses similar to her in Hindu culture. The Israelites knew about her even when they were nothing more than a bunch of simple nomads, thousands of years ago. She is everywhere. She has a JOB.”
“Which is?”
“She is that which does not surrender,” said Miz Powell. “She is indomitable.”
“In other words,” I thought, “she is Flash Jackson.”
Lilith and Kali. Miz Powell and Haley. And aspiring Crones. In Haley’s own terminology: LEGITHATA (ladies extremely gifted in the healing and telepathic arts).
Why not?
If you’ve read any of Terry Pratchett’s Disc World series and have met Granny Weatherwax, you know what “headology” is. If you’ve never heard of that crafty ol’ witch, then you can pick up its meaning here. I just finished reading the Equal Rites piece of the series, thanks to a recommendation made to me by Annie, who used to blog and now just comments.
If you’ve read this blog before, you know how attuned I am to syncronicities, which are essential to the practice of headology. When my life finds itself at a confluence of synchronicities, I take notice. I’m taking notice because of the confluence of the following:
–former blogger Annie turns me on to Pratchett’s DiscWorld series and Granny Weatherwax just when my world begins to focus on my own oddly-shaped (lumbar spine) disc.
–just after I get back from my brother’s with one of his books that includes using earth-symbols to make talismans, one of the six women in my group calls me up and talks about wanting to a Solstice ritual and can I come up with one.
—Rage Boy sends out one of his emails prefacing the following with details of his escalating misfortunes:
…they are certainties barring miracles that I’ve now gone and said I don’t believe in. This puts me in an awkward position vis-a-vis the supernatural forces that might have bailed me out if only I’d been a little less cheeky all these years. Or perhaps they mightn’t have bothered in any case. After all, as Modern Psychology & Sticky Wicca inform us: it’s all our fault no matter what.
Well, despite my believing Shakespeare’s reminder about where the fault lies, and despite my irreverent non-belief (which is not nearly as irreverent as Mr. Locke’s), there are such things as unified strings and the power of intent and the forces of blogger headologies.
So, I’m doing my Crone thing (again) for Chris and inviting you all to join me on the night of the full moon, December 8 (which is also the Catholic feast of the Immaculate Conception), to post this image, this talisman, this mandala, this wish for a reversal of fortune for Rage Boy. Imbue it with your prayers, your most noble intentions, your good thoughts, and, where appropriate, your major magic.
And may we all blessed be.
P.S.
In addition to the five-pointed star and a representation of the Great Earth Mother, the image above includes
–a double dose of the Wheel of Law and a chrysanthemum, which are Chinese talismans for health, wealth, and happiness
–a conch, which Vishnu holds in his right hand as a symbol of the five elements; the conch also is symbolic of the awakening of the mind.
–a white lily, symbolic of the purity of the Immaculate Conception (and other legendary things as well)
–the alchemical symbol for Jupiter , which
is the thinking person’s Planet. As the guardian of the abstract mind, this Planet rules higher learning and bestows upon us a yen for exploring ideas, both intellectually and spiritually. Intellectually speaking, Jupiter assists us in formulating our ideology. In the more spiritual realm, Jupiter lords over religion and philosophy. A search for the answers is what Jupiter proposes, and if it means spanning the globe to find them, well, that’s probably why Jupiter also rules long-distance travel. In keeping with this theme, Jupiter compels us to assess our ethical and moral values. It also addresses our sense of optimism.
Luck and good fortune are often associated with Jupiter, and for good reason. This is a kind and benevolent Planet, one that wants us to grow and flourish. Jupiter may be judge and jury, but it’s mostly an honourable helpmate, seeing to it that we’re on the right path. While our success, accomplishments and prosperity are all within Jupiter’s realm, this largesse can, at times, deteriorate into laziness and sloth (Jupiter, at its worst, is associated with weight gain). More often than not, Jupiter will, however, guide us down the primrose path
–so, there, holding on to the arm of Jupiter, is our own Rage Boy.
Hang on, bubula, hang on.
P.P..S. (I stumble across more synchronicities.)
The alchemical sign for Jupiter is the same as the sign for Tin.
The Tin Man in OZ sees emptiness where his heart should be.
And ten years ago, I wrote this:
Tin Men and Fallen Angles
I am drawn to the dramas
of Tin Men and Fallen Angels,
the loose threads of their dreams
tangling too easily
with the thickets of my own.
Their gestures hint at faded grace.
Their eyes belie
the freedom of their stride.
Their touches fire the sun,
birthing shadows
fierce as flame.
I fly into those shadows
like a bat
out for blood.
© Elaine Frankonis 5/1993
These are my two grandmothers in the mid-1940s, when they were a few years younger than I am now.
That’s my mother’s mother on the left — the small, straight-backed, serious woman — the one who saved my life with her Old World medicine magic (see poem below).
My father’s mother is bigger, softer-looking, but was no less strong. She remembered growing up in Sklody, Poland, admiring her third cousin, who became the famous Madame Marie Curie. Strong women, all.
But how old they look to me now, even though, today, I am older than they are in that photo. Life was hard for them — very serious business, with five kids each and hard-working blue-collared husbands. They cooked well, cleaned well, and passed along to me their matriarchal genes — the blessings and curse of my crone heritage.
On this day of memory, I remember my grandmothers.
HEART OF ROM
Cyganka! My grandmother shouted
as I bounded off the front stoop
onto the wet city street,
propelled by the promise of stolen kisses
and the musky taste of Tangee
still slick on my lips.
Gypsy! Even the word
brought blood rushing
to the pit of my stomach.
How I wished for the wild hair,
dark eyes, skin like old copper,
for the freedom to gleam
like crystal when I walk,
for a wisdom ancient as the land,
as the sweep of continents,
the shriek of willful wind
through openings in stones.
Cyganka! She hurled it
like an epithet,
but I role it like a broom
over landscapes grown deaf to her fears.
She named me true, my Polish grandmother
— a small strong-handed woman
with gypsy fire in her voice
and a back turned straight
against truths too bold to hold.
Yet, they tell me once,
as I lay young and dying
lungs rattling with rifts of air,
fever lighting my face to flame,
(the doctor came and went,
scowling at the earth) —
in the draped and stifling room,
she unfolded her family secrets:
holy candles, crystal cups,
vials of spirits, leeches, as
my mother watched from shadow,
willing demons away with her eyes.
They tell me when the priest arrived,
surprised to find the child alive,
he never commended on the faint red circles
following the tender length of spine,
or the sprinkling of blood marks
along the back, like the bites
of mythic bats or the denounced
touches of wizened old wives.
And so I keep signs
of these grandmothers, still
–in fragrant herbs sprinkled in tea,
in shells and stones arranged on shelves,
in faint red circles, drawn in firelight.
Cyganka! I call to my daughter,
offering gifts of crystals
that fire the sky
where she walks.
(copyright EF 1980)