Demeter's Hands

"Demeter's Hands", Ceramic, 2024

A piece I'll be showing at the upcoming Tucson Sculpture Festival, at the end of March.

Most people I've shown it to say nothing,  which I assume is because it makes no sense to them, but then, most people aren't all that interested in mythology. 

Demeter of course was the ancient Earth Mother, the Goddess of agriculture, by whose grace the seeds put down roots, the new life of spring emerged, and the harvest was harvested.  And one of Her stories concerns the abduction of her daughter, Kore, by Hades, the God of the Underworld, of death.  She was so angry and grieved so deeply at the loss of her daughter, that the world began to die, and people starved.  So at last the Gods had to come to an agreement with Demeter, who had been vastly under appreciated.  Kore could return to her mother for half of the year, and half of the year she dwelt in Hades, wife of the King of Death.  Thus Kore, the maiden of Spring, became the mature Persephone, the liminal Goddess of both death, and rebirth.  

I've always loved the image below,   Greek bas relief that shows Demeter, Her snakes writhing around her, the holy snakes representing the serpentine, moving and endlessly renewing energies of the Earth.  She is bearing the wheat, her gift to humanity, the "staff of life".   Bread. How we take Bread for granted, Bread that was sustainer of our ancestors, at least, those that came from Europe and the Middle East.  

Years ago I stood in a wheat field in Wiltshire, in the UK.  I was there to visit a Crop Circle, being fascinated with that phenomenon, and I did stand  in the middle of this huge field, impressed with the crushed pattern I stood in.  But what I remember more strongly was standing in what seemed like a vast field of golden wheat, bending with the wind, moving like Demeter's serpents through the rustling,  golden blonde wheat fields. That experience filled me with awe, with a sense of something primordial and sacred.  

Grace.  The Grace of Demeter.  

Here is a poem I found while surfing around the internet.  It was on a poetry site called allpoetry.com.  I am sorry to say that I  couldn't find the name of the poet who wrote this poem to Demeter,  except that she called herself "Unemployed Diva" on the site, which featured a number of her poems.  I am grateful for her work, and will keep looking for her name to give her the credit she deserves.  

Demeter

I unfurl blazing fields of golden corn,

my bare feet cross the toiled earth.

My belly is round, awaiting the harvest.

I whisper, I chant, urging the planted seeds

to grow strong, to be bold in this endless summer.

I am a cornucopia of gifts, waiting to be given.

I was an oak that could not be shaken by the wind.

You saw a peach about to be bruised.

I can bring light and life, I can stretch spring and summer.

I am willing to lighten the load of the tired farmer,

to bless his harvest and spread grace through his house.

Yet, you chose darkness, you chose apathy, you chose condemnation.

I am lost amongst the the trees, drowning in the sea, my

naked feet are torn from the rough earth. The sun hides

from me, tears fall from my eyes staining the blank snow.

Return my harvest to me.

You mistook my grace for leniency, 

My daughter’s stained lips crack

as she smiles up at me, her

skin marble, her eyes tired and bitter.

I will allow you light, I will allow you life.

But you must also suffer darkness

as you so carelessly cursed me. 

I will dance upon the ice as you shiver

and pray for the sun to appear. 

Pray for my forgiveness.

Pray, and pray again.

There is a goddess within me.

 

The Barbarians Are Coming...................

Laurie Anderson

"In every creative life, in every life of passion and purpose, there comes a time when the animating spark grows dim and the muscle of motivation slackens, when you come to feel benumbed to beauty and abandoned by your numen, suffocating in the exhaust fume of your own exertion, ossified with the tedium of being yourself."

Ah, yes.  Here I am in my personal  horse latitudes.  4 am (the so-called witching hour, although I sense not one molecule of magic at the moment).  The above currently perfect quote by Maria Popova, from her marvelous Blog The Marginalian, is, currently, perfect.  I feel "ossified with the tedium of being myself".  It seems rather hard to move when in that Nigredo, ossification mode. 

I may not be alone in this.

                             "so what's the point?  The Barbarians are coming". 

When I was a child of about 11 my family lived for a while in Italy.  My mother was fascinated with ancient Rome, and we went to many ruins and museums of that great Empire that featured what seemed to me as endless statues of Generals, Gods, and Orators.  Each and every one of them had no nose.  I used to wonder about that, until I thought about the Barbarians, riding into Rome as it fell to loot, rape the Vestal Virgins,  destroy the culture created by Patricians, artists, orators and philosophers,  set fire to the Senate.......... and knock the noses off of every statue they encountered.  I used to imagine that, horse riding  men with bronze swords, joyfully banging off marble noses in an orgy of desecration as Rome fell at last.  And, following in the footsteps of Ceasar years before,  the Barbarians also finally crossed the Rubicon. 

                                                 "The Barbarians are coming."

Very soon, the Whitehouse will belong, again, to Trump and his wife (who still hasn't learned much English). They are crossing the Rubicon.  Is it, like Ceasar's march, a point of no return?  

And our centers of government are in soon to be in the hands of, well,  Elon Musk, seen dancing around in glee as they make a whole new Department, just for him.  He might as well have a tee shirt that says "We own you".  Meaning the Oligarchy.  And, presumably at the helm, Trump, ever ready to turn the U.S.A. into his own private reality TV show.  Soon to be our President, the very same guy who tried to start an insurrection 4 years ago, one in which several people died, our elected officials had their lives threatened, and violent, gun toting "Trumpsters" stormed the capital, screaming "hang the Vice President" when they weren't waving Trump flags.  And here we are again:  Almost Inauguration Day.  Trump and Company utterly triumphant, and proving once and forever that now days you can get away with anything.  Because he has. Now what? 

                                                   "The Barbarians are coming".  

I think this brilliant performance by the amazing Laurie Anderson is going to resonate in my mind for quite a while.  It seems so very true to the moment.  And I am very pleased, thanks to UTube, to share it here.  

 https://youtu.be/rI15W-BBhrw?si=lrYA3E7L3LN3gQV8

New Year 2025: Poems and Remembering Source

 

This is an image I have made over and over and over since, I guess, 2007.  The "rooted hand", woven into a great Fabric of nature, reaching up to flower and leaf and create.  This "rooted hand" is my personal Icon to remind me of belonging, and to invite the spirit of nature to express through me, my art, through what I create and imagine.  

It's almost New Year 2025.  And I've been struggling with grief about the prospects for this year.  No, it's not the future we imagined, my friends and I as young idealists at Berkeley in say, 1975.  We grew out of the idealism and optimism of the Kennedy years, and for all our activism, that was the Matrix we believed we could continually change, make better.  Most of those friends are gone now, and here I am, still here, and it is 2025. 

It's not the America we imagined, this cynical and corrupt Oligarchy that cares nothing for democracy, or for that matter the future of life on this planet.   All they care about is an unquenchable lust for power. 

Even so, this is the image that is arising in my mind, and I want to post it here again, as an Affirmation, indeed, as an Invocation of Gaia, of Nature, of the Soul of the Earth.  The profound Ecosystem we are a part of, indivisibly, interdependent, woven.  That we are all, past, present, future, human, animal, fungi, tree-root, sky, sun, snow and leaf....... that we are each a part of it all.  That's what I want to hold to as this New Year begins.

I guess I'll begin with a poem I wrote in October, 2001, shortly after the fall of the twin towers in New York, while I was on the beach in Mendocino.  I made an affirmation then, as my own girlhood memories flowed past me on that long ago beach, an affirmation that still rings true for me now.  Oh.......... and I want to share some of the beautiful poetry of Nancy Wood too.  That's my Affirmation for the New Year 2025.  What I don't want to forget, what I want to hold to.  

         ON THE BEACH 

One month after the world ended

The little island world we,

the privileged few, could pretend

was safe, forever, and righteous -

The fallen towers, fiery messengers

of unfathomable destruction yet to come.

Tourists walk barefoot on the familiar beach.

They came here, I imagine,

as I have, not to forget, but to remember.

To remember driftwood and high tide 

a red dog and a yellow-haired child

as they enter the water -

their cries of goodly shock and honest forever's

always new, always cold, always blue.

A white heron,

balanced in perfect equanimity on one leg.

Wave forms overlay my feet......

transparent hieroglyphs of infinity.

Her way of speaking.

Gaia.  Her manifest, unspoken words.

A brown man lies beside the mossy cliff,

spread-eagled between sky and sea and land.

Sand sunk, leaf-molten,

blackberry thorn,

into the green:  

toes, fingers, flesh

reaching into the green

redeeming Earth.

He is rooting himself.

He is taking himself back.

I lie down in grateful imitation,

a stranger in companionable human proximity

sharing this rite of remembering.

I  see her now,  I see a girl

walking on this very beach.

Yesterday, and 40 years ago.

Sourcing, she is 

sourcing the one who lives here

a river Goddess with no name.

She has made a mermaid offering

of sticks and sand and seaweed.

Companions arrive, offer shells,

and return to Berkeley.

To Vietnam, the Cold War, the Berlin Wall,

the war, the wall,

the war, the walls.

The war,

and the summer of love.

("the revolution will not be televised")

A generation to end war, raise hell,

raise consciousness,

raise Atlantis,

and raise the new and Golden Age

("the revolution will not be televised")

How did we get here from there?

I call you back, girl,

I call you back.

I am at the other end of this life now

yet your footprints 

touch mine beneath the sand,

I follow them.

On the beach

your sand prayers

ring here still,

The Earth

is my witness.

Lauren Raine, Oct. 11, 2001 

Nancy Wood, who passed away in 2013,  found a deep sense of spiritual  belonging in nature among the natives peoples of New Mexico, and much of her poetry was a celebration of that belonging.  Her poetry is about listening, listening to the voices that become One voice of the Earth.   I've always found renewed Balance when I return to her poems. 

Hold on to what is good

even if it is 
a handful of earth.
Hold on to what you believe
even if it is
a tree which stands by itself.
Hold on to what you must do
even if it is
a long way from here.
Hold on to life even when
it is easier letting go.
Hold on to my hand even when
I have gone away from you.

From Hollering Sun (1972)

Blue lake of life from which flows everything good

We rejoice with the spirits beneath your waters.
The lake and the earth and the sky
Are all around us.
The voices of many gods
Are all within us.
We are now as one with rock and tree
As one with eagle and crow
As one with deer and coyote
As one with all things
That have been placed here by the Great Spirit.
The sun that shines upon us
The wind that wipes our faces clean of fear
The stars that guide us on this journey
To our blue lake of life
We rejoice with you.

In beauty it is begun.
In beauty it is begun.
In peace it is finished.
In peace it shall never end.

My help is in the mountain

Where I take myself to heal
The earthly wounds
That people give to me.
I find a rock with sun on it
And a stream where the water runs gentle
And the trees which one by one
give me company.
So must I stay for a long time
Until I have grown from the rock
And the stream is running through me
And I cannot tell myself from one tall tree.
Then I know that nothing touches me
Nor makes me run away.
My help is in the mountain
That I take away with me.

From War Cry on a Prayer Feather, 1979

Earth teach me stillness

As the grasses are stilled with light.
Earth teach me suffering
As old stones suffer with memory.
Earth teach me humility
As blossoms are humble with beginning.
Earth teach me caring
As the mother who secures her young.
Earth teach me courage
As the tree which stands all alone.
Earth teach me limitation
As the ant who crawls on the ground.
Earth teach me freedom
As the eagle who soars in the sky.
Earth teach me resignation
As the leaves which die in the fall.
Earth teach me regeneration
As the seed which rises in spring.
Earth teach me to forget myself
As melted snow forgets its life.
Earth teach me to remember kindness
As dry fields weep with rain.

from Hollering Sun, 1972

For the Winter Solstice, 2024

 

luminaria on Serpent Mound in Ohio

You, Darkness

 

You, darkness, that I come from

I love you more than all the fires

that fence in the world,

for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone

and then no one outside learns of you.

But the darkness pulls in everything –

shapes and fires, animals and myself,

how easily it gathers them! –

powers and people –

and it is possible 

a great presence is moving near me.

I have faith in nights.

 

Rainer Maria Rilke

December Moon

 

Before going to bed

After a fall of snow

I look out on the field

Shining there in the moonlight

So calm, untouched and white

Snow silence fills my head

After I leave the window.

Hours later near dawn

When I look down again

The whole landscape has changed

The perfect surface gone

Criss-crossed and written on

Where the wild creatures ranged

While the moon rose and shone.

Why did my dog not bark?

Why did I hear no sound

There on the snow-locked ground

In the tumultuous dark?

How much can come, how much can go

When the December moon is bright,

What worlds of play we'll never know

Sleeping away the cold white night

After a fall of snow.

 

May Sarton

Pledge of Allegiance

 

I pledge allegiance to the soil

      of Turtle Island,

and to the beings who thereon dwell

      one ecosystem

      in diversity

      under the sun

With joyful interpenetration for all.

 

Gary Snyder

For Thanks Giving: The Pilgrimage of the Starfish

a poem  I think of at Thanks Giving.  

  Starfish
  by Eleanor Lerman

This is what life does. It lets you walk up to
the store to buy breakfast and the paper, on a
stiff knee. It lets you choose the way you have
your eggs, your coffee. Then it sits a fisherman
down beside you at the counter who says, "Last night,
the channel was full of starfish."  And you wonder,
is this a message, finally, or just another day?

Life lets you take the dog for a walk down to the
pond, where whole generations of biological
processes are boiling beneath the mud. Reeds
speak to you of the natural world: they whisper,
they sing. And herons pass by. Are you old
enough to appreciate the moment? Too old?
There is movement beneath the water, but it
may be nothing. There may be nothing going on.

And then life suggests that you remember the
years you ran around, the years you developed
a shocking lifestyle, advocated careless abandon,
owned a chilly heart. Upon reflection, you are
genuinely surprised to find how quiet you have
become. And then life lets you go home to think
about all this. Which you do, for quite a long time.

Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one
who never had any conditions, the one who waited
you out. This is life’s way of letting you know that
you are lucky. (It won’t give you smart or brave,
so you’ll have to settle for lucky.) Because you
were born at a good time. Because you were able
to listen when people spoke to you. Because you
stopped when you should have and started again.

So life lets you have a sandwich, and pie for your
late night dessert. (Pie for the dog, as well.) And
then life sends you back to bed, to dreamland,

while outside, the starfish drift through the channel,
with smiles on their starry faces as they head
out to deep water, to the far and boundless sea.

 

Hospital Haiku

 

"Fall Risk" the bracelet they gave me says,

along with  "Allergy" next to my name.

How perfect!

I approach the anaesthesia that proceeds

cutting away a cancer 

(and perhaps, a few old Paradigms as well).

Later, in my pristine cotton bed,

I reflect that each new beginning

can hold a risk of falling

and many things to be allergic to:

mindful healing

approaches

                                                            October 2024 

La Mariposa

 Here is a story I wrote a long time ago, at a time of great change.  I was in one of those liminal zones that can be so very transformative - I was living in a little trailer in the deserted grounds of the Arizona Renaissance Faire, months before it would open.  Just me, winter in the Sonoran Desert,  and my cat. And a few refugees from winter like myself, scattered throughout the ghostly Renaissance Faire village.   I had left my life in the East Coast, and had no idea, yet, where I would go next.  It had not revealed itself, the "direction of the road", and I was not ready to know yet anyway.  What I found that winter was the solitude and quietude I needed to open to a new life, and to bless and release the old one.   This little story came from that time..........

LA MARIPOSA 

by Lauren Raine (1998)

Once upon a time, in a dusty village like any other village, a village with three good wells, fields of blue and yellow corn, a white church, and a cantina, there lived a woman who was neither young, nor old. She was brown of skin, and eye, and her hair was as brown as the sandy earth, and her clothes were brown and gray as well.

She was neither beautiful nor ugly, neither tall nor small, and she walked with a long habit of watching her feet. 

One day, she saw a tree alight with migrating butterflies. Their velvet wings fluttered in the wind of their grace, and one circled her, coming to rest upon her open hand. She thought that her heart would break for the power of its fragile beauty, and she held her breath for fear of frightening it.  La Mariposa was as orange and brilliant as the setting sun falling between indigo mountains, as iridescent, as black and violet as the most fragrant midnight. 

 At last the butterfly lifted from her hand to rejoin its nomad tribe, and its wings seemed like a whisper that called to her: "Come with us, come with us..."

The next morning they were gone. She held her hand out to the empty tree, as if to wave farewell, and saw that where the butterfly had rested, there remained a dusting of color, yellow, like pollen, the kiss of a butterfly wing. And she thought something had changed. 

She went to the well to draw water, and saw her face reflected there. She was not the same - there were now minute lines, hairline cracks, along the sides of her face, at the corners of her eyes. Later, she noticed little webs of light beneath the sturdy brown skin of her hands, barely visible except in the dim twilight. This was a frightening thing. She drew her skirts more closely around herself, pulled her scarf over her eyes. But as time went on, there was something that kept emerging, something that would not be denied. She was peeling open. 

At first, it simply itched, like a rash, like pulling nettles.  But as weeks went by, what had been easily born, what could be endured, became painful, became an agony. Try as she might, as tightly as she wrapped herself in her cocoon of shawls and skin and silence, as tightly as she wrapped herself within the comforting routines of her life, still, colors emerged from her hands. Colors spilt from her mouth. Colors and tears, deep waters that seeped from within, washing away the dust of her life. 

Soon, sleep became impossible. Standing by her window one day, shivering, she shook with fear. "Please help me", she cried, "I'm not the same". 

Then she noticed a beam of sunlight that fell across the floor of her little room like honey. Motes of dust gathered in the golden light, becoming a flurry of butterflies. Butterflies, dancing through an open window, a window opening into a sky as blue and as vast as forever. 

And La Mariposa opened her arms, took the gift of wings, and rose. 

When her neighbor came to walk with her that evening, she found only a dusty shawl and an old brown skirt upon the floor, the early stars glimmering through an unshuttered window.