Telling the World in a Dangerous Time: The Importance of Myth

"Goddess Speaks" by Earth Traditions Community at the Parliament of World Religions 2023

 

Recently I found myself joining conversations about possible futures in our very uncertain world, as we face both Climate Change and the possible end of the American experiment in democracy, which Trump and his very wealthy supporters, seem determined to do.  These are uncertain times indeed to be alive in.  I pulled up the following article, which I wrote in 2017, because it seemed to offer a reminder I needed, once again, unfortunately.

"Weaving" from "Restoring the Balance" (2004)

             TELLING THE WORLD IN A TIME OF DROUGHT: 

                                     Artists as Myth Makers

                                                           by Lauren Raine MFA (2017) 

“What might we see, how might we act, if we saw with a webbed vision? The world seen through a web of relationships…as delicate as spider’s silk, yet strong enough to hang a bridge on.”

 Catherine Keller, From a Broken Web

Recently I travelled cross country, joining conversations that always seemed to end with a question.  Since many of my friends are artists (I include writers, performers, ritualists, dancers, storytellers, and a number of shamans in the category as well) the question seems to come down to "what do we do now?"  

How do we, in a time that seems bent on eliminating education, free speech, environmental preservation, social ethics, and possibly even any kind of consensual truth…..as practitioners of the arts, increasingly marginalized by society, how do we find meaningful identity? 

"A Mask for Shattering Old Paradigms" (2024)

My own response is that I believe it's vital for artists to remember that we are myth makers.  Throughout history artists of all kinds have possessed the imaginal tools to invent and re-invent the myths that were the cultural underpinnings for their time.  

Phil Cousineau, author of  Once and Future Myths: The Power of Ancient Stories in Our Lives (2001) cautioned that if we don't become aware of both our personal and our cultural myths which "act like gravitational forces on us" we risk becoming overpowered, overshadowed, and controlled by them.  Myths are in many ways the templates of how we compose our societal and personal values, as well as how people organize their religions.  As Cousineau commented further, "the stories we tell of ourselves determine who we become, who we are, and what we believe."  

The human mind has a unique ability to abstract.  A stone is not always a stone - sometimes it becomes a symbol of something, a manifestation of a deity, or it can also become intentionally invisible, even when it stubs our toes.  An interpretation of "God" is something that whole nations have lived or died for.  And depending on the aesthetics of a particular culture, foot binding, skull extension, or bouffant hairdos can be experienced as erotic beauty.  If the worlds we know are, indeed, experienced through the lens of the stories we tell about them, then how are those stories serving or not serving the crucial time we live in?

A renunciate myth of the Earth as "not real" or a "place of sin and suffering" does not serve the environmental crisis facing a global humanity.   Stories that make women lesser beings do not release the creative brain power of half the human race.  A cultural mythos that celebrates violence and competition do not contribute to nurturance and sustainability.   Stories of "rugged individualism" may not be as useful in a time when science, sociology, ecology, theology, and even physics are demonstrating that all things are interdependent. 

I remember years ago participating in a week long intensive with the Earth Spirit Community of New England.  The event took place in October, in celebration of the closing of the year, the "going into the dark" time.  The closing ritual occurred at twilight.  Bearing candles, different groups wove through the woods toward a distant lodge from which the sound of heartbeat drums issued.  Slowly the lodge filled, illuminated with candles.  As we sat on the floor, lights gradually went out, we were blindfolded and the drums abruptly stopped. 

We felt bodies rush by us as hands turned us.  The sounds of wind, and half understood voices, someone calling, someone crying, or a bit of music came from all directions.  As we lost any sense of direction or time we became uncomfortable, frightened and disoriented.  I felt as if I was in a vast chamber, the very halls of Hades, listening to echoing voices of the lost.  And when it felt like the formless dark would never stop:  silence.  And the quiet sound of the heartbeat drum returned, re-connecting us to the heart of the Earth.

As blindfolds were removed I found myself in a room warmly illuminated with candles.  On a central platform sat a woman enthroned in brilliant white, illuminated with candles and flowers.  At her feet were baskets of bread.  Slowly we rose, took bread and fruit, and left the "Temple".  And as we left, on each side of the entrance, stood a figure in a black cape.  Each had a mirror over his or her face – mirror masks, reflecting our own faces.  

Now that was a ritual telling of the myth!  We had entered mythic space, we had participated together in the Great Round of death and return to the light - and none of us would ever forget it.

"Invocation of Bridgit" 

I am suggesting that artists, troubled as my friends and I have been, step away for a while from the complex questions of identity so beloved by the art world, cast aside as well the dismissal, even hostility of the current anti-intellectual environment.  Instead, let us view ourselves  as engaged in a sacred profession.   We are pollinators of the imagination,  holding  threads in  a great weaving of myth, threads that extend into a time  yet to come, and far back into a barely glimpsed past.  If "the Universe is made of stories, not atoms" as the poet  Muriel Rukeyser famously said, the only real question for us now is "what kinds of stories are we weaving"?     

"The new myth coming into being through the triple influence of quantum physics, depth psychology and ecology suggests that we are participants in a great cosmic web of life, each one of us indissolubly connected with all others through that invisible field. It is the most insidious of illusions to think that we can achieve a position of dominance in relation to nature, life or each other. In our essence, we are one."

Anne Baring 

References:

Keller, Catherine;  From a Broken Web: Separation, Sexism and Self,

       Beacon Press  (1988)

Baring, Anne;  "A New Vision of Reality" from her website

       http://www.annebaring.com/

Cousineau, Phil; Once and Future Myths: The Power of Ancient Stories in

        Modern Times,  Conori Press (2001)

The Earthspirit Community, Twilight Covening (1993),   

         http://www.earthspirit.com/ 

Rukeyser, Muriel;  The Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser,  McGraw (1978)

Samhain (And the Day of the Dead)

"Past Desire, Hope or Change, I Rest in You, A Seed" (1994)

The air has a fragile, and Magical, quality at this time of year, and particularly on this collection of Last Harvest Festival/Going into the Dark days.  Samhain, Dia de Los Muertos.  Even though Halloween has reduced the sanctity of this day, honored and celebrated across millenia and across many human cultures, to a highly  commercial party, still, there is some felt spirit of a hidden sacredness, a specialness about these days even among the most unimaginative of souls. 

The Witches New Year, November 1st, has always seemed to me a different way of looking at the beginning of a new year, a new cycle.  The traditional placement of the New Year is at the Winter Solstice.  Yes, the return of the Sun does seem a most appropriate beginning.......... the Sun/Son is born again, the adored Child is born.  But........... this time of Ending, of the Going into the Darkness of winter also has its own kind of sanctity and appropriateness, depending on one's perspective.  

It is the beginning of the great Rest cycle, the return to the great Underground Realm our various ancestors conceived of throughout many times and cultures.  The Realm of Hecate, Hella, Maat, Ereshkigal, Fra Holle, Hades, Pluto, Anubis, Cerridwen.......... and so on.  And going even farther back, to a time before humans even had names to personify their deities, going back to the  Caves "of forgotten dreams", they believed they were going back into the generative, mysterious,  incubation of Mother Earth's Womb.  They saw that all life seemed to return there,  after summer's explosion, returning  to rest, returning to ultimately be reborn.

So, from that perspective, perhaps this time of "going into the Dark" might be seen as a true beginning, because it is a time of listening, listening and awaiting conception that has not yet arrived, at the Roots, at the Roots, at the Roots.  

 https://youtu.be/s0t6mws2vgY?si=v8-BQns5xV1C4GiC

The Ritual at the Women & Spirituality Conference

 

My colleague Patricia Ballentine and I were very pleased and moved by the Ritual Theatre we created with women from Rochester and other parts of Minnesota for the Women and Spirituality Conference which took place the 4th through the 6th of October in Rochester, Minnesota.  It was difficult working via Zoom with a cast I only met in person at the dress rehearsal the night of the Event at the Chateau Theatre downtown, but Spirit was there indeed:  everything went perfectly, and the Goddess was a felt Presence with every Invocation.  I copy some of the text of the Ritual here, and photographs of some of the cast,  graciously provided by Virginia Cooper, one of the Facilitators of the Conference.

Our beautiful and mystical Music was provided by Nicole Neill Roen  and Friends,  with "She Who Hears the Cries of the World" by Jennifer Berezon.  In addition to myself and Patricia Ballentine our Storytelling was beautifully shared with the poet Esther Marcella.

The performance script was written by myself (Spider Woman Speaks), Erica Swadley (Invocation of the Great Mother), Diane Darling (Bridgit), and the Invocations of the Goddess were by Patricia Ballentine .  With many thanks to Virginia Cooper , Lisa Spiral  and the Conference for making this possible!

"O Great Mother Goddess,  we call on you now.

We invite your presence in circle. Surround and encompass us.

Rise up from your roots.  Hear us, our voices of pathos.

See our dancing feet, how we beat out your rhythms.

With our hearts, we drum you back:

We are staggering toward you.

Will you run one hundred steps to us?

Will you spread your mantle of peace?"

......Excerpt, "Invocation of the Great Mother"   

Bonnie Berquam  as White Tara

"Om Tare, Tu Tare, Tare Soha

White Tara, Bodhisattva

 hear us now………. "

Cathy Peterson  as Bridgit

"I am still with you, children of the children of the children

of The Lost Isles, the Western Shores, children of Tiranog - 

I have not forgotten you, far from the homelands.

Remember Me, when the bard sings:

Raise a glass of golden mead to Brigid, Lady of the Celts"

Patricia Ballentine weaving Spider Woman's Web

"Once, you could see the Web just as plain as day. 

Song lines, ley lines, threads, links, the pattern.

Each shining thread connected to each shining, light woven strand.

You say you can't see it - Well, take a look around!

You don't need to climb a mountain to get the big picture!

All of its snaking rivers 

and twining roots

Are inside of you"

Jurema Silva as Yemeya

“We Call Upon Yemeya, Ocean Mother, “Yey Omo Eja”, She Who is the Mother of the world,She Whose Children are the Fish and the great whales and all the wealth of the sea ... The great tides are your rhythms and moods. Bring to us your gifts of Beauty, Compassion and Protection.”

Susan Langston as The Cailleach

"We Call Upon The Cailleach, Old Woman of Winter, most Ancient Ancestor, Divine Hag who creates the landscape with her giant strides and staff, brings the changing seasons of cold and wind. She whose face is as weathered as the rocks and as blue as ice, Bring us your gifts of Endurance, Wisdom, and Primal Ancestry"

Spider Woman weaving with the Audience

Deb Erickson as Flora 

"We Call Upon Flora, Goddess of flowers and springtime whose steps upon the Earth dance forth the returning fertility of the land. She whose presence infuses the air with the perfume that attracts the bees and teases into expression the blossoming of new love. Bring us your gifts of Playfulness, Imagination, and Inspiration! "

Shawn Vougeot as Quon Yin

 “We call upon Quan Yin, Goddess of Mercy, Bodhisattva of Compassion, holder of the healing waters, who through your arms offer comfort to the suffering of the world. She who hears the cries of the World, Bring us your gifts of Kindness, Honesty and Mercy. "

Raechel Murphy as The Goddess of the Turning Year

"We Call Upon The Goddess of the Turning Year, She who stands at the crossroad of the Wheel of the ever turning year. She reminds us that we are ever changing and ever moving with all living beings, and our lives mirror the Turning of the Seasons, each beautiful, each challenging. Bring us your gifts of the Return of the Sun in the dark of Winter, and the Promise of new life as a new year begins."

Dalia Gamal as Isis 

 “We Call Upon Isis, Lady of Ten Thousand names. Moon and Mother of the sun. Mourning wife and tender sister, you are the culture –bringer and giver of healt. You who have known sorrow and bring the gift of grieving….you who flooded the Nile with your tears, Bring to us your gifts of Restoration….and Renewal!

Kay Rydeen as Green Tara  

“We Call Upon Green Tara, Goddess of immediate action, remover of obstacles, She who is of youthful face and peaceful presence yet poised for quick movement and encouragement as we aspire toward enlightenment. Bring us your gifts of Presence, and the Removal of Fears."

Kva Mary Wajer as Hagia Sophia 

We Call Upon Sophia, Mirror of Wisdom, You who are the first and the last, honored one and scorned one….whore and holy one, wife and virgin…Mother and daughter, the Silence beyond comprehension. Bring us your gifts of Self Knowing and Expanded Consciousness”

Tina Cotterman as Gaia

"We Call Upon Gaia, the Mother of All, Eldest of all beings. She births and sustains allthe creatures of the world, all that go upon the land, and all in the paths of the waters, and all that eek the skies, and all that grow under the Sun: She feeds all of Her vast generosity, and Her beauty that sustains and evolves us. Hail, Mother Earth. Bring us your gifts of Beauty, Ecology of Soul among All Beings, and the ability to cherish our Source in Gaia."

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 

"The Masks of the Goddess" at the Women & Spirituality Conference

 

Photo by JJ Idarius

                                   I am deeply honored to be the Keynote Speaker at this years 

40th Annual Women & Spirituality Conference

                  October 4th, 5th & 6th 2024

              St. Mary’s University,  Cascade Meadows Campus,

                                       Rochester, MN

Over 36 workshops to choose from, vendors, exhibitors and more. The Masks of the Goddess Collection will be on Exhibit!  Along with many women’s voices sharing their wisdom, offering their healing, together in community since 1981.  Explore the beauty of the land, experience art in the Maker’s Space, find solace in the Chaplain’s Corner.

And.......... there will be a special Ceremonial Evening 

Celebrating the 40th Anniversary of the Conference

with a Community Ritual  Performance and the Masks of the Goddess 

                        Friday October 4th, 2024 at 7:00 pm

                         at the Chateau Theater in Rochester,  Mn  

 We are still seeking Participants to Invoke the Goddesses with the masks!  If you live in Rochester area and would like to be part of this offering for the Divine Feminine, please contact Laurenraine9@gmail.com.  We would love to have you join us!

                                                  

“What the audience saw when a dancer looked through the eyes of the mask was the Goddess Herself,  ancient and yet contemporary, looking across time, across the miles.”

           Diane Darling, Director, Playwright                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Updated Archival Video of the MASKS OF THE GODDESS PROJECT

I'm pleased with this updated version of the original video created by Serene Zloof (which was made in 2004 - so there was a great deal that needed to be updated since then!)  With thanks to Space Cruiser Video for the help.  A lot of memories there, and the hope that what I and my many wonderful Colleagues created will pass on and evolve with future generations.  

Blessed Be.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wqoxJr8_vU

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.