Wednesday, December 29, 2021
Monday, December 27, 2021
I wanted to share, at the Eve of 2022, the link to this amazing resource of documentaries about people, and technologies, and "New Stories" that are all about hope, sustainability, evolution, and solutions to the crisis of our time. As the creators of Films for Action say:
"Stop imagining the apocalypse; start imagining the revolution."
Monday, December 20, 2021
"God's abstention is only from human dialects;
the holy voice utters its woe and glory in myriad musics,
in signs and portents.
Our own words are for us to speak,
a way to ask and to answer."
There are some gifts that come to us
just once or twice in a lifetime,
gifts that cannot be named
beyond the simple act of gratitude.
We are given a vision so bountiful
we can only gaze with eyes wide,
like a child in summer's first garden.
We reach our clumsy hands
toward that communion
that single perfection
and walk away speechless, blessed.
And breathe, in years to come
breathe, breathe our hearts open
aching to tell it well
to sing it into every other heart
to dance it down, into the hungry soil
to hold it before us
that grace given
Lauren Raine (1999)
"Only now can we see with clarity that we live not so much in a cosmos (a place) as in a cosmogenesis (a process) -- scientific in its data, mythic in its form."
~ The Universe Story by Brian Swimme and Thomas Berry
The Winter Solstice was the first universal holy day, celebrated in different ways throughout the world from the earliest days of human culture. When language was young, when even the gods and goddesses had not yet taken human forms in the human imagination, but ran instead with deer in the forest, flew with the wings of crows, or were glimpsed nameless from the awed depths of every numinous pool........ even then, this was a holy day, a day of celebration.
Long ago ancestors lit fires to welcome the "shining god" who was the sun returning from mysterious underworld depths. They built stones or made circles or created doorways to be aligned with the sun's pathway. They lit fires as sympathetic magic, fires to light and imitate the Sun's passage as the Sun returned to the world (which is why we still light candles, and Christmas lights, today).
THE SHORTEST DAY
BY SUSAN COOPER
So the shortest day came, and the year died,
And everywhere down the centuries
of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive
And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, reveling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us—Listen!!
All the long echoes sing the same delight,
This shortest day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Sunday, December 19, 2021
Here is another article, this from around this time in 2019, that I just revised for publication submission. It means a lot to me, that moment, that place. I think the time is coming to return again. Perhaps this is where I'll spend the Solstice.........
(December 19, 2019)
I am at the Holy Trinity Monastery in St. David, Arizona. It is raining, and the only sound is the gentle fall of rain on leafless trees, droplets of water, little shining crystals on the dark branches before my window.
And on the banister of the terrace before me are 5 peacocks and peahens, their magnificent, extravagant, impossible iridescent tails hanging over the edge. They are just sitting there, making no sounds. I remember peacocks as noisy creatures, with a piercing cry. How strange those peacocks are, motionless, silent. I know that if they become aware of me, they will run off, so I join them in their silence for a moment, unmoving, aware of only peacocks, and the sound of rain.
The Monastery is so quiet in fact, there are not even sounds of sparrows or ravens, no dogs or coyotes. It is also mostly deserted, probably because it is winter and mid-week. The land has the familiar peace I have so often found in places of worship, a peace rising through the soil as one walks, an essence of place stepped and pressed into the land itself. It does not matter what I "believe" in such places.... prayerful or sacred places are not about the intellect.
There is a striking statue of Saint Benedict by the cloisters; he is holding a book, and there is a raven at his feet with, apparently, a rock in his beak. * I do not know what the raven means, but the white statue is welcoming. I find myself watching my breath as I walk, clasping my hands behind my back. Maybe the monks who lived here did that, and I am just picking up a memory in the land.
The Benedictine Monastery in the small eastern Arizona town of St. David is actually no longer a Monastery, not since 2017 when the Vatican recalled the few monks and Father still living here. It clearly once had a good-sized population that gradually diminished. As I walk, I try to imagine monks here, tending to the gardens, the shrines, the retreat buildings in the rain, or in the hot summers of this part of the country. It is still managed by a faithful group of volunteer Oblates. I notice that they are all elderly……I wonder if they will be able to attract younger people in the future to manage this special place? It seems, as I reflect with the meditative presence of the peacocks before me, that it is a great shame that the monastic life is so little appreciated in our frenetic world.
Last evening, as the sun went down behind rows of pecan trees, I saw the flock of peacocks, some 20 of them, sitting on a fence before a particularly ancient pecan tree. I watched as, one by one, they flew without sound into the tree, finding their particular perches. Each bird seemed to wait patiently for his or her own “take-off”. This was clearly a daily ritual. I was struck by how orderly this procession of the peacocks to their nightly roost took place.
Peacocks……… one thinks of them as loud, stupid birds. Yet at the St. David Monastery, where many generations of peacocks have lived and roamed freely, they are a tribe going about their business. Just as the Monastery is devoted to silence and prayer, so they also seem to be. They are wrapped in brilliant shades of quietude. Beautiful in their other worldly iridescence among the gray and brown of winter leaves.
How did I end up here? Not entirely sure. By Grace?
As I was driving without a destination a day ago, I vividly remembered a book I read (while spending the night on a bench in the ultimate liminal zone of Heathrow Airport) called
“The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Frye”. ** The central character, Harold, is in his 60’s, living a conservative retired life with his wife. They do not really speak any more, as they navigate around each other with many years of habitual co-inhabitation. One day Harold receives a letter from someone he has not seen in over 20 years, someone who is dying of cancer in a hospice far away to the north of the U.K. She has written to let Harold know she remembers him fondly, and to say goodbye. In his habitual numbness, but equally habitual English sense of propriety, he decides to write her a simple letter, a card that says something like “thank you for your friendship, best wishes, Harold Frye”. He does so, and then decides to walk to the post office in order to mail it himself.
Except when he gets to the post office, he decides to walk on to the next Post Office, one at the north of town, and mail it there. And yet, when he gets to that post office, on the outskirts of town, he discovers that he still has the letter in his pocket, and he is still walking. And so, the unplanned and unannounced and even unconscious pilgrimage of Harold Frye commences.
Perhaps I am like Harold. I just decided I needed to get away, from the Holidays, from Facebook, from cars, away from all the noise, and the noise incessantly sounding in my own head, right now: but I had no idea of where to go. None.
But I have a car, and a credit card. All the way down 22nd street to the freeway, I still couldn’t decide where I was going…. west, to Phoenix, maybe Sedona? A long way, and Sedona is expensive. Or south, to Patagonia? Head to New Mexico, the solace of those wide-open mystical spaces…. even though it is an even longer way than Sedona? It was only when I got to the freeway underpass that I pulled into the left lane for route 19, heading in the direction of Patagonia, which at least had a bird sanctuary and a coffee shop. I’d see what happened from there.
As I drove, I felt better. I turned my phone off. In Patagonia I had a coffee, discovered that the only hotel (cleverly cowboy vintage) was ridiculously expensive, then thought what the heck, I’ll head to New Mexico, why not. The mood I’m in I could drive all night anyway. The road from Patagonia to I-10 is scenic, with a snow-covered mountain range in the distance. In Saint David, a little town on the way to Benson, I remembered there was a Benedictine Monastery. Always curious about it, I stopped, inquired about retreats, and here I am. Ask and ye shall receive, truly.
Lately I’ve been having those winter-born (what a wonderful word, “winterborne”) …… “dark nights of the soul” ………. which look, practically speaking, more like being overwhelmed, brittle, snappish, and exhausted and increasingly disturbed by it. I am running a successful AIRBNB “enclave”, still working thus in the “service industry” at the age of 70.
I have to work and know few who can afford not to these days. I am glad sometimes that no one much notices me, or my current inner landscape. To me, of late, everything sounds like “yap yap yap”. Sometimes I feel like contemporary life is a bit like being endlessly barked at by a chihuahua. Our modern world - an entire fleet of chihuahuas. A demanding litany of inconsequential complaint, vented commentary, monologue for the sake of attention, appeals for money, offers for deals, electronic voices, irritated drivers……exhausting. And, as I am an empath, all the human pain in there too, all the loneliness and fear and despair and grief and human pain I can’t help, and increasingly feel too frayed to listen to.
When I’m not “in service” changing sheets or scrubbing floors, I am an artist. (Yes, one can be an “emerged” artist and not wealthy. In fact, most artists have to find other means of support.) The artifacts of that 50-year career surround my property. I have to say, running an AIRBNB has been somewhat deflating, as I have noticed that most people don’t think about art unless it is in a museum or a gallery. Or now, I suppose, on Instagram. Instant art for an increasingly microscopic attention span!
For myself, art is a language, albeit an often-archaic language, one that one has to be educated in, like learning to speak Latin. Certainly, it requires what our lives increasingly lack ......contemplation. Patience. Without that introduction, and time, artworks are just a backdrop that ‘specialists’ understand, dismissed as irrelevant.
Or a colorful passing tidbit to consume like a candy.
People do not see that a painting is a conversation, a window into another world……in this case, my world. For me, the works have numinous names and places in the landscape of my life. The bodies of work on my property are the best of me, my personal shrines and devotions, and now I just want to protect them from the infidels, so to speak.
If they don’t see it, it is safe, and those visionary depths the paintings and sculptures arose from (in me) are also underground. Even if they are in plain sight.
How do I feel about all of this? I often question my discontent; I am often despairing of contemporary life. Yet here, in a monastery where many came to seek God........it doesn’t matter whether I am “right” or “wrong” in my discontent. It doesn’t matter what I think at all.
I sit on a bench and listen to the melancholy voice of Saturn. Wise and winter-borne Saturn.
I contemplate a cast-off, brightly turquoise, feather on the ground, gleaming as it catches a bit of sun. Here I am, enjoying this pentimento under the surface of time, given the grace and simplicity to turn under, within, below the fallen leaves, into the dark. It occurs to me that it does not matter at all what I “think” I should do once I rejoin the noise and distractions of life. Here is refuge, here is the power of silence. Silence enough to listen, and my soul, for lack of a better word, is speaking.
“When we are living in accord with our inner reality while simultaneously suffering the depredations of this discordant, dis-eased world, we nonetheless have supportive energy, clarifying affects, and a sense of purpose. When we get off track, these same manifestations turn against us. While the world rushes to pharmacology to numb the inner discord, the question remaining is simply and obviously this: What does the soul want, as opposed to our protective but regressive complexes? This simple question is intimidating because such an agenda can very quickly lead to the larger rather than the smaller in our lives, necessarily re-framing our sense of what our life journey is about.”
James Hollis PhD. “Living an Examined Life”
As the Winter Solstice approaches, I bless the Dark, the nourishment that comes from this time of incubational dormancy, from quietude. I am grateful to have stumbled into welcoming refuge for a few days. To sit listening to the rain and privileged to join the silent, watchful witness of a great iridescent beauty that sits on a fence before me, waiting to be noticed, listening to the rain.
*I learn later that the Raven was a friend of Saint Benedict who helped him by removing bread that had been poisoned by a jealous rival. http://communio.stblogs.org/index.php/2011/07/saint-benedict-and-his-friend/
** The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Frye by Rachel Joyce (https://www.rachel-joyce.co.uk/)
I love where we live. I love the stretch of sky from east to west. I work in a shepherd’s hut in a field, looking over the valley. It’s a place that feels alive with light and water and stories. My own view. My own silence.”
…. Rachel Joyce
Shortly after I posted this article in my Blog (www.threadsofspiderwoman.blogspot.com) I found this earring by the trash can in front of my house. It looks a great deal like a peacock feather to me! I have no idea where it came from, but I will take it as a bit of guidance and affirmation. The world is always speaking to us, I reflect, if we can only pause long enough to listen.
Wednesday, December 15, 2021
Instead of seeing "nature" as "other", or a "resource", earlier times often had a mythic, even friendly and reciprocal, relationship with the extended community of life. When we talk to the trees, the animals, even stones………..we might just might begin to notice that we get a response sometimes! For example, the old English custom of “telling the bees” when someone has died in a farm family - and there are actually documented cases of a swarm of bees turning up at the funeral! How vain it is of us to think we are the only intelligences sharing this beautiful planet.
“Wassailing” has thus also included a tradition of singing to trees in celebration of Christmas, of the all important return of the Sun. Who is to say that the apple trees don’t enjoy being part of the festivities? How would our world be a different place if we saw apple trees as being our generous friends, or inviting bees to the funeral of those they have lived among for so long, as a regular bit of hospitality?
Although Wassail is popularly a spiced cider drink, often with brandy added and served hot, originally it included the Yuletide custom of singing to the trees, in particular, the orchards of apple trees from which the celebratory drink came. The spiced cider was offered in honor to the trees, and around the time of the Solstice, traditional wassail would be prepared – soaking pieces of bread, cake or toast in it – and Wassailers would travel from apple orchard to apple orchard singing carols to the trees, in order to demonstrate appreciation for the harvest being enjoyed. Wassail-soaked pieces of bread or toast were then left at the trees’ roots or hung in the trees’ branches to appease the tree spirits and feed them well until the next harvest.
Like the Romans' offerings on small farm shrines dedicated to the "Numina", the spirits of place that assisted them with their crops and orchards (the indigenous Roman Goddess Pomona, whose name meant "apple", originated as a Numen of the orchards), this custom, which is still practiced with a lot of good cheer in some rural areas of England, reflects that ancient pagan sense of "reciprocity" with an intelligent, spiritually inhabited natural world.
Here's what goes on in Whimple, England to this very day: (http://www.whimple.org/wassail.htm)
Our ritual follows the traditional well-tried and tested ceremony of our predecessors with the Mayor in his robes of office and the Princess carrying lightly toasted bread in her delicately trimmed flasket, whilst the Queen, wearing her crown of Ivy, Lichen and Mistletoe, recites the traditional verse. The original Whimple Incantation has been retained:
Here's to thee, old apple tree,That blooms well, bears well.Hats full,caps full,Three bushel bags full,An' all under one tree.Hurrah! Hurrah!
Her Majesty is then gently but manfully assisted up the treein order to place the cyder-soaked toast in the branches whilst the assembled throng, accompanied by a group of talented musicians, sing the Wassail Song and dance around the tree. The Mulled Cider or 'Wassail Cup' is produced and everyone takes a sample with their 'Clayen Cup'.
I read recently that our habit of "toasting" may go back to Wassail revelries. "Waes hael" revelers would say, from the Old English term meaning "be well". Eventually "wassail" referred less to the greeting and more to the drink. The contents of the Wassail bowl varied, but a popular one was known as 'lambs wool'. It consisted of hot ale, roasted crab apples, sugar, spices, eggs, and cream served with little pieces of toast. It was the toast floating on the top that made it look like lamb's wool. The toast that was traditionally floated atop the wassail eventually became our "toast" - when you hold up your glass and announce, “Let’s have a toast,” or ”I’ll toast to that,” you’re remembering this very old ritual of floating a bit of toast in spiced ale or mulled wine or wassail in celebration.
Wassailing – visiting neighbors (and much appreciated, friendly trees), singing carols and sharing warmed drink – is a tradition related to the Winter Solstice with ancient roots indeed.
I found a good Wassail recipe, which I've taken the liberty of sharing at the end of this post. I don't know if I'll be going out to sing to the Saguaros this Solstice myself...... but who knows what I might end up doing if I drink enough Wassail with brandy. I'm sure the Saguaros wouldn't mind the attention. Happy Wassailing!
|Photo by Martin Beebee|
Apple Tree Wassailing Chants and Rhymes
Compiled in The Stations of the Sun by Ronald Hutton
From the South Hams of Devon, recorded 1871:
Here's to thee, old apple tree,
Whence thou mayst bud
And whence thou mayst blow!
And whence thou mayst bear apples enow!
Hats full! Caps full!
And my pockets full too! Huzza!
From Cornworthy, Devon, recorded 1805:
Huzza, Huzza, in our good town
The bread shall be white, and the liquor be brown
So here my old fellow I drink to thee
And the very health of each other tree.
Well may ye blow, well may ye bear
Blossom and fruit both apple and pear.
So that every bough and every twig
May bend with a burden both fair and big
May ye bear us and yield us fruit such a stores
That the bags and chambers and house run o'er.
Monday, December 13, 2021
"Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans" Allen Saunders
“The truth is all of life is a grand, blooming ambiguity"
James Hollis: WHAT MATTERS MOST: Living a More Considered Life
"Coyote is an anarchist. She can confuse all civilized ideas simply by trotting through. And she always fools the pompous. Just when your ideas begin to get all nicely arranged and squared off, she messes them up. Things are never going to be neat, that's one thing you can count on. Coyote walks through all our minds. Obviously, we need a trickster, a creator who made the world all wrong. We need the idea of a God who makes mistakes, gets into trouble, and who is identified with a scruffy little animal."
Ursula Leguin, "Coming Back From the Silence"
I recently had a silent retreat at an (almost) deserted former Benedictine Monastery I go to. Wonderful! Solitude, just me and the peacocks that live there, and Coyote. In every sense of the word, just when I was ready for a visitation from an Angel or a Goddess, guess who turned up? Sometimes that voice of chaos is exactly the voice you need to hear.
Coyote howls a midnight serenade
to the desert tonight,
Her chorus answers, noisy as all hell.
She brays down a tale about the frayed moon,
a prairie dog’s misfortune,
old dancing bones,
and all my carefully conceived plans.
Coyote is running tonight
between the splintered shutters
of my house of doors,
laughing through every tattered crevice
in all my certainties.
That yellow dog
Is a real pain
“The only thing that makes life possible is permanent,
intolerable uncertainty: not knowing what comes next.”
Thursday, December 9, 2021
Tuesday, December 7, 2021
I pull this post out just about every winter, along of course with the one on Father Christmas and Odin. I love Frau Holle, who emerges from the landscape of Northern myth at this time of year, and leads us back and back and back to ancient origins........if you've encountered this piece before, please indulge me..........
One of the Goddesses that reflects the flux of seasonal cycles, and belongs truly to Winter, is the Nordic Frau Holle. Holle has very ancient origins indeed, and may have been a prehistoric, a pre-Christian Weaver Goddess, a Spinner of fate.
Mother Holle is very much associated with Yule, and with the warmth of hearth and home, especially in the winter. Also known as Holda or Hulda, she is a manifestation of the Pagan triple goddess, embodying the passages of life through birth to death, in both light and dark. In some early myths, she is "the ash girl", her face half black with soot and half white.
This remarkable metaphor comes from a story of how, in order to marry the God of Winter she had to come to him neither naked nor clothed, and neither in light or darkness (thus, both the "White Goddess" and the "Dark Goddess"). Like the myth of Persephone, who becomes the Queen of both death and spring, Holle (perhaps, fittingly, related to words like "Holy", "wholly", and "whole"?) in old age is Winter's Queen, and encompasses the Circle of dualities.
As old Mother Holle/Holda, it was believed that she brought soft snow to put the world to bed. Mother Holda is the source of the "Mother Goose" legends, because the snow flies when she shakes the feathers from her down feather bed. In Holland, they still say that 'Dame Holle is shaking her bed'.
For anyone who may wonder where the "flying broomsticks" of witches (or Harry Potter) comes from, Dame Holda is probably the original source. Because of her association with the hearth and home, the Broom was both a symbol as well as a magical tool. Folk traditions of "sweeping away evil from the hearth" are found throughout Europe. As a symbol of the Hearth ("the Heart of the household") it is interesting to see this also transformed into the "vehicle of witches" as Pagan mythology, and folk rituals, became transformed and often diabolized in later Christian times. In later folktales, Frau Holle becomes a fearsome hag, riding her broom and bringing the storms of winter.
"Frau Holle, as she is known in Germany, was called The Queen of the Witches. The brothers Grimm tell a story of step-sisters who both go to visit Frau Holle in the 'nether realms'. They begin their journey to her by falling in a well............Holle's name is linguistically related to the word Halja, which means "covering", and is the ancient Teutonic name for Hel, the Norse land of the dead. Holle is sometimes called the Queen of the Dead, and resides in the 'nether' regions. She possibly lent her name to the country Holland, 'the land of Holle', which is also called the Netherlands because many parts of the country are below sea-level."
Holda/Holle/Hel is both light and dark, young and old, illumination and shadow, living in the "nether world" and the material world. Holle demonstrates the non-duality of nature. Spring becoming Summer becoming Winter becoming born again. Whole.
As the mythologist Joseph Campbell pointed out in many ways throughout his writings, to understand the evolution of myth is to understand many interconnected things, including the evolution of language and religion. One of my personal images that I often find myself making are "dual" masks, masks that are half black and half white, or half "underground" and half "above ground vegetation". "Helkappes".........
|"Our Lady of Chaos and Order" (2013)|
I think this reflects my sense of how very important holistic consciousness is, personally and collectively, whether we speak of "shadow work", the coming to terms with the ebbs and flows of self, or the cycles of our Mother Earth, the ebbs and flows of the seasons and the creation/death/rebirth cycle. Whether microcosm or macrocosm, to try to live within the perspective of the Whole.
So who is Hel, the ashy side of Holle's face, from whose name we get "Hell"?
Besides being the origin of the word people use daily as a swear word, and millions of Christians have a mighty fear of going to if they don't get baptized or redeemed (and blissfully ignorant of where the concept originated from).
Hell has been used, very effectively, by the early church as a scare tactic to frighten the masses into “righteous” acts. People no longer remember that once "go to Hell" meant, simply, to die and go to the underground realm of the Dark Goddess. To get the real story, we have to go back to the early Nordic peoples with their Triple Mother, and look this death Goddess in the face.
|"Hel" by Susan Seddon Boulet|
Hel has a realm in the netherworld or the underworld (and the idea of underworld, or womb/tomb Goddesses is very ancient indeed, going back to the Paleolithic, and may be part of the apparent sanctity of caves and their amazing cave paintings.). She is the ruler of that underworld country to which souls who have not died in battle will depart. As thanks for making Her ruler of the netherworld, Hel makes a gift to Odin. She gives him two ravens, Huginn and Muninn (Thought and Memory). In Nordic mythology Ravens are messengers between this realm and the next, psychopomps that can open pathways.
The name of Her realm is Helheim, and perhaps like Maat of Egypt, Hel is the judge of each soul that enters her realm. Those who were cruel and evil in life must endure a place of icy cold for a while as punishment (a fate that the people of ancient Scandinavia and Germany apparently found much worse than a nice warm lake of fire). Unlike the Christian concept of Hell as a place of eternal damnation and punishment, however, Helheim also served as the shelter (womb of regeneration) for souls waiting to be reincarnated.
"Hel watches over those who died peacefully of old age or illness. She cares for children and women who die in childbirth. She guides those souls who do not choose the path of war through the circle of death to rebirth."
Rowen Saille of the Order of the White Moon
Like Persephone, who is both the Spring Maiden and the Queen of Hades, Hel as the dark side of Holle governs the underworld or invisible realm. In magic, like Hecate, she is a pathfinder where the veil between worlds is thin.
"Magic is the art of changing consciousness at will." ............ StarhawkSeidhr [SAY-theer] or Nordic shamans called upon Hel's protection, and in doing so they wore "the helkappe", a magic mask, to render them invisible and enable them to pass through the gateway into the realm of death and spirit. The Helkappe was a mask, thus understood as a transformative, liminal tool that enabled one to transit between the seeming dualities of life..........and like masks and sacred drums throughout the world's traditions, it was infused with shamanic power.
To take the wisdom of this metaphor further, to thus wear a mask as a psychic tool was to engage consciously with the continual flux of personae - young/old, dark/light, good/bad, male/female. This is the realm of the soul, beyond duality, beyond time. Wearing the "Helkappe", in whatever way one may imagine such a mask........enables one to enter both realms.
A wonderful commentary on Holle/Hel come from the Goddess Inspired Blog by Silvestra, who has helped me to understand the non-duality of this myth, and it's unfathomably ancient origins. Rather than me try to paraphrase her, I take the liberty of copying the article here, and provide the link to her Blog below.
"Mother Holle started off Her existence as the Goddess of Death and Regeneration. During the Neolithic in what Marija Gimbutas termed Old Europe people believed in the cyclical nature of all existence. Every ending was understood to be the beginning of a new chapter. Death, rather than being the final end, was seen as a resting stage prior to new life. Just as seeds rest deep undergound during the cold winter months waiting to sprit up as a seedling in spring, so were the dead seen as having returned to the Goddess’ dark womb to await renewal and rebirth.
The Goddess of Death and Regeneration was associated with winter and the colour white. Small stiff white Goddess figurines with small breasts and exaggerated pubic triangles were placed alongside the dead in order for Her to accompany the person on her or his journey of renewal. The Goddess of Death and Regeneration was not feared or seen as being evil, but instead was considered to be benevolent and generous.
Mandorla of the Spinning Goddess (1982) by Judith Anderson
“She holds dominion over death, the cold darkness of winter, caves, graves and tombs in the earth….but also receives the fertile seed, the light of midwinter, the fertilized egg, which transforms the tomb into a womb for the gestation of new life.”..... Marija Gimbutas
Old white-haired Mother Holle and Her underground realm are one interpretation of this aspect of the Goddess. In the fairy tale Mother Holle is described as being kind and generous and very just. She lives at the bottom of a well. The well itself can be interpreted as being the birth canal leading to Her dark underground womb...........Mother Holle is described as having ugly big teeth, a big nose and a flat foot. The latter shows her love for weaving or spinning, another sacred act associated with the Goddess: She is the Life Weaver, the Spinner of Destiny and Fate.
Mother Holle was known all across the Germanic world. She was called Holle in Germany, Hel or Hella in Scandinavia and Holde on the British Isles. She is the origin for the word hell and its German variant Hölle, as well as words such as holy and holding in English and Höhle (= cave) in German.
The Scandinavian Goddess Hel is probably the most widely known version of Mother Holle as Goddess, although by the time the Indo-European Norse wrote down their religious beliefs, Hel was no longer the benevolent Regeneratrix of the Neolithic. She had become the dreaded Queen of the Dead.
As was the case during the Neolithic, Hel’s realm Nifhelheim also lies below the earth at the root of the World Tree. Incidentally the bottom of the World Tree is also home to the three Norns, Weavers of Destiny. While, as said above, originally the Goddess of Death and Regeneration was also the Weaver of Fate and Fortune, later beliefs separate Her more and more into Her various aspects.
|"Hermod before Hela" John Dollman.|
Despite being feared by the Norse as the dreaded Hag of Death, Hel has Her benevolent roots hidden in plane sight. Being linked to the earth, She is one of the old Vanir Earth Goddesses, Vanir meaning “the Giving One”.
In Central Europe Mother Holle also evolved over time. Instead of becoming the Goddess of the Underworld, though, She became the Queen of Elves and the Mistress of Witches. Her character was actually very similar to that of Greek Hekate, the old Crone who roams the world with Her fearsome dogs. Around 900CE Frau Holle had become an old weather hag who was said to ride in on Her broom stick bringing with Her whirlwinds and snowfall. Her life-giving generous nature was retained more in Germany than in Scandinavia, as even during Christian times She was seen as bringing life to the land causing growth, abundance and good fortune."