Goddesses in the Dust: The Flag, the Missal and the Witch's Hat

An archaeologist unearths the divine feminine, one archetype at a time...

As archaeologists do, I was digging the other day, but in my basement, not in Greece. On a shelf, tucked away, I came across a box covered with dust; on closer inspection I noticed some objects sitting on top. As I pulled the box into the light I saw three of the most random things - things that somehow comprise a pastiche of my interests: a Greek flag, my old Catholic Mass missal, and a witch's hat.

How are these things even related, you ask? Let me see....

The Greek flag - obvious. I love Greece. Ever since, at age 11, I first set foot on the soil I fell in love with the place. The deep thrum of the earth, the ancient voices in the air, the light. There is mystery there.

The missal? My childhood comes back to me - sitting next to my mother every Sunday, listening to Father Winzerling deliver his fire and brimstone sermons, and spending the time, half-listening to the angry priest, half staring at the images surrounding me; statues of the Virgin Mary's sad face, the faces of the tortured saints, and slipping into a daydream. 

Reading the story of St. Cecilia reminds me of how women have been treated throughout millennia. She is the patroness of music, it is stated at the top, but the text reads of anything but in her life: she was compelled to marry someone against her will and spent her time converting him and his brother to her faith, to a belief system. But what about her love of music? Why didn't the missal tell me about this as well? 

Then there is the End of the World to deal with.

But even through the rants of Father Winzerling, the sorrowful images, the circumscribed tales of the lives of the saints, I saw beyond. There is mystery here too.

The witch's hat speaks to me of the millennia old burial of the feminine archetype. The story it tells is of the power of the feminine, its ability to heal, to intuit, to create, and its age-old suppression by the Church and the powers that be. But the feminine archetype, as archetypes do, is reemerging just when we need it. It always does. 

 And yes, most of all, there is mystery here.

So the moral of this tale?  We like what we like: there isn't always a neat explanation available. As with my random objects, as with the way of a world we work so hard to comprehend, maybe we aren't meant to understand everything, and perhaps for that we should be grateful. Maybe - as we work to see beyond the symbols of our lives - we can appreciate those quiet moments in between, that remind us to just enjoy the mysteries.

Be You. Be Loved. Belong.

I was out for a run, and after huffing and puffing up a hill, I passed a man on the sidewalk outside a neighborhood church. He watched me for a moment and then called out, 

"Keep going - you're almost there!" Almost involuntarily, the words blurted out of me, 

"I know it.....thank you."


A few days later, I ran by the same spot and saw this sign....


The Universe has a lovely way of reminding us what matters.

Goddesses in the Dust: Gratitude

An archaeologist unearths the divine feminine, one archetype at a time...

As a little girl growing up in the Catholic Church, I heard the word eucharist used all the time. Now, having worked in Greece for many years, I use the word efharisto all the time. 

Only recently did I connect the two words: eucharist is from the Greek: efharisto, which means to thank. The root of the word is the Greek, charis, which means grace. In mythology, Charis is one of the three graces and is also the root of the word charity.

The Three Graces in Botticelli's Primavera

This week is Thanksgiving. Traditionally it means gathering with family to eat turkey and stuffing with all the trimmings and heralds the official start of the holiday season. But I try to stop and remember the meaning behind the word. Like connecting eucharist with efharisto, I'd like to connect with the deeper meaning of this holiday not only on Thanksgiving day, but every day. To have gratitude for all we have in our lives is a state of mind that can be cultivated. It is a blessing that brings peace to your soul. 

Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.
-Epicurus

If the only prayer you said was thank you, that would be enough.
-Meister Eckhart

On this Thanksgiving I wish you all the ability to feel gratitude and the sense of peace that it brings. 

The Lunch Ladies and JFK

Wearing my red shoes and watching TV with my big sister

For some reason, I had been allowed out of class. I was walking across the cafeteria/gym in our little elementary school, the resined wood shining in the fluorescent light, when I heard the sound of crying. I looked into the kitchen and saw the lunch ladies, clustered around one another, sobbing. Midway across the gym floor, I came to a dead halt. What's wrong? I asked. 

The President has been shot, they said in unison, choking on the words. He died, one of them added, and they leaned on one another. I stood for a moment and watched them, their hair nets wrapped around their buns, the plastic cat's eye glasses. The white aprons.

I remember feeling a sense of unreality. I had never seen adults I didn't know express such strong emotion - especially in public. I had been given important information, I realized. Perhaps my teacher doesn't  know. 

I hurried down the long hallway, the waxy linoleum slippery under my feet. Desks were shoved up against walls that were decorated with brown and orange construction paper turkeys and Santas with cotton ball beards. 

At the end of the hall was my classroom. I walked through the door and saw my teacher writing on the blackboard at the front of the room. Her voice was normal. I watched the backs of my first grade classmates, listening attentively to what she was saying. My teacher looked at me and I realized she didn't know the horrible thing that had happened. All of a sudden everything stopped.  It was up to me to deliver the news.  The words came out, the importance, the effect of what I had to say heavy in my mouth. 

President Kennedy is dead. 

I don't really remember anything else that day until it was time to go home. I got off the orange bus and walked down our driveway. Mom opened the front door and I looked at her; her red lipstick against her olive skin, her cobalt eyes that matched her hair. The way she kissed my head and asked me if I wanted a snack told me she didn't know. Once again, the feeling of unreality, the sense that I was being given a grown up task crept over me; I had to tell her too. This was an adult's job, I thought. Not mine. As soon as I told her I remember the shock, followed by her running to the sun porch where the stereo was. She snapped on the dial and turned up the volume. In the following hours the house was filled with the somber sounds of news anchors' voices and the black and white images on TV, that flickered on into the night. 


Many of you weren't born yet at the time of JFK's assassination, but do you remember how you learned about it? In school? Or at home?

And for those of you who were alive, do you remember where you were when you heard that JFK had died?


Thanks to my little sister, Amy, who suggested I tell this story. 

Random Things That Make You Happy to be Alive

There is nothing that stops you in your tracks more than coming out of the store (where you have just picked up a pedestrian pound and a half of meatloaf for dinner) to see this; like the result of a a gargantuan five year old's fingerpainting hands smearing the sky with pink, baby chick yellow on a background of blueblueblueblue.....it is as though the Universe is screaming at you:

LOOK AT ME —— THE WORLD IS BEAUTIFUL!!!!! 

LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL!!!!

So go enjoy your meatloaf :))