travels with persephone

Goddesses in the Dirt: The Lady of Lake Bled

2012-02-20T17:32:00.000-08:00

Unearthing the Divine Feminine, one archetype at a time...

Goddesses in the Dirt - Issue #28: The Lady of Lake Bled

Out there, somewhere, she lived. In the shadow of the Julian Alps, on the shores of Lake Bled, I watched for her. Located at the northern edge of Slovenia along the border of Austria, this is where the ancient Slavs worshipped Ziva, the goddess of love and fertility - whom some refer to as a goddess of longevity.

The Goddess Šiwa. Book print, 1740

In the middle of this lake is the only island in Slovenia - a dark and wooded rock marooned in frigid waters - where I was told her temple once stood. I couldn't help but think, watching sunlight trading places with shadows that dragged across a castle on a distant cliff, this would be the perfect domain of Count Dracula.

As a pair of sculls got into position to race across the lake, I thought of Ziva's association with water as a rejuvenating force. In ancient times this lake was a symbol of water's magical capacity for healing in this life or the afterlife, as well as a symbol for the peace of the soul.

Not only in antiquity was this lake known as a place of peace. In modern times, it's well known for rowing as the conditions are perfect for the sport.

If the rowers were to glance over to the island, they would no longer see the wooden temple, known as a hram, which was dedicated to Ziva. A church now stands on the site of the pagan building, as this sacred landscape shifted from the worship of a pre-Christian goddess to Saint Mary.

Watching one of the sculls make a turn, I caught the fragrance of roasted chestnuts. A few steps away was a vendor - for a handful of coins he traded me a paper bag filled to the brim.

Returning to my bench, the sculls had now stilled, their wake gone from the surface, replaced only by the reflection of the setting sun.

I reached for another chestnut, but before I began to peel away the bitter husk I stopped. In the fading light, I watched to catch a glimpse of the goddess in the distance.

Ziva did not show herself that evening, but I sensed her reflection in the mirror-like surface of the water. Dusting my hands, I got up to head back to the hotel. But not before leaving my last, unpeeled chestnut in her honor.

Book print of Ziva from Google images, all other photos courtesy of author.

Letters from the Underworld: Where the Sea Has a Voice

2012-02-13T13:17:00.000-08:00

An archaeologist's favorite mysterious places

Not far from the Roman site of Empuries, in a seaside village in the shadow of the Pyrenees, I swear the sea was calling to me. It was just before dawn on the northeast shore of Spain's Costa Brava. In this little hotel in Cadaques, my husband and children were still asleep, and on this first day of January, I had awoken with the tremendous urge to head down to the harbor. I threw on some warm clothes and padded downstairs to the lobby. The front door to the pension was still locked in the pre-dawn hour, as I passed through the entryway the smell of fresh bread overwhelmed me - a basket of baguettes lay just inside the door, ready for breakfast. Closing the door behind me the chill hit my face - I looked down the street; no one was out at this hour, not even a fisherman.

Walking down the hill, cobblestones oily from rain, the streetlights glowed in moist yellow halos. When I arrived at the water's edge, the sky was barely beginning to lighten; as I turned, the full moon was sliding - a bulging pearl loose from an invisible necklace - into the cleavage of two mountains. The wind whistled on the surface of the water, sending it rippling into all directions, like an unseen conductor's arm furiously waving a crescendo of cymbals and timpanis. And then a feeling came over me that I was not alone. I heard a low hissing sound - the water was muscular, elastic.......alive. It was as though I had come upon a spirit unaware it was being watched, having a few more moments of reckless abandon before the human day began...when it would retreat once again beneath the diorite heaviness of the water. I stood there for the longest time, watching the surface of the sea erupt and congeal, separate and fuse, listening for whispered words in a language I did not yet understand. The moon had now dropped out of sight. The wind calmed, the patterns on the water relaxed and became tinged with the reddening dawn.

By the time I got back to the pension, breakfast was being served. I tore off a piece of baguette, still warm, and held it between my palms. In retrospect, it was a little like a prayer. Grateful to bury my nose in its comforting fragrance, I let the heat slowly retrieve me from the chill. Whatever frenetic force I had come upon, waltzing in the water, I knew would be forever etched in my memory. As I looked out the window at the sea, and the rising sun beyond, I felt fortunate indeed to have greeted the New Year in such auspicious company.

I brought home a few keepsakes from this magical place - a plain silver cuff

that likes to hang out on my arm between his neighbors from Thailand and Israel...

and these tiny salt and pepper shakers

that I am too afraid to use, so they remain on display in my kitchen

these plates representing night and day

and this old photograph of a windswept seaside village, taken right where I stood when the moon dropped into a cleft between mountains and - in the hovering moments between darkness and light -

where the sea spoke to me

Top photo from Google images, all others courtesy of author

Goddesses in the Dirt: Plastered Women

2012-02-06T09:05:00.000-08:00

An archaeologist unearths the Divine Feminine, one archetype at a time...

Goddesses in the Dirt - Issue #28: Plastered Women

Many palaces from the Bronze Age period of Greece are decorated with elaborate frescoes, which are images painted on a plaster surface that covers the walls of ceremonial and dining areas. Many different scenes are portrayed on these plaster surfaces, such as the exquisite composition above from the Palace of Minos in Crete, depicting a group of women in procession, their dark hair adorned with diadems and hanging in ringlets around their faces.

This past summer, I was excavating in Greece near the town of Pylos.

One of the students in my trench showed me this - he said it looked to him like a piece of fresco and he wanted me to see it - sure enough, that's what it was.

These small pieces of fresco are precious - instead of bagging them on site in plastic with all the potsherds, we put them in these foil lidded containers and tag them separately before they are taken to the lab for analysis and - if she our conservator is able - reassembling at the excavation's lab.

Our director was ecstatic - this was the first piece of plaster to be found in my trench, but in another part of the site we are uncovering lots of painted fresco fragments and the images appear to be simliar to the one above.

You never know what you are going to discover in this ancient soil, which is what makes archaeology endlessly fascinating to me. When you are excavating it's possible to feel a real kinship and connection to the lives of those whose homes you are excavating. Who were these people? What was important to them?

It's amazing what a little bit of painted plaster can tell you about a civilization...these women adorned themselves with bracelets up and down their arms. It makes you wonder what we might have had in common.....

Like these ancient women, I like to do the same thing

Yet I always want to know more about what the lives of these people were like — how did they raise their children?

What did they think about during their days as they passed along corridors decorated with frescoes such as this? Can you imagine living in a palace and walking by such amazing scenes every day?

How did they prepare their food, and what did they eat?

What did they drink with their meals at the end of a long day?

In the evening I would ponder these questions - sometimes over an occasional ouzo

or glass of wine.........I guess it just goes to show you

with magnificent surroundings such as these

not only ancient women run the risk of becoming "plastered" by such overwhelming scenery

...sometimes even archaeologists are intoxicated by the sheer beauty of this place as well.....

Photos courtesy of author and Google images

Goddesses in the Dirt: Brigid - the Goddess of Imbolc

2012-01-23T12:18:00.000-08:00

An archaeologist unearths the Divine Feminine, one archetype at a time...

Goddesses in the Dirt - Issue #27: Brigid - the Goddess of Imbolc

In a few days it will be February 1, known as Imbolc, or the Feast of the Bride in the Celtic calendar year.

It is the day sacred to Brigid, also known as Bride, an old Celtic goddess who became a Christian saint.

In the Celtic year, Imbolc is the time of the lactation of ewes and the returning flow of milk which announces the return of spring and life to the earth. February is a harsh month in many parts of the world where people are looking for any sign of the coming spring. Groundhog's Day on February 2 represents a more modern agrarian ritual in which the small burrowing creature (most famously known as Punxsutawney Phil) scrambles up from his warren and watchers divine whether or not he has seen his shadow, prognosticating either an early spring or six more weeks of winter. In the Catholic calendar the date is celebrated as Candlemas, also known as the purification of the Virgin Mary.

One tradition still celebrated in Ireland on St. Brigid's Day is that of Brigid's Bed. Young unmarried girls of the village create a doll made of corn which symbolizes Brigid and call it the "Brideog".

They adorn it with stones and ribbons and fashion a small bed for it to lie in. On St. Brigid's Eve they stay awake all night with the Brideog and on the following day the girls carry it from house to house throughout the village while the women staying at home give offerings of coins or snacks.

Corn Dolly
Fast Bergholt, near Ipswich, England
Wheat Straw
1980s
24 1/2 x 7 1/2" (62 1/4 x 19 cm.)

Another tradition is the making of the Brigid's Cross, usually fashioned from rush or straw. They are then hung over the door and are believed to protect the household in the coming year, particularly those who are expected to give birth.

Neopagans celebrate Imbolc as the solar midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, often by lighting bonfires and marking the date on the night of the full moon nearest the midpoint.

On the eve of Brigid's Feast Day, people would leave out a piece of cloth to be blessed by the Goddess/Saint as she passed by, which would be used to heal those giving birth in the coming year. This gorgeous scarf in honor of Brigid's Day is featured at the wonderfully named blog Knitting, Sex and God.

On February 1st, I will join in the celebration of Imbolc and Brigid's day by lighting a candle

calling my girl to celebrate the bond Brigid represents between mother and daughter

watching for the first attempts of life to push through the cold earth,

and listening for the sound of spring's voice in the wind.

Photos from Knitting, Sex and God blog and Google images

Letters from the Underworld: A Bell and a Pomegranate

2012-01-16T21:46:00.000-08:00

An archaeologist's favorite mysterious places

Ever since I was a child I felt the world was filled with mysterious places. When I lived in Minnesota an abandoned shed in our apple orchard, where I would play and dream, was a mysterious place to me. When I lived in England it was a greenhouse at the back of our property near a thicket of towering rhododendron. To this day it could be a dusty attic filled with trunks, a bank of gunmetal gray clouds pregnant with rain, a rusted gate that leads into a forgotten garden where the voices of the past or the secrets of the present whisper:

I'm special......come find me.

I find the mysterious everywhere - in places where most people wouldn't. Oftentimes it is just an impression of how a place affects me, speaks to me and makes me feel. In this series I travel to exotic faraway lands as well as unearth the hidden beauty of settings closer to home to share favorite places I find to be sacred, magical... and mysterious.

***************

At the top of a mountain pass in Greece lies the tiny town of Kosmas. I was traveling with my sister through the region of Arcadia on the Peloponnesian peninsula when we came upon the small village with a main square wrapped around a church and flanked by a series of gigantic ancient plane trees that stood like silent sentinels.

The mists that hung over this town, hugging the mountaintops, made you feel as if the gods themselves were close enough to whisper in your ear. In fact, the god Apollo was worshipped here in ancient times in a temple erected on a hilltop.

We had lunch at a little place in the square.

I looked down and the tablecloth spelled out the word endless...

As we were dining a storm rolled in over the mountains. Just as we made it back to the car the heavens released a mass of hail.

On the drive back down the mountain we admired the gray green sky -

of course snapped photos of it as my sister is doing here

trying to capture Poseidon in action throwing his lightning bolts.

When I was in Kosmas I purchased a sheep's bell

and this candle holder in the shape of a pomegranate

....both sit in the window above my desk.

Whenever I want to remember this little town I ring the bell....

.....light the candle

and all the mystery of Greece comes flowing back.

Goddesses in the Dirt: Mists

2012-01-09T07:26:00.000-08:00

An archaeologist unearths the Divine Feminine, one archetype at a time...

Goddesses in the Dirt - Issue #26: Mists

The word mist comes from the Greek mio, to close one's lips or eyes, or 'one who keeps silence.' It is the idea that the mist is a place of secrets, of transition, danger, and transformation, and is the root of the word mystery. The ancient Greek religion had cults called mysteries, which represented an opportunity for individuals to have a personal relationship with the gods.

I have been fascinated by mists since I was little. When I lived in Greece as a college student, I visited the site of Olympia. Situated in a valley surrounded by cypress, it is a gorgeous setting for this collection of ancient buildings and the site of the ancient Olympic Games. My first day I got up very early and was shocked to see a thick layer of white clouds lying below the mountain peaks - similar to those in this photo - seemingly close enough to touch with your hands.

It was then I realized why the ancient Greeks felt that mists were the manifestation of beings more powerful than themselves. The goddess Athena is often referred to as appearing to Odysseus in the form of a mist:

When Odysseus had finished his tale, the king ordered him sped to Ithaca. The sailors put him down on the beach asleep. Athena cast a protective mist about him that kept him from recognizing his homeland. Finally the goddess revealed herself and dispelled the mist. In joy Odysseus kissed the ground.

Mists are often associated with the supernatural even in modern culture. The writer Lawrence Durrell tells the story of a mist that enveloped a hiker on the island of Corfu, confusing and frightening him. The hiker said he heard voices emanating from the mist and months later inexplicably jumped from his Athens apartment, his phone found torn from the wall.

Mists keep things shrouded that are meant to stay secret. Another Greek goddess, Akhlys, was said to be found on battlefields, spreading mist over the eyes of the dying.

In the Mayan cosmology a goddess named Ayauhteotl was said to control the mists as well as the light and dark beams that appear at sunrise and sunset. Interestingly enough, she was also known as the goddess of fame and glory.

I love this photograph, which captures the essence and magic of mists. It was taken by Magnus McMahon - you can see this and more incredible photos like it on his blog here.

Every now and then I enjoy watching the movie Legends of the Fall, the tale of three brothers whose lives become entwined with the same woman. The film score is a beautiful song entitled Twilight and Mist. Below is a clip and the lyrics, which speak to the evanescent nature of mists and their perpetual entanglement with the feminine archetype.

Twilight and Mist

As evening fell, a maiden stood
At the edge of a wood.
In her hands lay the reins
Of a stallion.
And ne'er I'd seen a girl as fair,
Heard a gentler voice anywhere.
Whispered, "Alas..."
She belonged, belonged to another--
Another forever.
Yes, she belonged to
the twilight and mist

Lyrics by Brock Walsh

Composed by James Horner

Photos courtesy of Magnus McMahon and Google images

still hearing the echoes

2012-01-04T09:12:00.000-08:00

...of the holidays in the house

the rustle of paper under the tree

the fire crackling and popping (yes, i am too lazy to install hooks on the mantel for stockings....)

young guests playing with mia in the kitchen

getting ready to feed loads of people

all the foods of the season

i will miss having my kids nearby to hug whenever i want

too soon it's time to say goodbye

mia says goodbye too

and wonders where everybody went

(but dreams about it with the help of her christmas hedgehog toy)

Goddesses in the Dirt: Cailleach, the Queen of Winter

2011-12-26T13:25:00.000-08:00

unearthing the Divine Feminine, one archetype at a time

Issue #25: Cailleach, the Queen of Winter

Cailleach is the personification of the depth of winter ~ a goddess who manifests as a crone and reverse ages to a young bride in springtime. It is the theme of winter holding spring captive until the days warm and it is time for her release.

Cailleach derives from the word "veiled one" and means "old woman" or "hag" in Gaelic. Her nature is not as a goddess of fertility or death, but of transcendence. She is the star of many a Gaelic myth throughout the British Isles, most often as an old hag who is considered a goddess of sovereignty giving the mortal king the right to rule her lands. In stories she appears as an old hag who asks the hero to sleep with her: if he does she transforms into a beautiful young woman. This represents the ancient belief of a magical transformation that occurs in the depth of winter, promising that spring will return with its warmth and bringing rebirth to the earth's cold depths.

As the embodiment of winter, her special places are sacred stones, considered the bones of the earth. She carries a slachdam, or Druidic rod which gives her power over the weather and the elements. Cailleach is the goddess of the sacred hill, or Sidhe, and she is the one who governs dreams and inner realities. She is connected to the 'bean Sidhe' or 'banshees' which means supernatural women.

On a recent trip to Ireland I felt the presence of Cailleach, where the wind does a good job of veiling you naturally...

...and on the Cliffs of Moher, where Cailleach's force grows to tempest strength.

On this wintry day it felt like she was inviting my daughter and me to lean into her arms and feel her power,

enjoying a bit of windsurfing on the land.

The depth of winter is a sacred time. The earth is quiet and resting for another season. Somewhere deep beneath the surface the seeds are waiting for Cailleach's grip to release and begin their march towards the warmth of the sun.

Until then, enjoy the beauty of this season.

Mia the Airedale veiled in snow

Photos courtesy of the author and Google images

do they know it's christmas?

2011-12-20T11:10:00.000-08:00

earlier this year i wrote a post about a little school in africa - mozambique, specifically. the school is supported by a group of wonderful people whom i happened to have met through blogging, which makes me realize that connecting through this medium is more personal and powerful than i ever could have expected.

the kids at matsopane school do not have desks, or wooden floors, or - until recently - benches to sit on or an actual schoolhouse (the old one blew away in a cyclone). but they have some of the most creative kids on the planet. i know. because not long ago, i received a package from them.

this spring, i told the story of this little school to a group of 5 and 6 year olds at my children's former primary school here in the american midwest. the kids were shown slides of the kids in africa and told stories of their lives. their teacher, donna, let them draw pictures and helped them write letters to send to the kids at matsopane school.

i documented all of this in a blogpost and before sending, two friends - tim, and mina of dun dun mommy - lovingly translated the american kids' letters into portuguese, the language the students at matsopane speak. it was hoped that the african students would receive the letters and then reply, creating a link between the schools and the beginnings of a dialogue between students who live very different lives.

well it happened. the african students did send back a package of letters and drawings, thanks to my wonderful go-between, val, of monkeys on the roof. val goes to matsopane several times a year to deliver packages of supplies and gifts from many caring folks, including angela of letters from usedom (you can begin to see a pattern here with a loving blogging community!)

here are some of their gorgeous letters:

with images of their schoolhouse

their teacher

their families

their animals

the activities and games they play

transportation

charitable organizations with which they are familiar

i was mesmerized by the intricacy and beauty of their drawings

in a few weeks when donna begins her study of africa unit once again, i will bring the letters of reply to her classroom. her students are now in second grade, but we can continue this dialogue between schools........

and of children

meeting children
i feel blessed to be involved with this exchange - it is my own dream of africa.

the students at matsopane may now have a roof over their heads, and benches to sit on, but they are spending their days in this one room schoolhouse without desks. in this heart of the season of giving, if anyone feels the desire to support our adopted school in africa, i've reprinted below a letter from janet of under the blood red sky on how you can help.

thank you, and blessings for a happy holidays♡

with love,

amanda

Hello there!!!

While I'm paid to do work for Children in the Wilderness South Africa (environmental education for rural kids etc. etc.), you may or may not know I am involved with a little community school in Mozambique on the San Sebastian Peninsula, off the coast near Vilanculos

http://matsopaneschool.blogspot.com/
or
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=124940207533212

Through the amazing world of blogging we have managed to rebuild the one-classroom school (with no help from the Moz Dept of Education, but they were quick to let the community know we weren't allowed to rebuild the same crap type of structure they had, that was blown away in the cyclone of 2007. Go figure!!)

All that aside, the classroom is now functional - littlies in the mornings and bigger kids attend classes in the afternoons - my international blogging friends have sent money and the little basic rustic benches are being built with the money they have sent and we hope to be able to help fund the building of basic rustic desks some time next year. (We have involved the local community parents and they do the actual building - despite THEIR Chief demanding we pay him to help them!!! Needless to say he got "the finger" from us and the parents are forging onwards - but you won't read that on our blog!!!)

Now at this time of the year and as school year will start again before you blink, everyone is asking for something - including me. I am making it my mission to get exercise books, pencils, rulers, etc. for the kids (the international bloggers were doing this, but all the postal services charge more for postage than any parcel of goods was worth!!) so I will buy the stationery locally and Val in Phalaborwa will take the stuff through whenever she visits the San Sebastian Peninsula.
You might remember when I worked for the Vilanculos Coastal Wildlife Sanctuary - well the school is on the border of VCWS.

It is also a mission for international bloggers to send money to our FNB account so I've decided to appeal to my SA friends to help.

You can either send me donations of stationery (old pens pencils etc. lying around your house) or you can put some money into the FNB account.

My postal address for parcels (if you don't live close by for me to collect)
PO Box 25
Gallo Manor
2052

You can deposit money into our savings account - any amount, no matter how small, accepted.
(Account is in my name because it's too damn onerous and expensive to start an SA trust for a Mozamibican school and be able to open separate account, so we have a separate account in my name)
First National Bank 62248855762
Bryanston 250017
EJD Wilkinson

I hope you can do something - no matter how small

See you soon
Love
Janet

Xxx

Goddesses in the Dirt: Saint Lucia and the Festival of Lights

2011-12-12T09:51:00.000-08:00

Unearthing the Divine Feminine, one archetype at a time...

Issue #24: Saint Lucia and the Festival of Lights

I'm not sure how the patron saint of a town in Sicily became the focus of a major holiday throughout Scandinavia, but that is the strange story of St. Lucia - and it just gets stranger.

St. Lucia - or Saint Lucy as she is called in some parts of the world - is the patron saint of Syracuse, Sicily, where she was born. Seeking help for her mother's illness, an angel appeared to her in a dream. As a result, Lucy became a devout Christian and refused to marry. Her would be husband reported her to the Romans, who tried - with the help of a thousand men and fifty oxen - to drag her to a brothel. Not budging, they then attempted to set her on fire, but she wouldn't burn. In different versions of her story, a soldier impaled her throat with a sword, and another poked her eyes out with a fork. It seems there is no end to the ways women were prevented from seeing and speaking their truths throughout history.

At some point during the period of christianization, her tradition was grated onto a pre-existing Scandinavian festival of Lussiferda - in which witches are believed to take to the sky and make mischief on the night of the solstice. Between Lussi night, as it was also called, and the Yule festival, trolls and evil spirits were active and Lussis were thought to swoop down chimneys and grab children who had been mischievous. Interesting how the name recalls Lucifer, linking her to both elements of darkness and light.

Her feast day is celebrated on December 13, which was the shortest night of the year in the Julian calendar, ultimately adjusted to December 21 in the Gregorian calendar to coincide with the pre-Christian winter festivals. As her name means 'light' she represents - as many festivals at this time of year with long winter nights - the rebirth of light and growth for humankind as she emerges out of darkness. In Sweden, Norway, Finland and Denmark, a young girl is chosen on this day to portray Lucia and wear the white gown and crown of burning candles on her head.

The birth of light during the darkest time of the year is an ancient theme. The Christmas story is probably the most well known of this archetype, as well as the Jewish tradition of Hanukkah.

Every year at this time our neighborhood celebrates by lighting hundreds of luminaria candles along the streets in front of our houses. Naturally, I was so completely enthralled this year when taking a walk to see all the candles plus a near full moon overhead that I neglected to remember my camera. However I found this wonderful photo of a luminaria display with a full moon overhead for you to enjoy.

During the holidays I take no prisoners when it comes to twinkle lights. I drape them everywhere - on the bannister of the stairs

to the bust of Sylvia Puppo, who resides on our fireplace mantel. She is the self portrait of a sculptor whose home my parents bought. She left her portrait behind, and when my mother died and my dad moved away, I took her with me and now she watches over our home. I guess you could call her my very own St. Lucia.

St. Lucia's motto is "Ex Tenebris Lux" - Out of Darkness, Light.

Blessings to you all for a very Happy Holidays

Bottom two photos by author, remaining photos from Lucernarium, Flickr, touchofeurope and Cathy Bjork.

the buggle and the boy

2011-12-01T11:08:00.000-08:00

my daughter was home for thanksgiving and one day she came up to visit me while i was working in my office. when she saw a tiny photo of her i've had on my desk for years, she looked at it for a long time and then said,

"I sure look pleased with myself."

and i said, you were. you were very proud of the babushka that you insisted on wearing. i told her that whenever she dressed up like that she would tell me,

"momma, i'm a buggle."

translation:

"momma, I'm a big girl."

while she was home i needed her to look at some items of hers i was planning to donate to goodwill. even though now she really is a big girl and working in new york city, for a moment she was three again, looking over the crib full of dollies.

it was a bittersweet moment for the both of us. sorting through things that it seemed just yesterday she played with, today, sitting and gathering dust in the basement.

she wanted me to keep this small toy.

it is hard to let go.

so for the moment, the front hall is piled up with shoes

and the back door entrance is occupied by fencing gear.

my son is on a trimester system at college so he is home for 6 weeks. with him in the house, i will do more laundry, buy more milk and sleep with one eye open, waiting for him to come home in the wee hours. followed by the smell of 3 a.m. microwave popcorn wafting up the stairwell.

sigh.

normally i manage to keep things fairly clean around the house, but when my kids are home,

i treasure the mess ;-)

Goddesses in the Dirt: Kwan Yin - Goddess of Compassion (we need you now more than ever)

2011-11-28T12:37:00.000-08:00

Unearthing the Divine Feminine, one archetype at a time....

Goddesses in the Dirt - Issue #23: Kwan Yin - Goddess of Compassion

A 61 year old man falls in a crowd running into Target on Black Thursday. As he suffers a heart attack, people step over his body to get into the store. A two year old girl wanders away from her mother in a busy marketplace in China. She steps into traffic and gets run over - twice - while passersby continue with their day.

These tragedies force us to ask the question: Where is the spirit of compassion in humanity?

Ironically, the goddess Kwan Yin - the goddess of compassion - has her origins in China. Also known as Quan Yin, Tara, Amitabha and Kannon, she is the goddess who forgoes the bliss of Nirvana, or eternal salvation, choosing instead to save all the children of humanity. She is the descendent of Avalokitesvara, a Sanskrit name which means "She who harkens to the cries of the world."

The iconography of Kwan Yin is varied - often she wears flowing white robes and holds a white lotus flower in her left hand, a symbol of purity. Sometimes she is depicted as a many-armed figure, with each hand containing a different symbol of compassion, some forming a yoni mudra, or door for entry to this world through the womb or female principle.

As the enlightened one, she made a vow to remain in this earthly realm until all sentient beings have attained enlightenment and have become freed of the often pain-filled cycle of birth, death and rebirth.

There is little dogma involved with the contemplation of Kwan Yin. All that is necessary is to develop an inner sense of devotion and service to this world. Doing so has the effect of leading us to become more compassionate and loving ourselves.

The writer Don Miguel Ruiz says that what really matters in life is to be what we really are - to be authentic, to enjoy life and to be love. Not the symbol of love which humans have distorted, but real love, the feeling that cannot be put into words. The kind of love which - in a most extreme form - motivates a person to run into a burning house to rescue a stranger, and most recently in the news - gave a group of people the strength to lift a car off a victim trapped underneath.

Kwan Yin seemed absent in the tragic stories of the man and the little girl, but her spirit manifested. Eventually an old man came to the rescue of the child in the marketplace. Sadly, she had passed on, but the man carried her back to her mother, who was hanging out the laundry and had been unaware she was missing. In a heart wrenching and tragic tale that points up how some do not value human life, the most deeply ironic footnote was the old man's profession...a garbage collector.

I'd like to think the holidays are a good time to contemplate Kwan Yin and try to connect to our own inner spirit of compassion. No matter how much damage we humans do to ourselves and to one another, we always have the ability to choose our emotional response in any situation. Kwan Yin is patient with us: ever present, she is always waiting to manifest, and eternally ready to teach the lesson of compassion and love.

Photos from Google images

a vintage thanksgiving

2011-11-23T09:20:00.000-08:00

thanksgiving, 1960s. i am the munchkin to left, next to my mom. littlest munchkin in high chair will be visiting me tomorrow. yay!

happy thanksgiving to all my blog friends - for those of you who do or don't celebrate this holiday, may the season bring you many blessings. i appreciate every one of you who takes the time to read my posts, comment and share from your heart. thank you for all the joy and friendship you extend to me. my life is much richer because of it.

with love,

amanda

p.s. if you notice my mom's right wrist, you can see where i inherited the bracelet-wearing

crazy uruguayan dogs

2011-11-19T06:18:00.000-08:00

this past april after i traveled to uruguay, i wrote a post about it, in which i sang the praises of the best drink in the world, called a submarino - a whole piece of chocolate dropped into a glass of warm milk....

the cobblestone streets....

the cool old cars....

but what i didn't tell you about were the crazy dogs of uruguay

from the moment we got off the boat we were followed by a pack of them.

here is senor alpha dog and leader of the pack

barking up the wrong tree

one of his scruffy lieutenants

we could tell our long suffering tour guide was used to them. she would keep talking and raising her voice to be heard above their barking, avert her eyes when they did their business right where she was showing us a lovely park, pretend to not notice when they cavorted in and out of historic buildings she was telling us about. and all this was fine.....until we got to the church.

that's when my daughter and i lost it.

we were sitting in the pews, the tour guide going on about when the church was built, saying that many couples have come over from buenos aires to get married here because it's so pretty, and on and on, when all of a sudden one of the dogs saunters down the aisle. as the guide drones on, my daughter and i watch in amazement as the pooch decides to use the altar as his personal playground, proceeding to roll around in front of the pews, teeth bared, having the time of his life

here is senor loco doing his thing

my daughter and i were barely able to stifle our laughter. at one point he climbed up on the kneeler and looked out at his audience. when we burst into laughter our poor tour guide knew she had been upstaged. rolling her eyes towards the heavens, she let out these words with a deep sigh, making it patently obvious that she had to put up with this nonsense constantly:

"every day it is the same...."

this is dedicated to the crazy dogs of uruguay. we think of them often and wonder at the carefree attitude they show towards life - loosely organized into groups and falling into a natural pecking order, they run free and with abandon in these beautiful surroundings, doing whatever they want, whenever they want.

if only life were so simple for humans! ;-)

Goddesses in the Dirt: Baubo - Goddess of Belly Laughs.....and Starbucks?

2011-11-14T10:06:00.000-08:00

Unearthing the Divine Feminine, one archetype at a time....

Goddesses in the Dirt - Issue #23: Baubo - Goddess of Belly Laughs.....and Starbucks?

Have you ever laughed so hard it seemed to come from the very bottom of your being? Then meet Baubo, who figures largely in the myth of Persephone. When Persephone's mother Demeter was mourning the loss of her precious daughter to the king of the Underworld, she wandered the world letting all vegetation die until her daughter would be returned to her. When she arrived at the site of Eleusis she was the guest of King Celeus whose daughter - Iambe - tried to cheer her up. Together with an old woman named Baubo they sang obscene songs in Iambic meter and told lewd jokes. At the pivotal moment in the joke-telling Baubo lifted her skirts and exposed her belly and vulva at which point the goddess laughed, relieving the tension of her loss momentarily. In this act Baubo is seen as cunctipotent, an ancient word describing the demonstration of female generative power. Baubo's significance in the myth is to encourage Demeter to return to her own center of being and remind her who she is.

Old women in the myth cycle of Persephone personify the crone goddess of the triad with Persephone as maiden and Demeter as mother, illustrating the significant points in the life cycle of women. As the archetypal goddess of life, death and fertility, Baubo's irreverent joy and liberated manner towards sexuality reminds us to appreciate sex, love and laughter.

Sirens are mythological sea creatures who lured sailors off course with their enchanting songs only to wreck their ships on rocky coasts - the most of them famous being those in Homer's Odyssey. Below is a baubo siren, which is a cross between a mermaid and a sheila-na-gig.

Sheila-na-gigs are carvings of women with exposed genitalia, found on churches throughout Ireland, parts of Great Britain, France and other countries throughout Europe, but many are focused around the English Welsh border. Multiple theories exist as to why they appear on religious structures - some believe they were leftover fertility symbols from preexisting pagan cultures, others believe they were an early Christian way of demonizing the lustful female. This is an example of a carving

from Kilpeck Church, a 12th century structure in Oxfordshire, England.

However you perceive them, these fascinating symbols persist to modern day. Many may not realize the logo on their morning cup of joe has roots in what some consider an obscene image. Since Starbucks chose the split-tailed siren as its logo, the company has changed it twice because some customers found it too lurid. A more schematic image was developed, hiding the siren's breasts under its hair, and ultimately cropping it so the suggestive split tail would no longer be visible.

So the next time you make a stop at Starbucks, make a toast to the Siren on your cup..... and have a good old belly laugh in honor of Baubo.

Photos courtesy of Google images

welcome to where?

2011-11-10T20:55:00.000-08:00

this is the name of a town in slovenia. i kid you not.

i saw a lot of road signs last fall when i traveled to slovenia

when i was visiting my cousins

like this one welcoming visitors to my family's town

or this one warning drivers to beware of bears and wolves near tunnels (actually this was in croatia but who's counting...)

but somehow i managed to miss fuckovci!

when one of my u.s. cousins went to visit our slovene family this spring he happened upon it while driving through the countryside and snapped the foto.

fuckovci has its own facebook page, as well as an official information site.

which would be fascinating reading....

except for the fact it's written in slovene.

so now if you're mad at someone and want to tell them to go somewhere (but don't want to use a bad word)

just tell them to go to fuckovci!!

(hehe)

greece (and me) then..........and now

2011-11-06T14:25:00.000-08:00

i recently found this foto, taken 30 odd years ago, when i lived in athens. it was the night before i was to return to the states after living in greece for what seemed like a lifetime. i remember how excited i was at life stretching out in front of me.......and scared too. (and yes, i am smoking - bad girl. it was a hard habit to break in a country where everybody smokes, but then that's no excuse...)

so why do i keep returning to this place?

yes, because of my work (a long commute) but closer to the truth is that i guess i am intensity addicted. this landscape is so ancient and full of phantoms. as an archaeologist, it's a great place to dig things up - both in the soil and in the soul.

i didn't realize until i was going through fotos of my trip last november that my sister had taken a shot of me in almost the same exact spot.

it made me think how many centuries these stones have been here. how many people have sat upon them, looking out over this very same view, down to the herodus atticus theatre and across to the hill of the pnyx, over the staccato-like cypress towards the aegean sea in the distance.

and i wonder....what were they thinking about? did the sun warm them the same way — the birds shrieking and tracing the same patterns in the sky? did the ghosts of athena, pan and persephone escape from crevices in the ancient earth and whisper the same secrets?

i don't know. perhaps i'm not meant to....yet i keep returning. i like stones - both digging them up and just - sometimes - sitting on them.

forever trying to download history, and marinate in the mystery.

Goddesses in the Dirt: Why Halloween is Persephone's Favorite Holiday

2011-10-31T07:23:00.000-07:00

Unearthing the Divine Feminine, one archetype at a time...

Proserpine (1873-77) by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Goddesses in the Dirt - Issue #22: Why Halloween is Persephone's Favorite Holiday

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays...yet somehow I sensed early on - as I went trick or treating, enjoying the freedom of being outside at night - that there was more to it than costumes and candy. When I was old enough to be interested in history I began to research the roots of this day we have made into such a spooky event. Also, being raised Catholic, I was fascinated that the religious holidays of All Saints and All Souls Days coincided with October 31 and November 1. What could the church have in common with this ghoulish celebration?

The answer lay in Celtic tradition, which celebrates the four cardinal turning points of the seasons: Imbolc, Beltain, Lughnasadh and Samhain, which falls on October 31 and signifies the end of summer and official start of fall in the Celtic calendar. It is thought to be the time of year that the veil between worlds (our world and the afterworld - or Underworld) is thinnest and most easily penetrated. The word "hallow" means to sanctify and was incorporated into the Catholic Church to honor all saints, known or unknown. The thinness of the veil between worlds encouraged peoples' interest in divination and prophecy, also laying the groundwork for fears of possession by spirits of the dead.

During Samhain, the Druids celebrated by lighting an enormous bonfire on a hill. On this night, all Celtic households would douse the hearth fires and instead travel to retrieve the flame from the community bonfire to bring back home, often within a carved out turnip, signifying their unity and common purpose. The tradition was brought to America in the 1840s after the great potato famine. At that time Irish immigrants shifted the tradition to using pumpkins, which were plentiful in this country and easier to carve.

The pagan and Christian traditions became mingled along the way. During this holiday Christians would go door to door asking for Soul Cakes, in return they would pray for the dead. Pagan tradition during this time of year was marked by households leaving offerings of food and drink on their doorsteps to feed the spirits who might be out wandering during the night. People would often wear masks or other forms of costume - a tradition of guising that was thought to scare away unwanted or evil spirits.

Today we have commercialized this holiday to capitalize on society's appetite for the appealing aspects of dressing up, offering the freedom of trying on another persona and being someone else for a night...

...children have a chance to become the scary ghost as opposed to being scared by ghosts...

...and everyone likes free candy.

What many don't realize - consciously or unconsciously - is that the fun tradition of Halloween is deeply rooted in the belief that this is the time of year when the dead can communicate with the living.

As Queen of the Underworld - that's why it's Persephone's favorite holiday.

In the Celtic tradition I light a candle on this night. Wishing you all a very Happy Halloween.

Photos (except pomegranate and candles) courtesy of Tumblr and Google images

athens - city of wisdom, beauty... and sausage the riot dog

2011-10-23T09:45:00.000-07:00

since i moved to athens at 19 i've had a love/hate relationship with greece....

....but it's mostly love.

like any country, greece has its share of problems. when i was there this summer riots were going on in athens. just this past week violence erupted once again.

the greeks are very angry about the austerity measures imposed on them by the government - they accuse political leaders of strip mining government funds over the years to build their own luxury homes and line their own pockets. the situation is very dire here - friends of mine haven't been paid in months and have had to take on other jobs - sometimes two in addition to their main job, to support their families.

during my stay in greece the airport shut down, the taxis went on strike, the ferry workers went on strike. last week they shut down the acropolis. people are really pissed off. on a taxi ride to the port, our driver blamed america, and then israel. i suggested he vote out the corrupt politicians and elect someone he could believe in. he laughed, saying that he hadn't voted in years and wasn't about to start. i was alarmed by his apathy. it's difficult to understand a government that is not able to enforce the collection of taxes. it's just as difficult to understand how corrupt individuals in government can get away with crimes without being held accountable for their actions. for now, the situation is imploding, and lasting change will have to happen from the inside out.

this summer we drove through the main square of athens the day after the rioting. i took some photos of what we saw

city and community we have war (followed by the anarchist sign)

seeking freedom fighting all authority

protestors had set up a tent city in athens' downtown square

whenever the crowds gather to riot, a white dog - whom the greeks called 'sausage'

shows up and barks at the riot police

this isn't him, but we kept a look out for him all over town...

the police did not like me taking their picture

it was my son's first trip to greece, so in spite of the unrest we managed to see the sights....

as did a surprising amount of others

we visited the new acropolis museum, which is built on top of archaeological remains

covered in glass so you can walk directly overhead

gotta eat. my son's favorite meal

he said he wants to open up a gyro stand in his dorm room

taking in the view from a favorite perch above the city

i will always love this city and this country. i hope - sometime very soon - that it will resolve its problems. greece deserves - and needs to reclaim - the integrity and quality of leadership that is possible and can be expected from a people who gave birth to democracy.

in the mean time, i am lighting a candle for a country where the light - literally and figuratively - is like no where else on earth...

Photos of sausage the riot dog from Reuters and Tumblr

Goddesses in the Dirt: Our Lady of Perpetual Fear, Pain and Suffering... just to name a few

2011-10-17T07:04:00.000-07:00

I was raised Catholic...sitting Sunday after Sunday surrounded by images of beaten, bleeding saints. And terribly sad women. Most of the images of the Virgin Mary were morose, like this one.

For the first 18 years of my life I heard, over and over again: Lord, I am not worthy to receive thy word. I was taught to beat my chest. Was told I was full of sin before I was even born. Was marinated in all the shame, the sense of being doomed, the pervading sense of unworthiness. I really, really had trouble with that.

As kids, all we know is what we are taught - from our families, our religion, our culture. Yet hearing messages that beat you down long enough will have an effect on you...and they're not always positive. In my case, I felt silenced. And while the church may not have been the source of this, it didn't exactly boost my sense of self esteem either.

There have been many times in life when I lacked the confidence to use my voice. Like singing or speaking in public. Or anything that has to do with being in front of a crowd. For some reason a part of myself shut down.

Because this undermined my confidence, I've had to work really hard with this part. Sometimes it has made me angry: why do we feel the need to cover up what we perceive as our shortcomings? Why do we fear using our voice? Why do we wear masks and hide parts of ourselves? Is it because we are ashamed of those parts...that if someone found out about them, we would be rejected?

In a very strange way, traveling to Greece over the years has brought these issues to the surface. On several occasions in the past I experienced panic attacks while there, which made me ask: what was it about this place that had that effect on me? And I think I've learned the answer: Greece is home to the god Pan. As the root of the word panic, he is the god who wreaks havoc - not at nighttime - but at the height of the noonday sun.

In the intervening years I've realized that bright light, of which there is so much in Greece, casts the deepest shadows. If you are afraid of your own shadow, then the light will feel unbearable. In a strange way, this country has prodded me to realize that our shadow is where our strength and creativity is hidden. And unlike the church, it has modeled the Divine Feminine in a very different way, in the guise of Athena, Aphrodite, Artemis and Persephone...who embrace all aspects of the feminine, including many the church overlooks or erases: women who are fierce, wise, sexual, assertive, vocal, powerful, solitary, fearless.

So after all those years of staring into the faces of female saints and seeing fear, pain, and endless suffering I realized...

We are long overdue for a new version of the Divine Feminine — one that casts a gentle light, encouraging us to embrace our vulnerabilities, perceived failings and shortcomings. Most of us are taught to fear our own shadow - but what if we learned the opposite? That instead of chasing our shadow away, we could embrace it.... and in so doing find our own strength?

So this post is dedicated to a new goddess. I have named her:

Our Lady of Perpetual Self-Love and Self-Acceptance (and her irreverent and unselfconscious sister, Our Lady of Perpetual Love Handles, Unbridled Self-Expression and I Really Don't Give a Shit What Anyone Thinks of Me)

Who - instead of shedding a vale of tears - is laughing uproariously.

I wish you all the opportunity to find the courage to look at your own shadow and the wisdom to embrace what you find.

Now go in peace...and live it up. Amen.

P.S. here is her baby photo ;-)

Photos courtesy of Google images

Willow Ball Dahling

2011-10-12T07:54:00.000-07:00

Can it be possible..... that it's time once again for that grand event, a night to eclipse all other nights.........the Willow Ball?

Be still my heart.

Yes. Raoul has asked me to be his date....he chose this dress especially for me. For some reason, he has a thing for a scallop-shell bodice and tiers of tulle.

I have no idea why. But if I say no to him....

He flies into a rage

and then he sulks.

Oh Raoul, you are fantastico man candy. But I must say adieu.........your pouting and temper tantrums are much too much for me. I've decided instead that I want to wear something else........

Now we're talkin'. This dress will be perfect for my preferred date of choice on this night of all nights........he's still man candy, but he can teach me a thing or two that you can't Raoul.....

Meet my new date: Antonio Ereditato, head of the OPERA (Oscillation Project with Emulsion-tRacking Apparatus) Program at CERN.

You know, those folks who smash particles in an accelerator?

Oh Antonio - I love it when you do that...

Well, this guy promised he would explain to me how a couple of neutrinos managed to make their way from Switzerland to Gran Sasso, Italy, faster than the speed of light! Take that, Raoul!

However, if Antonio falls for my *twin* Robin's charms, as he always does (she loves OPERA after all), I'll need consoling....

Meet me on the veranda for one of our esteemed hostess' famous Last Word cocktails

Yes, I too can sometimes act like a crazed neutrino Raoul...

but you know you love it

just please...

try not to pull your hair out dahling

it's only a party...

santorini: on the edge of a dream

2011-10-09T11:30:00.000-07:00

after my son and i left ithaka we traveled to the island of santorini, which is formed from the remains of a gigantic volcanic crater. after a cataclysmic eruption some 3500 years ago the crater collapsed into the caldera, leaving the famous half moon shape so often depicted in photographs. the cliff face drops away into the sea and provides some of the most stunning views in the world.

you feel like you're on the edge of the world here

it truly is a feast for the senses

here, pictures really do tell the story, where words somehow pale....

so i'll leave you with some images from a place that seems like a gateway

to another realm

continuing story of Zainab

2011-10-06T08:33:00.000-07:00

Various media sources are reporting today that Zainab al-Hosni is in fact alive and appeared on Syrian television. She has not yet been reunited with her family who doesn't know why she disappeared. If in fact she is alive, it is a wonderful ending to her horrific story.

Yet the story doesn't end there - it just gets stranger.

Many questions remain - was she forced into an interview against her will? Is she being used as a political tool? And perhaps the biggest question:

Who is the young woman in the morgue whom the family identified as Zainab - and buried?

Below is an excerpt from The Guardian on the deepening mystery behind this story:

Syria's government has sought to score a propaganda coup with the mysterious TV appearance of a young woman who had been reported to have been beheaded and mutilated by state security agents.

The macabre story was revived on Tuesday when the main state TV channel screened a brief interview with a woman claiming to be Zainab al-Hosni.

International human rights groups and Syrian opposition activists said Hosni had been killed after being detained in July.

The station described the interview as intended to discredit foreign "media fabrications".

Hosni's family confirmed that it was her in the film, but they could not say whether she was alive or had in fact been killed after the interview. The episode thus ended up posing troubling new questions.

Last month Amnesty International described Hosni, 18, as the first woman to have died in Syrian state custody, after her mutilated body was discovered by her family at the military hospital in her home town of Homs, having apparently been tortured and partially dismembered.

In the interview, a black-clad young woman who identified herself as Hosni and flashed her identity card said she had run away from home in July because her brothers had abused her.

She said that her family did not know that she was alive and asked her mother for forgiveness.

"I am very much alive and I have opted to tell the truth because I am planning to get married in the future and have kids who I want to be registered," she told her interviewer, calmly but slightly hesitantly.

Relatives confirmed that the woman they saw on TV was indeed her, said Nadim Houry of Human Rights Watch.

"They were relieved to know their sister is alive, or hope that she is still alive. At the same time, they are angry and confused because they feel they have been tricked. All this confusion should highlight the need for the Syrian authorities to allow human rights observers into the country.

"This is a strange story that just got stranger. Let's establish some facts. There is a decapitated body of a woman that was buried by the Hosni family. Who is this dead girl who was buried?"

Goddesses in the Dirt: Zainab al-Hosni

2011-10-03T07:40:00.000-07:00

Goddesses in the Dirt: Issue #20: Zainab al-Hosni

I recently learned the gut-wrenching story of this beautiful woman who lived in the city of Homs, Syria. Her brother, Mohammad, was a well-known activist who spoke out against the current government regime. On July 27th, Zainab al-Hosni was abducted by what were believed to be members of a plain-clothes security force, with the apparent aim of pressuring her brother to turn himself in. A phone call from her captors warned him that she would only be released if he ceased his anti-regime protests.

Mohammad was arrested on September 10 and held at a Political Security office in Homs. Three days later his mother was summoned to retrieve his body from a local hospital. The body showed signs of torture, including cigarette burns as well as multiple gunshot wounds to the arm, leg and chest. While she was at the hospital, the mother discovered the fate of her missing daughter: her body was at the same morgue. She had been decapitated, her arms cut off and her body partially skinned. The mother was not permitted to bring her daughter home until four days later and was made to sign a document stating that her children had been kidnapped and abducted by an armed gang.

Homs is made up primarily of Sunni Muslims, but Christians and Alawites, a sect which supports President Bashar al-Assad, also live in the city. Ongoing protests have strained relationships between these communities: those suspected of being informants are being assassinated in the rising violence, and some fear the region could dissolve into civil war.

Zainab and Mohammad join a list of more than 2,220 individuals who have died working towards reform in the current Syrian regime. Thousands more have been arrested and many are being held at unknown locations at risk of torture or death. The people of Syria deserve what everyone on earth seeks: to live a life of peace and freedom with dignity. The eternal question remains unanswered:

Why must they suffer for wanting that?

After Zainab was buried, women held a protest in her home town. Chanting, "Syria wants freedom" they called Zainab "the flower of Syria." One woman held up a sign, 'Rejoice in eternal paradise' and another vowed:

'They plucked the flower. After me, a bud will rise up.'

return to ithaka

2011-09-27T10:28:00.000-07:00

August 31, 1956 Savas Georgiou arrives on Ithaka after sailing 6000 miles from New York

there's something about the island of ithaka that brings out the soul of adventure in a person. at least, for the past 20 odd years, it has done that for me.

once the excavation was over in pylos, my son and i got in our rental car, drove to the coast, boarded a ferry and crossed the wine dark ionian sea. i'm never sure how people i bring with me to ithaka are going to react to this remote corner of the world - after all, the island is not on most people's itinerary when they come to greece. for starters, it's way off the beaten path - the only way to access it is by ferry as there is not enough flat land for an air strip. as homer said about ithaka, it is a place 'good for goats.'

but my son told me it was one of the best places we visited on our trip. and why not?

here is one of my favorite views in the world by day....

and before dawn, when the cuckoos are still calling, the sky is creeping between shades of violet and pink

a different view of the main harbor - accessed via a very scary road with a steep drop off that gives me the willies - but is worth the drive because when you get there you feel like you're flying

a happy place

we stopped at a village in the north to eat some good fish complete with lots of latholemono (oil and lemon sauce - poured over virtually anything makes it taste good)

followed by a trip to the beach. ithaka's beaches - as most in greece - are not sandy but consist of smooth egg shaped pebbles. call it foot therapy.

what better place to ~~read~~ re-read john fowles' masterpiece the magus?

one evening we had dinner out in town with an old friend.

they say beware of greeks bearing gifts? not in this case....costis is a consummate host and possibly one of the most generous souls in the world

a grand time was had by all

the last day i took my son to ithaka's small museum to see the coins i excavated when i worked with an archaeological project on the island.

as you can see, he was mightily impressed
(museums are not his favorite thing ;-)

6:45 a.m. day of departure. the ferry is ithaka's only lifeline to the outside world.

if you're not on board by 7 a.m. the gangplank goes up without you.

over the years i've had repeated dreams of missing the boat to ithaka...

not to mention a fear of driving a stick shift onto greek ferries

i've had to overcome it in the intervening years

but sometimes i still get that queasy feeling in my stomach....

....at this very point, when i'm headed at an obscene angle on the gangplank, hoping the clutch doesn't give out

every time i leave ithaka i wonder, like odysseus, if i will return.

my son snapped this photo as the ferry pulled away this summer.

two decades ago, my mother took this shot of me as i stood in this same spot.

like odysseus, i will always want to return to ithaka...

so i guess some things never change.

Goddesses in the Dirt - Running with Athena

2011-09-19T11:54:00.000-07:00

Unearthing the Divine Feminine, one archetype at a time...

Issue #19: Running with Athena

When I traveled to Greece last fall, I decided - for the first time - to pack my running shoes. Yet when I landed in Athens: City of Athena, the goddess of war and wisdom, it didn’t take long to remember it was also a city of noise, pollution, and overwhelming traffic. Years ago, I used to live in this concrete jungle. Braving floods in the winter with water up to my waist as it cascaded down the steep streets after a heavy rain; dodging cars as they crawled over the edges of sidewalks during rush hours. This was no place to run. At least, that’s what I thought.

Then I remembered the new pedestrian path located behind my hotel. It used to be a busy downtown street, but in 2004 it was cobblestoned over and made into a pedestrian mall just in time for the Athens Olympics, creating a haven of peace in the center of the city. I took the elevator down to the lobby and crossed the marble floor: the automatic glass doors parted and I stepped out into the bright November sun. Turning right, up the hill, I raced tour busses as they gunned their way up the steep incline. Turning right again, past the neoclassical town houses that marked the original architecture of Athens, when it was a beautiful city nestled underneath the ancient marbles, not a smear of concrete as far as the eye could see. Turning left; a group of older women were coming towards me, their arms locked in military precision, their fine wool coats dusting the stones. I felt their gaze as I sprinted past, faster now. The road widened – to the right, clusters of pine trees, flagstone steps leading into the Herod Atticus theatre. A clique of black-clothed teens, smoking cigarettes.

A little further down, the road forked: I took a right and the path yawned towards the flea market of Monastiraki. Running along, I got up to speed, Paul Simon’s Rhythm of the Saints thrumming through my earphones, the cypress trees on the cliffs above like so many notes on a musical score. Suddenly, there was an opening in the screen of green and I saw it: the virgin temple, looming above. I could feel tears coming to my eyes – I was used to running at home, the expected houses of my neighborhood, the typical Midwestern sky above. But here………I felt like I was in a dream: I had the Parthenon all to myself. There she was, bobbing above me as I made a turn down a path, a fenced gravel road that offered pedestrians a shortcut through the archaeological site.

Through the chain link I saw small piles of abandoned ancient stones from former excavations. Where did they all belong? Numbered in bright red ink, they sat like old men waiting for death. A former Greek boyfriend had shown me this secret path, where Athenians could grab a moment of ancient silence and have these sacred structures all to themselves.

The gravel road ended at the Plaka near the entrance to the ancient marketplace. I did a small circle and jogged back up the path again; at the last minute, I decided to take a detour. This time the path was completely wooded on both sides, the wide flagstone steps leading upwards. An old man with his dog puttered in the grass, I breezed past two lovers sitting on a wall, embracing and leaning into the airspace around the Parthenon as if their lives depended on it.

Up, up, up……I felt the city sliding into the background, Bruce Springsteen screaming into my ears about the Glory Days. One, two, three minutes went by and I found myself alone. At the top of a rise, I stopped. There, spread out below me was the city of Athens, a mass of eggshell colored buildings lapping up against what little green appears in the frame, but mostly suede colored earth, rimmed by a slice of turquoise sea in the distance.

I took my off headphones and listened to the noise of the traffic fade away in the distance, leaving only the sound of bees hovering above the grasses and birds telling their stories from the pines. Behind me was the monument of the Pnyx, looming above the city like a stunted lighthouse. I waded through the monkey grass; taking one more look around to see if anybody was watching, I lay down on the earth. It felt warm, accommodating. The sky was blue, but the blue of old glass, the blue of cataracts. Clouds washed by, but I knew they were ancient. This was not my Midwestern sky. I was looking through time at another place. I sensed ancient women standing near by and the swish of himations, the classical white garments, the soft step of leather sandals. A flute playing and then a lyre. I closed my eyes and imagined the Pynx hill covered with initiates, their robes flowing, readying themselves for a ceremony.

How many feet had tread these stones in the passing centuries? Who had stood here and what had they thought about? Had they looked down and seen - not concrete apartment buildings - but the white hot rock surrounded by the sharp, stabbing cypress? Did they think it was beautiful, as I did? Underneath all that concrete, all that asphalt, lay a shimmering civilization. As long as I have been traveling to this place, it has always felt that a part of me slipped through a crack to that time.

It seemed like eons, but the present invaded my reverie with the sound of someone walking past. I hoped they didn’t see me lying here. Who was that in the bushes - a dumb tourist taking a nap? Foul play? Before I gave them a chance to see me I stood up, dusted off my shorts and plugged my earphones back in. Seal was cuing up, my blood was flowing back in anticipation of finishing my run. With the opening lyrics of Crazy vibrating in my ears, I turned back towards the path.

Good choice of music: I was just another crazy foreigner running past the monuments, but somehow I felt a little lighter in my step, my pace a little quicker. Suddenly I realized I wasn't alone: I was aware of goddesses all around me.....and one of them stood out. I sensed her presence all the way back to the hotel, her tunic snapping in the breeze, the sound of her sandals slapping against ancient stone. I may be only a mere mortal, but on this particular morning I was grateful for the wings the goddesses attached to my feet, I was grateful to have discovered a quiet ancient corner in this overwhelmingly modern city. And as I turned back onto the cobblestone path, past the old ladies cloaked in black, underneath the silent gaze of the Parthenon,

I was grateful to be running with Athena.

stuff archaeologists do

2011-09-13T07:27:00.000-07:00

what do archaeologists do.....

when they're not getting tied up

being chased by huge boulders

or cracking their bullwhips?

good question!

we ordinary non-cinematic archaeology types do more mundane things.....

like take samples of dirt from each locus

and record it using a munsell soil chart

if we find a large object broken into numerous pieces, such as this storage jar - called a pithos - we number the pieces before excavating it so the folks in the lab will have an easier time piecing it together.

we take photographs of any major find, as well as photos of each trench at day's end (and hope to goddess we don't fall off the ladder when we have to stand at the very top and the wind is blowing - this is as close to indy's level of action as i get)

we record everything that is going on in the trench - we make sketches of every find and locus (distinct areas within the trench) as well as record soil samples. we also keep lists of everything that is bagged, including pottery, soil, bone and shell, botanical remains, charcoal, changes in the soil color, composition, and if we're lucky, note any architectural features

pottery and most other finds get bagged in plastic and tagged with those shown below, but fresco and other plaster as well as special finds (intact pots, coins, figurines, etc.) each get stored in a foil tin.

whenever a locus is opened and closed, and for every significant find, an elevation reading is done, using the stadia rod and target (shown below)

which picks up the light from the laser level - a little thing that looks like R2D2 - (still in its box) is installed on top of the tripod - here's one of my fellow supervisors setting it up first thing in the morning

sometimes we take pictures of cool bugs that land near our trench

or objects we find, such as this base of a stemmed cup

intact bowls which we hope to excavate.........intact

or of our team having fun

we take time during the day to consult with the boss

or work in the 'office'

(do you like what i've done with the place?)

so while the life of an ordinary archaeologist is not as dramatic as indy's, we have as much excitement as we can handle!

the dig wound up several weeks ago, but it's been a busy summer and i'm just getting around to posting about it. because we have uncovered so many artifacts, including major architecture, it is important to take time off to publish the finds. as such, next year is a study season, and digging will resume once that is completed.

until then, my work shoes (and bullwhip ;-) are on vacation.....

top 3 photos courtesy of Google images

Goddesses in the Dirt: Our Lady of Guadalupe

2011-09-05T21:42:00.000-07:00

Unearthing the Divine Feminine, one archetype at a time...

Goddesses in the Dirt - Issue #18: Our Lady of Guadalupe

In 2005, I traveled to Teotihuachan, an archaeological site in Mexico known as the place "where men become gods." I assumed this applied to women as well, as I was doing a first: traveling with a group of women on a spiritual retreat.

I enjoyed meeting and mingling with women who had come in from all over the world. Every day was spent at the site, walking the sacred pathways which the ancients followed, and climbing the Pyramids of the Sun and the Moon, where we held meditation sessions. One of the leaders in particular caught my attention. She had been a student of Don Miguel Ruiz, the author of the book, The Four Agreements, and her name was Rita.

One evening, the group was invited to dinner at an artist's studio near the site. I noticed the walls were decorated with a large mural and was told it was a copy of the original Virgin of Guadalupe, whose image appeared to a peasant named Juan Diego on December 9, 1531 in the Tepeyac desert. According to the story, the Virgin requested that the peasant ask the local Bishop to erect a church on that very spot. When the Bishop asked for proof of the Virgin's appearance, the peasant brought back her image on the cloth of his garment. The garment, called a tilma - made out of poor quality cactus cloth - should have deteriorated long ago, and not have lasted almost 500 years. As such, it defies scientific explanation.

History tells us that Mexico was conquered by the Spanish only a few years before the image appeared to Juan Diego, and there are schools of thought that state the image is not miraculous but is the work of a native artist from the 16th century. Either way, between 18 − 20 million pilgrims visit Our Lady of Guadalupe each year seeking cures, and the list of miracles attributed to her image is remarkable. Being raised Catholic, I had assumed that this beautiful copy on the artist's wall was the typical depiction of the Virgin - cloaked in her robin's egg blue gown and hands clasped in prayer. Traditional symbolism states that her figure stands on the crescent moon - a symbol of the night and darkness - to show the then Meso-Americans that she was more powerful than the god of night. Guadalupe is a form of a Nahuatl word which means "to crush the serpent," and in the image, the Virgin is standing on top of a snake. The angel supporting her depicts the dawning of a new age, and signifies that she is royalty, as dignitaries were always carried on the shoulders of others. Her blue gown is the color of royalty and the rays around her signify the sun, which she is extinguishing, showing her as more powerful than the sun-god, Huitzilopochtli, whom the 16th century Meso-Americans worshipped.

What I didn't know was there was a lot more to the symbolism than I had ever realized. Rita proceeded to explain to me that the Divine Feminine is hidden in the image - not so hidden if you look closely - and the oval nimbus around her figure, edged in red, symbolizes the vulva and the entrance of life into this world.

After looking at the image for a long time, I realized I was witnessing the portrayal of female power in a whole new light. I've spent much of my life questioning the church's treatment of women and wondering why the female was shunned for being the evil sex. After so many years, it was refreshing to view an image of the feminine that combined the sexual and the sacred into one.

The artist Alma Lopez has created her own version of this iconic image, aptly entitled Our Lady of Controversy.

While I was never able to see the original Our Lady of Guadalupe, I appreciated the opportunity to be introduced to its complex iconography - however one chooses to interpret it - through this beautiful replica. Thanks to Rita's insight, I realized the Divine Feminine is abundantly present all around us —

and while Teotihuachan is known as the place where men become gods, all women can become aware of the goddess within.

top three photos courtesy of Google images

My 7 Links

2011-08-31T12:21:00.000-07:00

My friend Lola at Aglio, Olio and Peperoncino has nominated Travels with Persephone to participate in Tripbase's My 7 Links Project. The project aims to "unite all bloggers from all sectors" in a joint endeavor to share lessons learned, and create a bank of blog posts that deserve to see the light of day again. Each nominated blogger chooses 7 posts from their archives that fit into the following categories:

Your most beautiful post
Your most popular post
Your most controversial post
Your most helpful post
Post whose success surprised you
Post you feel didn't get the attention it deserved
Post you are most proud of

So without further ado, here are my answers:

Your most beautiful post:

Best. Meal. Ever. - about a random lunch stop along the highway between Ancona and Milan that ended up being well, the best meal ever.

Your most popular post:

The Snakes of Kefalonia - about visiting a Greek island village that is home to a mysterious annual festival involving - snakes! - has received 10,000 pageviews so far since its publication in February - I guess snakes stir up all sorts of emotions!

Your most controversial post:

Golan Heights and Galilee - about visiting northern Israel with one of my oldest friends. The border incident between Israel and Syria which occurred during my trip brought up powerful emotions about an area of the world many care deeply about.

Your most helpful post:

Momma Said There'd be Days Like This - a bit of writing advice that has worked for me.

A post whose success surprised you:

Olive Harvest in Greece - November is harvest time in Greece for olives and I happened to be there to accompany my sister, who was filming a documentary about the process. It was a blast from beginning to end to see the olives picked, to sort through the glorious range of colors from dark purple to sea green, then take them to the presses and finally - taste the end product by the sea. I loved witnessing this ancient process and apparently many readers enjoyed it as well ♡

A post you feel didn't get the attention it deserved:

Temple of Olympian Zeus - one of my first posts, which was inspired by a photo taken of my father after World War II in Athens. I loved writing this story, but my blog was just getting off the ground, so it wasn't read by anyone.

The post you are most proud of:

A Little School in Africa - about a little school in Mozambique that was blown away by a cyclone and adopted by a group of bloggers from around the world. Students at my kids' primary school in the states sent a package of drawings to the kids in Africa, and I just received a parcel of letters and drawings back from the students at Matsopane Primary School. Stay tuned for a future post when I highlight these little masterpieces from a tiny school with a huge heart.

Thank you dear Lola for this honor. It's my responsibility to pass it on, so I am nominating the creative minds behind these blogs for the 7 Links Project - please take a moment to check out these wonderful sites:

Options for a Better World
Stories and Scribbles
Miracle Sisters
The Violet Hour
Monkeys on the Roof

xo♡a

Goddesses in the Dirt: Thesmophoria - Women Swearing and Throwing Piglets

2011-08-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

Unearthing the Divine Feminine, one archetype at a time......

Issue #17: Thesmophoria

The Thesmophoria was an ancient fertility ritual practiced only by women in honor of the goddesses Demeter and Persephone. Ancient Greek women were not allowed to spend time away from their husbands except for this rite, and enjoyed the opportunity to be independent. The festival was most likely held at the site of the Pnyx, a hilltop in Athens. It lasted several days - some accounts state three days and two nights, some accounts say it lasted five days. It was held from the eleventh to the thirteenth of Pyanepsion (which roughly corresponds to the month of October.) For the duration of the ritual, women abstained from sexual relations and avoided foods connected to the goddess Demeter, such as the pomegranate, whose seeds were considered offerings to the Chthonic, or earth-related deity. Virgins were not permitted to attend the festivities.

Prior to the onset of the rites during a period called the Stenia, selected women placed fertility objects, such as phallus shaped bread, pine cones and sacrificed piglets in a snake-filled pit and waited for the contents to decompose. Then the women retrieved them and placed them, mixed with grain, on an altar.

The festival consisted of three distinct parts: the Anodos, meaning 'the way up', the Nestiea, or the fasting, and the Kalligenia, or 'beautiful birth,' and celebrates the myth of Demeter, the goddess of agriculture, who mourns the abduction of her daughter Persephone by the god of the Underworld, who does not allow anything to grow until her daughter is returned to her.

The first day - the Anodos - was the procession in which women approached the cult area carrying offerings. The second day was spent in mourning in honor of the goddess Demeter's sadness as she pined for her daughter's return, taking no food or drink. This was followed by a period in which the women engaged in foul language and jokes, in honor of Demeter's servant, Iambe, who attempted to cheer up her mistress by telling her jokes to bring her out of her sorrow. This also served to help the participants let off steam after a day of fasting and self-discipline.

The strangest activity was during the the third day, which involved the sacrifice of piglets - specifically ones that had been previously thrown into chasms (in antiquity, piglets were associated with female genitalia and as such, fertility.) This commemorated the disappearance of the pig farmer Eubouleus, who fell into the crevasse of the earth along with Persephone when she was being abducted by Hades.

Red-figure lecythus showing a young woman about to throw a piglet into the megaron. Fifth century B.C.
Athens, National Archaeological Museum.

Like many other rituals, the Thesmophoria was directly connected to the agricultural cycle and celebrated the seasons of planting and of harvesting by honoring the goddesses responsible for the fertility of the crops. It was one of many rituals throughout the year celebrating the sacred festival cycle of grain, including the Haloa (December), the Lesser Mysteries (February) the Skirophoria (June) and the most famous mystery cult of all, the Eleusinian Mysteries, held from 15 - 21 Boedromion (September).

Photos courtesy of Google images

Goddesses in the Dirt: Kali - Death. Blood. Mother. Got your attention yet?

2011-08-08T17:03:00.000-07:00

Unearthing the Divine Feminine, one archetype at at time.....

Goddesses in the Dirt - Issue #16: Kali

How you react to the Hindu goddess Kali is all in the perception. If you are attached to your ego then you will respond to her presence with fear. If you are evolved and in the process of transcending ego, then you will perceive this powerful goddess with her maternal and loving instincts. In truth, she is both loving and fearsome. She is the Dark Mother.

Kali was born from the brow of the demon-slayer Durga during one of the battles between the divine and anti-divine forces. (Note the similarity between the births of Kali and the Greek Goddess Athena, who was born fully formed, from the forehead of her father, the God Zeus.) The story relates that she was so carried away in battle that she began destroying everything in sight. In order to stop her, Lord Shiva threw himself at her feet. In her shock, Kali stuck out her tongue in astonishment and ended her killing spree.

Kali is often represented as a Black Goddess, signifying her all-embracing nature, as the color black absorbs all colors and dissolves them. Her four arms represent the complete cycle of creation and destruction. Her right hands form the mudra of 'fear not' and confer boons, representing her creative aspect, while her left hands symbolize her destructive nature. The bloodied sword and severed head represent the destruction of ignorance the birth of knowledge.

She wears a girdle of severed human hands which represent the principal instruments of work and the action of karma. Showing them as severed symbolizes that the effects of karma have been overcome. Her white teeth symbolize purity and her red, protruding tongue demonstrates that she consumes all in her indiscriminate enjoyment of the world's many 'flavors.' Her garland of fifty human heads refer to the fifty letters of the Sanskrit alphabet, symbolizing infinite knowledge. Kali's nudity represents her freedom from all covering or illusion. Her three eyes symbolize the sun, moon and fire, with which she is capable of observing the past, present and future. In fact, her name is rooted in the Sanskrit word 'Kala', which means time, and she is so named for her ability to devour time and resume her own dark formlessness.

It is Kali's aspect as a Mother Goddess which intrigues me the most. As the bond between a mother and child is one of the strongest among humans, it is her maternal qualities which inspire the most potent worship among her devotees. Yet her followers never forget Kali's frightening aspects, and do not try to see only this pleasant, nurturing side to her character. She may be a most formidable and terrifying Goddess, but it is because of this she is able to teach mankind that sorrow, death and destruction are not be avoided or explained away. To deny pain is futile. To those who truly understand, Kali represents the freedom that comes from accepting all which this dimension of existence offers. The freedom to live and enjoy the present moment comes only after one realizes one's ego is not the center of things, and that accepting one's mortality allows one to delight in the play of the Universe. This concept is central to that of the Goddess Persephone: a key participant in an ancient Greek mystery school which promised initiates that it was through the acceptance of death and transcedence of one's ego that lay the opportunity to be psychologically reborn to this life.

I was recently watching a television program which focused on the origins of our universe with commentary by the preeminent physicist Stephen Hawking. Hawking's concept about the origins of our Universe deny the aspect of a Creator because, as he says, time itself ceased to exist before the Big Bang, and time, in his opinion, is necessary for there to be a 'someone' to exist 'before' the creation of the universe. Hawking's explanation of our Universe's birth in 'time' is eerily similar to Kali's manifestation as time itself, and demonstrates that humankind's belief in a Divine Creator or Creatrix is as eternal as humankind's scientific curiosity. As long as humankind exists, the longing to explain our world through both the scientific and the spiritual will exist.

Kali's appearance as disheveled and wildly out of control represents our world's tendencies to do the same. For those of us living in our present time, Kali is very much with us. She may be a force to be reckoned with, but she is a necessary one. In order for us to meet our fate, to meet what it is we need to be doing in this lifetime and essentially - find out who we are - we must face these formidable forces. The secret Kali has to tell us is this:

the forces are not somewhere out there.

They lie within each one of us.

the secret lives of archaeologists, continued

2011-08-02T13:30:00.000-07:00

i know. it's a tough job, but somebody has to do it.

this is the view from my window where i stay during excavation season.

a few days into the season my son came to join the project and work with the team. here he is the first night, sitting on the balcony and checking to see how well the internet works

it's a wonderful experience when you can be with a child outside your normal day to day lives. to introduce him or her to the things in life that interest you, to a job in a part of the world that makes your heart beat faster...

i am very fortunate. i had the ability for my daughter to join our excavation a few years ago in greece - and this summer it was his turn to join me in this adventure. the digging is an adventure, of course, but traveling with my son this time around was a wonderful change of pace from previous trips we had taken together.

before this, all the traveling we did as mother and son revolved around his fencing career. criss crossing the united states to attend competitions. it wasn't really all that fun. on competition days he had to get up at dawn, put on his uniform and get ready for battle for at least 7 hours.

so when he woke up the first day at 5 a.m. to head to work at the excavation (about the same time we would have to wake up to drive to the convention center in any given city to check in for his competition) he said, "it's a lot more fun to wake up to do this than go compete and spend all day in a tournament venue."

so he spent all day doing this--

helping to set up the auto level with a colleague (also called a laser level - a machine that resembles R2D2 in Star Wars) which we use to calculate elevations of finds on the site (more on that in a future post)

chipping away at the soil with a screwdriver and handaxe (well-worn technique ;-) while listening to Goddess knows what on his Ipod

taking a turn with the big pickaxe

while a fellow teammate looks on

having fun perfecting his 'technique'

And this is our schedule:

5 a.m. Rise and shine

5:25 a.m. Breakfast. Sit, bleary-eyed and watch students sleepwalk through the buffet line. Take as many pieces of fruit as I can manage, slice bread, slap salami and cheese on them, wrap in napkins and stuff into knapsack. Do not - on pain of death - forget the two large water bottles.

6 a.m. Begin the 25 minute drive to our site. Through tiny villages. Up cliffs. Past olive groves. Swerve around the odd goat blocking the road.

6:30 a.m. Arrive at site. Set up the autolevel. Retrieve pickaxes, handaxes, trowels and buckets from supply pile. Instruct workmen on the day's goals.

7:00 a.m. Busload of student volunteers arrives.

9:30 a.m. Cookie time. With more than one hungry young male on my trench team, I felt obliged to feed the hungry beasts. By the end of our stay, it had become a highlight of our day.

11:00 a.m. Lunch. Head for one of the tents to duck into the shade, or lean against an olive tree for al fresco dining. Excited conversation and joking is typical at the beginning of the season, with lunchtime becoming quieter as the weeks wear on.

1:15 p.m. Begin clearing trench for end of day photographs.

1:30 p.m. Workers and students leave. Staff stays behind to complete trench photographs, pack up equipment. Lock gate and secure site.

Afternoons free. The bus takes students to a beach - I head back to the hotel. Some days at 3 p.m. would find me head down on my arms, asleep on a small table in my room. Eventually take a shower, which involves extricating myself daily from the flimsy curtain and reaching across to the sink for my shampoo bottle as there is no soap dish in shower. Step out of shower into pool of water on bathroom floor - mop daily with extra towels that I steal from the linen closet. Towels turn reddish brown from dirt which cannot be washed off no matter how hard one tries. Report to hotel manager, Hercules (yes, his real name) to please install soap dish in our shower. Yes, of course, he promises, he will fix it tomorrow for sure. Soap dish never installed. Hercules remains as charming as ever, but the 12 labors of this Hercules apparently do not include fixing a broker shower curtain or installing a soap dish.

6:30 p.m. Staff meeting.

8:00 p.m. Dinner. Consume enormous amounts of food. Or, cut entree portion into half and save for lunch the next day.

9:30 p.m. Most likely, asleep.

Day off: Strap on my running shoes and begin my run through the streets of this little Greek village. Attract the attention of locals as I huff and puff up inclines, past the Venetian fortress, sweating profusely. Who is this crazy American woman and what is she running from?

this is a view of the town we live in during the season. yeah, i know.

it's a tough job.....

Goddesses in the Dirt: Everything But the Kitchen Sink

2011-07-25T09:22:00.000-07:00

Unearthing the Divine Feminine, one archetype at at time.....

As Monty Python says: And now for something completely different.

Every other Monday I publish a new article in the series: Goddesses in the Dirt: Unearthing the Divine Feminine, One Archetype at a Time. For this week my Goddess story comes in the form of an entry to a short fiction contest sponsored by The Tenth Daughter of Memory. The muse for this contest is: "A Better Ending."

A note to my readers: Even though I normally document my above world journeys, archaeological and otherwise — I agree with Persephone that the most mysterious journey of all is heading into the Underworld.......and excavating one's voice.

Thank you for reading Travels with Persephone. And for those of you who comment, I deeply appreciate your words.

Goddesses in the Dirt: Issue #15 - Everything But the Kitchen Sink

Genelle lifted the lid off the tupperware container. The smell was so bad that she dropped it and stepped back, away from the granite countertop. She stood for a moment, then placed her hands on the cold, gleaming surface and steadied herself. It was real granite, alright. Black, finely veined with blue - a sort of Tiffany box blue, a color not known to nature.

"It'll go perfectly with the cherry cabinets," Craig had said the day they went to Home Expo to pick it out. "Hand made by the Amish."

She remembers laughing to herself. How ridiculous. Here she was, thinking about how she was going to tell her friends that the cabinets in her new kitchen were made by a Luddite with a fuzzy beard who wore a straw hat and rode a horse and buggy. Did that make the cabinets more precious, more........desirable? What funny things we felt we needed to do to impress people.

Like that asshole law partner of her husband's......what was his name? Larry? She had to attend one of those nauseating firm dinners the week before and was seated next to the guy. He had gone on all night about his new Porsche, his new McMansion, his latest vacation, his latest wife. Made to order with liposuction, lip implants and the usual boob job. And after pounding four Tito's Handmade Vodkas on the rocks, she overheard him, slumped on the junior partner seated to his other side, boast slurringly about his new mistress. Also made to order with liposuction, lip implants and the usual boob job. The guy may have been mind-numbingly boring, not to mention amoral, but at least he was consistent in his love of plastic.

She started to shut the lid on the 5 day old lasagna then thought better of it and dumped the contents into the sink. She leaned over and wiped the bowl, flushing the remains down the garbage disposal. Placing the retractable faucet back into its housing she recalled the argument she had had with her husband.

"I need a double sink Craig," she had said as they stood side by side, staring at an Everest of stainless steel mounted to the wall of the showroom. "I've always had a double sink."

She couldn't imagine it any other way. She had become used to balancing the dirty pan on the bridge between the main bowl and the smaller garbage disposal side. Tip the pan and the sludge just slid off into the disposal. Easy. Why change now?

"A single bowl makes more sense when you think about it," he replied. "Just one big size fits all your pans." He ran his hand across the lip of the bowl, bolted to the wall like a trophy head. "No tipping necessary."

"But I like tipping," she said. The store made her feel as if she was trapped in a box canyon, her voice echoing and reverberating off endless walls of tile, fabric, and plate nickel, disappearing somewhere in the appliance section.

"Honey, I've read a lot about this type of sink," he went on. "Consumer Reports states that it's the best one to buy. It's made out of this amazing material - it's sort of a fusion between silicon and granite."

"I don't give a shit if it's made out of Kryptonite!" Her voice was growing louder. She noticed people turning around, looking at her. "I want a double sink. This company doesn't make double sinks."

"But this one is big enough to hold all your pots - you don't need a double sink!"

She felt a burning sensation around her neck, heat shooting into her face.

"What the hell do you know about sinks, Craig? You don't cook. I cook - I'm the one who's operating in this space. What makes you think you can choose what kind of sink I use?"

She felt her underarms getting wet, her blouse sticking to her back. She knew it didn't matter. Why did it matter? Why did she need to win this argument? They were installing a new kitchen for God's sake. That's all it was. A kitchen. It was not the Battle of Bull Run. She looked down at the floor. It was that linoleum that Home Expo specialized in. Black and white tiles, made to look like you were in the loggia of the White House.

"I just want a double sink. Stainless steel. It's what I've always had before and I want to continue having it."

"But Consumer Reports says-"

"Fuck Consumer Reports. Why is it you have to reverse engineer every decision we make in our lives? Even going to the movies — you can't just pick up and go see something on a whim. It has to be given a stellar review by A.O. Scott in the New York Times. Otherwise it doesn't have the Craig stamp of approval."

"Honey, don't you think you're getting just a little out of kilter over this? I mean, it's just a sink."

She looked around. The store was like a huge, suffocating barn, filled with everything a modern couple needed: fake Oriental rugs, about 5000 hideous light fixtures, endless rows of toilets sitting like thrones in individual fake bathrooms. Some of them black. Who the hell needed a crapper that looked like modern art? I mean, you sit on it and shit on it.

"I know it's just a sink. But it's my sink. I use it. I cook with it. I clean it. I should choose it."

Craig made that un-huh sound he always did when he was losing interest in the conversation and started to move away. She watched him, his back silhouetted against the faux alabaster sconces in the lighting section. The Casablanca ceiling fans caught her attention, the whup whupping sound was suddenly deafening, dopplering off the canyon walls. Hovering just above his head, the propellers seemed poised to decapitate.

On Sunday nights, when she was a little girl, she used to watch the plate spinner at the end of the Ed Sullivan show. Sitting on the worn leather ottoman, transfixed by the man racing from pole to pole, the rods swaying under the pressure, keeping those white china plates revolving like so many neutrons in orbit, she held a Barbie doll in her lap. She had saved up enough nickels from her allowance to go to Ben Frankin's Five and Dime to purchase her own Barbie. But the only one left on the shelf was not the blond ponytailed one with the black and white striped swimsuit that she had wanted - it was the one with a short haircut. Bubbly hair that was coarse to the touch. Couldn't be combed. She never knew she had a choice. Or to wait for the one she wanted. She just remembered handing over that box of tinkling silver nickels, heavy in her hand, and settling for what was left on the shelf.

With no blond ponytail to style, the only fun thing to do with this Barbie was to remove and replace its earrings: tiny pearls at the end of spears impaling its head. Eventually the head came off the neck, leaving a stub of ugly flesh protruding from square shoulders, swiveling arms and breasts that were probably like the sonovabitch lawyer's wife.......or mistress. Perky. Plastic.

"But it will dent." Craig reached up on the shelf to replace a sample faucet head. "And once that happens, you will have to live with the damage."

She felt herself getting lightheaded. The furniture section was just across the White House loggia tiles. She sat down on a fake leather club chair; the material crunched under her thighs. She watched as Craig moved further down the aisle, pulling out faucets and retracting them, battling a phalanx of silver snakes, until he disappeared around the corner.

"Yes, I will have to live with the damage," she said under her breath.

Eventually the sink was installed. Along with the Craig/Consumer Reports approved Finnish faucet. Over time it contained charred cookie sheets. Grill pans that had to soak overnight to remove sticky, burnt-on residue. And dishes from the firm dinners she hosted, her stomach leaning against the Kryptonite lip, watching uneaten dregs of Cherries Jubilee spin down the disposal in a bloody mass, drowning out the drunken voices from the dining room.

The sink was even deep enough, as Craig had promised, to hold a roaster after Thanksgiving dinner. She learned to scrape off the food without balancing the pan on the bridge between the sinks. She learned, over time, not to miss it. She could never tell if this one had actually been better, she just knew it was another ending in life that she had settled for. But she prided herself in learning to make do with what she was given. She had learned to balance in another way. Like plates, perched on top of poles, spinning and always about to fall.

Photo: nancysdreamhouse