Who are the Crones?

We are the crones, the old and wrinkled, wise ones. We have many names— Hecate, Spider Grandmother, Demeter; Siren, Gaea, and Oracle. We wait at the crossroads. We praise and encourage the living, we honor and care for the dying. In times of darkness, we know spring will return.

Woman Launching Boat, bronze sculpture, cherry wood, LH

Woman Launching Boat, bronze sculpture, cherry wood, LH

At the time of the winter solstice ancient people believed that we must help the Light to be reborn. In many cultures, the crones facilitated this return. Women carried the mystery of life and death; women labored to guide back the sun. 

 Then things changed and men took control of women, especially in matters of religion.

Buddhism has traditionally followed the established social norms of the patriarchy into which the Buddha was born. When the Buddha established the rules for his followers, he differentiated between nuns and monks. Any nun, no matter how old or enlightened, had to bow down to a monk, even a novice. In Zen monasteries, the lineage of the transmission from one male teacher to the next has always been chanted as part of the service. Recently, things are changing. At Zen Mountain Monastery we now chant the names of the enlightened women of the way in addition to the male lineage. There were many great and compassionate teachers who taught students both male and female. Today, we have an altar in the front of the meditation hall for Mahapajapati, the first Buddhist nun and teacher.

I began to think about other groups of women left unsung. In the American frontier world, Johnny Appleseed is a celebrated hero. He stands out as a bold revolutionary, spreading seeds and saplings, helping the settlers establish ownership to land by planting an orchard, and sharing his beliefs based on the Swedenborg religion. But who are the frontier women who helped create this country?  I found a few famous names—Belle Star, Poker Alice, Pearl deVere, Annie Oakley, Etta Place, and Calamity Jane. Belle was known for riding in a black velvet dress, six guns on her hips, and holding up stagecoaches. Poker Alice—you guessed it—was a devilishly good poker player, and bordello owner. Pearl deVere operated The Old Homestead, a lavishly upscale brothel in Cripple Creek, Colorado. You get the picture. Nice women don’t make history, but the names we choose to remember determine the history we remember.

The myths of ancient people are filled with stories of goddesses whose powers equaled that of their male counterparts. The history of women in the West is much more than brothels, bars, and Wild West shows. It is the story of hardworking American women, Native American women, Spanish-Mexican women, and the Chinese immigrant women who were sold and shipped to California by their impoverished families to work in laundries, bars, and mining camps. We need to remember all of these women and what a dark place the world has been for so many of them.  

Solstice Fire, Old Frog Pond Farm, photo: Alexis Pappis

Solstice Fire, Old Frog Pond Farm, photo: Alexis Pappis

December 21st is the winter solstice, the darkest day of the year. At the farm we have a solstice fire where we reenact the return of the sun. In our ritual, it is the crones who go on a journey to find the sun and rebirth the Light. The crones remind us that there are many kinds of darkness. The darkness of racism and sexism, of hatred and war, of injustice, of sorrow and loss. The crones also remind us that there is darkness inside each of us, as well as a light. It is from this light, this often forgotten or darkened light, that the Goddesses labor, and birth the sun. Like Demeter knowing that she will be rejoined with her daughter, Persephone, we need to trust that the light will return, grief will be healed, and plants will bear fruit again.

Carl Jung said, "One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious." In remembering the names of those women who are forgotten, we shine light into the darkness of their cultural obscurity. As we light the solstice fire, we bring light to this world stamped with anger, aggression, and force. In gathering and opening our hearts to one another we grow the light. Happy Solstice!

The Olympic Bell (Part Two)

Last night I shared dinner with two friends, Mike and Ron. We sat around Ron’s dining room table surrounded by a Castor plant with its reddish feathery leaves, the large spear-leaves of a Bird of Paradise, the succulent greens of an enormous Clivia, and the large strong vines of a Night Blooming Cereus. Ron Kearns, a landscaper and plant lover, designed and planted the wildflower garden around the Olympic Bell that is in a quiet grove between our two houses.

The Olympic Bell is an installation by Paul Matisse, my former husband, that now permanently resides at the farm. Paul designed and built the bell for the Olympics in Greece, where it was installed below the Acropolis. I wrote a blogpost, The Olympic Bell – Part 1, during its installation at the farm and posted a photo of its installation in Athens. Now, I want to share its incarnation among New England’s version of stone columns, our majestic white pines.

The installation went smoothly, the bell rang all summer and fall as visitors to the farm discovered its magic and walked away carrying some of its powerful embodiment of depth and conviction. Some people visited it for the first time, and then returned again bringing their friends and family. The bell offers that kind of gift.

I walk out usually once a day to give it a ring, noticing on my way the footprints of other creatures like deer and beaver who make this same excursion. I enter the bell’s grove, stepping over the flat rock threshold. Pulling on its mighty rope, I like to lift the heavy hammer once, let it fall back, and then give a strong, long heave, letting hammer and bell meet. The sound penetrates down from my head and rises through my feet meeting somewhere in my heart space. It’s a deeply satisfying sound, as its maker describes it. I am filled with weight as I take it in. I feel the responsibility and greatness of being alive on this earth.

My friend, Linda Fialkoff, rang the bell and then sent me these words that expressed its sound.

Oceans

Cosmos

Aeons

Linda Fialkoff Ringing the Bell

Linda Fialkoff Ringing the Bell

 

Another friend said, “You know, Linda, I think it should have another name.” I looked at her in surprise, but asked, “Well, what would you call it?” She paused and then said, “The Earth Bell.”  I thought, that does describe it. It is a bell of the earth.

Ron made us vegetarian chili, opened a bottle of red wine, passed a plate of grated cheese, chopped cilantro and avocado. Mike, the other guest, brought thick fried spicy potatoes with onions. I asked Ron what he wanted to do for the next ten years, but he turned the question back to me.

“I want to get my book published.” The words flew out out before I gave it any thought. I have been writing this book for at least five years, and it is time to finish it and move on. The memoir begins when I leave my marriage of twenty years to Paul and move to this small farm in Harvard with an old apple orchard. In bringing back the orchard, I connected to part of myself that was underground, a seed waiting for fertile ground to put out my first tender rootlet. With the bell’s arrival on the farm, it feels like a completion of all that I was trying to understand and share in the writing of the book.

We each have our own way of connecting to our creativity, the seeds deep within. They need our nurturing, and it does take persistence and patience. The wildflower garden that Ron designed and installed creates a sacred grove that takes you outside of the farm, away from time. The sound of the bell opens the door to that fertile field.

You are welcome to come by and ring the bell anytime. Park in the usual spot and walk around the pond. If you have never been here and don't know where to go, please ask. Let’s keep sounding the bell and let its deep sonorous tone fill the air, creating more space for our deepest seeds to resound.

 

The Lessons of a Tortoise

Chinua Achebe is one of Africa’s great storytellers. In one of his books, Anthills of the Savannah, he includes a fable about a leopard and tortoise:

The leopard had been looking for the tortoise and hadn’t found him for a long time. On this day, on a lonely road, he suddenly chanced upon Tortoise, and so he said, “Aha! At last, I’ve caught you. Now get ready to die.” Tortoise of course knew that the game was up and so he said, “Okay, but can I ask you a favor?” and Leopard said, “Well, why not?” Tortoise said, “Before you kill me, could you give me a few moments just to reflect on things?” Leopard thought about it — he wasn’t very bright — and he said, “Well, I don’t see anything wrong with that. You can have a little time.” And so Tortoise, instead of standing still and thinking, began to do something very strange: he began to scratch the soil all around him and throw sand around in all directions. Leopard was mystified by this. He said, “What are you doing? Why are you doing that?” Tortoise said: “I’m doing this because when I’m dead, I want anybody who passes by this place to stop and say, ‘Two people struggled here. A man met his match here.

I had to read this tale again to make sense out of it. I knew there was a lesson, but I couldn’t articulate it immediately. I tend to best understand the world visually and viscerally, not intellectually. I put myself in the tortoise’s position and imagined thrashing my own arms and legs. I wasn’t going to just sit back and let the leopard pounce and eat my body. I was going to engage, to struggle, and to be active till the end.

Last weekend my partner and I attended a production of the musical, Top Eye Open, written by Dillon Bustin at Hibernian Hall in Roxbury. The play takes place in Boston, in 1850, the year the Fugitive Slave Act was signed, a mandate that required states to return runaway slaves to their masters and made it criminal for anyone to help fugitive slaves. The play’s narrative line is formed around the lives of several runaway slaves and the people who helped them towards freedom. Hearing these stories lit the embers in our hearts.

Runaway, wood and bronze figure, LH

Runaway, wood and bronze figure, LH

As the last applause faded, a woman in the audience stood up and said, ‘I’m not speaking for the production or Hibernian Hall, but this play is a great reminder. Today, officials in Cambridge declared their city, a sanctuary city. We need to ask the mayor of Boston to follow. We all need to keep our Top Eye Open,” referring to the fact that if you were once a slave, even in the North, you needed to be careful whom you trusted, and even when sleeping, keep your “top eye” open. She ended by saying, “Not on my watch!”

All the World's a Stage, restructured chair and bronze figure, LH

All the World's a Stage, restructured chair and bronze figure, LH

Cambridge has been a sanctuary city since 1985, that is, a city that doesn’t cooperate with U.S. customs and immigration enforcement policies. It stands to lose federal funding when Donald Trump comes in to office. Most of us don’t know about sanctuary cities because we are not immigrants:

As a Sanctuary City, Cambridge affirms the basic human rights and dignity of every human being and provides education, health and other services to all residents of Cambridge, regardless of their immigration status.

Stories are powerful reminders of those who have struggled before us. On this weekend of Thanksgiving, let’s all remember to struggle against injustice and complacency. Let anyone writing the history of these turbulent times declare, “The people rose out of their dormancy in unforeseen numbers and the dirt flew in all directions. With sand in his eyes and dirt covering his spots, the leopard slunk away. Then, as the world watched and waited, a bale of turtles flapped their way out of the ground. Their mother’s legacy survives, even stronger than before.”

Snapping Turtle Laying Eggs at Old Frog Pond Farm

Snapping Turtle Laying Eggs at Old Frog Pond Farm