Untitled, by Courtney Brooke
Share your nature photography and artwork on the Pagan Newswire Collective Flickr group. For more information, check out our submission guidelines.
Earth and Nature in Pagan Traditions
Untitled, by Courtney Brooke
Share your nature photography and artwork on the Pagan Newswire Collective Flickr group. For more information, check out our submission guidelines.
December 20, 2011 by Alison Leigh Lilly • Categorized: Earth Matters.
It’s become a winter solstice tradition at our house to wake before sunrise on the morning after the longest night and head down to the local park where we climb the highest hill and greet the new sun with songs and offerings. My husband’s four kids are with us for the week, and we spend hours in the days leading up to Alban Arthuan preparing for our dawn celebration, rehearsing songs like They Might Be Giants’ “Why Does the Sun Shine?” and making birdseed ornaments and other animal-friendly decorations to leave as offerings to the land spirits in the local woods.
This year, we’ll be spending the winter solstice with my parents in Lancaster, and instead of my husband and I attending Christmas Midnight Mass at my father’s church, my parents will be rising at dawn with us and the kids and tramping out to the woods to join in with our Pagan celebrations. The kids are extra excited to be spending their first solstice with their new step-grandparents, and we’ve been working extra hard this week to make sure we have all of our gifts to each other and to the gods ready to go. Here are a few of the recipes we’ve used as we get ready for an earth-centered solstice…
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Dough Ornaments
These ornaments make great gifts for grandparents! They’re made from the simplest of materials: flour, salt and water. The kids love helping to mix the ingredients and kneed the dough, and it’s also a great opportunity to talk about the magical and spiritual importance of these staple foods, and how they have helped our ancestors survive the cold, dark winter months of scarcity for generations.
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After baking, these ornaments harden into a permanent shape perfect for painting and decorating. We used whole wheat flour, so ours came out looking dark, almost like real gingerbread cookies! (But don’t eat these – they’re definitely not edible!) Cookie cutters are a really easy way to go, but this year we decided to use a cookie pan with snowflake designs. Then we decorated them with non-toxic kid-friendly paints and added some seasonal-colored yarn for hanging.
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Bird Seed Ornaments
Every year, we also make ornaments out of bird seed that we can leave as offerings in the woods for the local wildlife to nibble on. The kids really enjoy having a hand in creating our solstice offerings and choosing a special tree in the park to decorate for the holiday after our ritual blessing ceremony. These birdseed decorations make perfect offerings, and show kids that caring for the land is not just something we do through prayer and ritual but also through our everyday interactions with the other plants and animals who live with us.
Cookie Cutter Birdseed Ornaments
Ingredients & Supplies:
Directions:
Ingredients & Supplies:
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This year, we made one batch of birdseed mix and used half to make cookie cutter ornaments and half to make orange rind baskets. The wonderful thing about these ornaments is that every part of them is useable. Once the birds and squirrels have finished with the seed mix, birds can use the twine or yarn to line their nests. For a decorative flare, you can also create garlands of fresh or dried fruits and nuts (like cranberries, raisins and peanuts) to hang along with your ornaments.
December 17, 2011 by Eli Effinger-Weintraub • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.
Once upon a time, which is not time as you and I know it, Dark and Light held equal power. They were not universally loved, this is true: some beings flourished in Light and feared Dark, while others thrived in Dark and shunned Light; but everyone understood that each was an unavoidable reality, and that each played a vital role in the life of Gaia.
Then one day, which is not a day as you and I know it, the Upright Folk came to have a bit of power in the world. The Upright Folk loved Light and dreaded Dark; Dark-loving creatures often hunted them, creatures with faster legs and sharper teeth and keener eyes. But the Upright Folk were so clever that they soon discovered ways to store Light to use in times of Dark. They crammed Dark into smaller spaces and times of day and year, until very little remained for it, and the endless celebration of Light left many of Dark’s beings dazed and disordered, blundering about without homes in a bright landscape.
Worst of all was the singing. On Light’s most powerful day, the Upright Folk sang songs of its triumph, as was fitting, but on Dark’s most powerful night, they sang only about their gladness that Light would soon return.
Dark despaired. It could think of nothing it had done wrong, yet the Upright Folk seemed determined to banish it from their lives. Dark moped and fell into a dark mood, which, since it was Dark, was very dark, indeed.
And then, one night, which is a night as you and I know it, only much, much longer, Dark heard a new song. Some of the Upright Folk were singing songs about Dark — celebrating it! Dark listened deeper, and beneath the songs it heard a silence — a silence in its honor! Dark looked across the world, into the nests of the Upright Folk, and saw that some had turned off their clever Light devices and had chosen, through that long, long night, to sit with Dark. Dark felt loved, and Dark felt stronger.
More nights passed. More days passed. More Upright Folk sat in silence and dark. Some of their tribes even agreed not to use so many of their clever Light devices, because they missed Dark and the beings who loved it. Dark gleamed black with joy. The Upright Folk still feared it, and they would always treasure Light more, but they understood that each was an unavoidable reality, and that each played a vital role in the life of Gaia. Once upon a time, perhaps, equal power would be restored.
Note: a big thank you to all the artists who allowed me to use their images in this post! I encourage readers to check out their galleries at the links in the captions of the pictures.
This is part two of a two-part series; you may read part one here.
There are many purposes for shapeshifting—celebration, drawing on the power of the being you’re changing into, learning to change yourself, etc. There are also many techniques, some stationary, others involving dance and other movement. This version of shapeshifting is quieter, and is primarily for the purpose of creating connection with, and fostering awareness of, other beings. It’s a way to begin healing the rift we as a species have created between us and the rest of the beings we share this world with. It requires a certain level of intimacy; you can’t become a being without having some empathy for it, and the world could certainly do with more empathy all around.
Although you can theoretically shapeshift (non-physically, of course) into any being (and I use that term to refer to animals, plants, waterways, mountains, and more), I recommend choosing a being who is physically close to you, such as a particular tree or waterway near your home, or a species of animal that you see frequently. Even in my fairly urban Portland neighborhood, I still have a huge maple tree right outside my kitchen window. No matter the weather or my state of health, I can still check on “my” tree to see how it’s doing, how many leaves are left today, who’s perched in the branches, and so forth. And I have a good vantage point to watch the crows, fox and grey squirrels, and scrub jays that frequent the tree and surrounding high places.
You’ve already created something of a personal connection there, but let’s talk about taking it further. How much time do you spend every day observing this being? If it’s something relatively stationary like a stone or pond, try to make a daily visit in all weather, at least as much as you’re able. Or, with animals, see if there’s a place where you can fairly reliably see individuals of the species, if not daily then at least regularly. Take note of what you see each time. How does the being change with the time of day, the weather, even the seasons? How does it fit into its niche in the ecosystem, and are there any changes in that over time? What about human impact?
Balance out all this experience with some research as well. Read about the being online and in books; talk to others who have worked with it. Get the objective viewpoint to balance out your subjective observations and impressions, and allow them to complement each other.
This all can be an investment of years. That’s okay. We spend years getting to know other people; it works for other beings as well. Even after you’ve tried shapeshifting to this being, you can still keep up the daily observations, just as you may regularly check in on loved ones.
There’s no single, universal “right time” to make the step from observation to shapeshifting. A lot of it has to do with mutual trust; a being that doesn’t trust you won’t open up, and it’ll be harder for you to be receptive to a being you’re wary of. When you feel the time is right, go to the being. If the being is stationary, ask to sit on, against, or otherwise near it. For animals, sit where you’ve been able to observe them best (hopefully by now they’re used to your presence). If you are unable to be at the place itself, such as for health or safety reasons, find a place at home or otherwise where you can meditate for a while, undisturbed, and perhaps have some reminder of the being you’re connecting with at your side.
If you’ve already “spoken” with the being or a totemic representation thereof, great! If you haven’t done such communication yet, you may wish to use a guided meditation to introduce yourself. Here’s a simple one:
Close your eyes. Relax. Breathe. Be aware of where the being is in relation to you. Imagine a shining cord extending from your third eye to the being—not quite touching, but inviting the being to make that last step to complete the cord between you. Once the cord is complete, greet the being, and begin the conversation. When you feel the time is proper, ask the being for its help with shapeshifting, that you want to have a better understanding of it by becoming, even just a little, more like it. Allow it to answer as it will, and go from there.
If the being isn’t ready, respect that. Keep up your visits, and when you feel ready, try asking permission again (unless you have gotten a very firm “No, never, not at all” from the being).
Once you have gained permission, then it’s time to try the shapeshifting itself. Go back to the place where you can be with the being without disturbance. Close your eyes, breathe, and relax. Be very aware of your boundaries, physical and otherwise—where “you” end and the rest of the world begins. Now imagine those boundaries are becoming much more permeable.
Make physical contact with the being or its representation, and allow the boundaries between you and it to be more blurred. You may feel as though you are “melting” into each other, or you may feel your own form change and move to be more like that of the being. You may even feel you are being carried along by the being, a sort of “rider”; there may even be multiple representatives if you’re working with a very social animal such as schooling fish. Any way it manifests, allow this change to happen, and observe how your perceptions and thoughts change as well.
What is it like to be that being? How does it differ from being yourself? How do you feel? Is it fun? Scary? Do you feel curious? Are some things more important to you now than they were before, and are others less so? How comfortable are you in this form?
Is the being itself staying in contact with you while you shift? Try asking it questions, if you can, or share observations—after all, it’s the expert on being itself!
When you’re ready to come back, thank the being for its help. Then imagine what your body feels like normally, or state your name, your address, and other “human” things. Don’t rush it; allow yourself to ease back in, let the boundaries reform at their own pace. Once you’re awake, take some time to ground. Eat something protein-heavy, observe the way your hands move, recite the lyrics to one of your favorite songs. Do things that gently bring you back to being human.
After you’re done, think about how you feel about the being now. Do you have more empathy for its place in the world, and the challenges it may face? Do you feel differently about yourself and your own place here? What may you have learned from this experience that you didn’t know or understand before?
Do keep in mind that all of your impressions are still processed by your very human brain and mind, even in the depths of the shapeshift. You can’t entirely sever your connection to
being human. It is a good idea to check your impressions against more objective information, and to have sensitivity toward whom you want to identify with. It may not cause much trouble for you to be convinced that mosquitoes really suck other animals’ blood because they want to steal their power. However, shapeshifting into American Mink, and then being convinced that you now have to free all the caged mink at fur farms, is a bad idea, no matter how deeply you may have connected with that totem.
Done with care, shapeshifting can be a highly effective way to be more empathetic toward other beings, to raise our everyday awareness of their presence, and to foster greater consideration of them both individually, and as a society.
December 14, 2011 by Admin • Categorized: Natural Reflections.
In honor of the coming winter solstice celebrations in the Northern Hemisphere, and the plethora of amazing images and photographs shared to the Pagan Newswire Collective Flickr group pool, today we’re pleased to feature a selection of photographs from several different Pagans. Enjoy!
Happy Yule!, by Kevin
WILLENDORF 2, by Irene-Maria Seimann
The Goddess Project: Persephone, by Sarah and Jenn
Six Seeds, by Alison Leigh Lilly
Share your nature photography and artwork on the Pagan Newswire Collective Flickr group. For more information, check out our submission guidelines.
December 7, 2011 by Admin • Categorized: Earth Matters.
Every year, thousands of people around the country come together for an international day of action against the fur industry. Fur Free Friday is celebrated on the day after Thanksgiving, the busiest shopping day of the year. Each year I help by dressing up (or sometimes dressing down) in silly, eye-catching costumes that draw attention to the animal skins trade. This year I dressed as a caveperson with fellow demonstrators in northwest Washington, DC with a simple message; “only cavepeople wear fur.” Though the demonstrations are usually fun and light hearted, the message is a very serious one.
Each year, more than 31 million animals are killed by the fashion industry to make fur coats, collars and cuffs. Some say this number is conservative and have placed the estimates as high as 60 million. Animals in fur farms spend their entire lives in cramped filthy cages where they often go mad or die from the extreme conditions and lack of care. Those who survive the cages are often electrocuted at “harvest time”. Many stay conscious after electrocution and are skinned alive.
As a Pagan, the environmental cost of fur is particularly alarming to me. Each mink skinned by fur farmers produces about 44 pounds of feces in his or her lifetime. That adds up to 1 million pounds of feces produced annually by U.S. mink farms alone, polluting our waterways. In Denmark, fur farms generate up to 8,000 pounds of ammonia that’s released into the atmosphere each year. Due to the precious natural resources consumed to operate a fur farm, it takes about 15 times more energy to produce a real fur coat than a faux one.
I was taught early on that if Paganism is to survive, it must evolve with the times. This is often reflected in many traditions’ concern for the planet and our natural resources. Even the small amounts of fur and skin produced for the average drum has a high cost that’s paid by our fragile environment. When so many other fabulous and warm alternatives exist today, what reason do we have to continue to support this costly and violent industry? Maybe it’s time we leave fur in the stone age where it belongs.
David Salisbury works with the DC Bureau of the Pagan Newswire Collective. An activist and Witch, David’s practice finds its home within The Firefly House, a nature-based church in the DC area. You can find his work at DavidsCauldron.com.
There’s a recurring dream I have; it started when I was young. In it, I take my form as a white wolf. I’m in a forest, and the forest is burning. The tall pines and fir trees crackle and split in the flames around me, and I can hardly breathe for the stinging clutch of smoke at my throat. Hot embers scorch the pads of my paws. The tops of the trees begin to topple over, weakened by the flames, and the ground is suddenly made more hazardous with smoldering logs. If I could only find my way out…where is my pack?
I awaken suddenly, panting, startled, thrust back into my skin and flesh and bone all too quickly.
Human legend and lore is full of shapeshifters. Sometimes the changes are literal—physically transmuting the body into that of another animal, or even a plant or stone. Sometimes the person may become a breeze, or a waterway. Sometimes the change is conscious and consensual; other times…not so much.
There are other shapeshifters, too. They include those who take on many roles—Lugh Samhildánach (The Many-Skilled), who excelled at any task given, or polymaths like Leonardo da Vinci. Many people, from thespians to cosplayers, take on a new persona when they don particular clothing; we see this in the wearing of ritual regalia in many traditions as well.
Shapeshifting, for some, is only about taking on a role, wrapping a core self with a persona that may be worn or removed like clothing. But in a more ritualized, spiritual setting, shapeshifting is about becoming something other than ourselves.
The idea of stepping outside of the self and into another is often alarming to the Western post-industrial mindset. It brings up inaccurate images of mental illnesses, or at the very least identity confusion. We are taught that each person has only one identity, and while it may be tweaked a bit here and there depending on whether you’re talking to Aunt Mabel or your secret crush or a job interviewer, you’re still supposed to essentially be you.
Yet to be done fully, shapeshifting necessitates a very deep empathy with another being. Most of us don’t empathize beyond emotions; we allow ourselves to feel with another person’s pain, for example. But to really become another being, we have to open ourselves up beyond that, and set ourselves aside.
I am 23 years old, at my very first pagan gathering, a weekend celebration at Brushwood Folklore Center in New York. Night has long since fallen, and I am at the drum circle, with a fire burning brightly in the center. In my hands I hold my grey wolf skin that I have transformed into a dance costume with carefully tied leather straps. I have spent hours practicing dancing in it in my apartment for the better part of a year, but this is the first time I’ve been brave enough to dance in front of others.
I drape the hide over my head, slip my arms through the same holes that lupine muscle and bone once filled, and tie the hide to my head, wrists and ankles. I feel Wolf the totem, and wolf the spirit, slide over me with the hide, and I suddenly feel I am so much more than myself. I step into the lines of dancers circling around the fire again and again, and I—we, the wolves and I—begin to dance. And soon, it is just I, Wolf-I.
We require an Other place to shift into an Other self. It may be Other only in the sense that one’s physical setting has changed—going from work to home, for example. But the Other place may also be the land of dreams, or the spirit world of journeys, or a physical wilderness unlike one’s home territory—or a deliberate ritual setting.
The dreamland is often the first place we experience shapeshifting of some sort, due to its universality in our experiences, as well as its mutable nature. The dreamland may alternately be described as the subconscious romping ground of our brains and the cumulative inner landscapes we have inherited from our many ancestors, or entry into an entire world apart from us where we might literally meet our ancestors, among other spirits.
As we grow older and become more integrated into relationships with other beings, human and otherwise, we develop the ability to make subtle changes in ourselves according to present company and setting. The shifts are largely unconscious, and we may only be peripherally aware that they’re happening most of the time. By comparing how we present ourselves in various situations, we can begin to better understand the processes by which we change.
Ritual is a deliberate shift. We put on special vestments, create ritual space, and utilize items that are unique to that setting. We may still remain ourselves, though yet a different part thereof. But some of us also become other beings entirely through invocation and similar rites. While our earlier experiences with shapeshifting may seem to be out of our hands—literally—practice does make perfect, or at least better.
Drumbeats carry me into the journeying state; I can still vaguely feel my left arm pounding the beater against the horsehide drum held by my right. However, it is an arm covered in white fur. The fingers are shorter, stubbier, ending in claws, and growing less and less human as I watch. Were I to return to my physical form, I would find myself just as human as ever. But here, in the spirit world, my human form melts away—wolf-form is easier to travel in, easier to protect myself in. And there are beings who will only speak to me in this form, too. Humans can be scarier than wolves, you know.
Consciously shapeshifting into another being, especially with the aid of a representative of that sort of being, can be one of the most powerful acts of magic. The effects may be wide-ranging.
On an individual level, we may go places we couldn’t otherwise, in spirit and in emotion and in mind. We can break out of personal ruts, learn valuable lessons from the beings we become that we can then bring back to our human lives, and strengthen our imaginations and other creative spiritual skills.
We also stand to learn more about the world around us, to be more aware of the importance of other beings and places. It is harder to disregard someone that you have been yourself, even for a short while. Indeed, for many people what is most sacred is that in which we are most able to immerse or surrender ourselves.
Those sacred things that allow us to temporarily blur or remove our boundaries vary from person to person. I have limited my anecdotes to my experiences with Wolf and wolf spirits—partly due to tradition, and also to show that it’s possible to work with the same energy/being in different forms of shapeshifting. But it is quite possible to connect with a variety of animals, plants, stones, waterways, places, and yes, even buildings and statues and parks, through shapeshifting. This holds true whether it’s on an individual scale, or something as potentially elaborate as Joanna Macy’s and John Seed’s Council of All Beings.
In my next post, I’ll be offering more practical information on methods of shapeshifting, with a special emphasis on practicing it as a way of connecting with other beings.
December 5, 2011 by Alison Leigh Lilly • Categorized: Science & Spirit.
Almost every religious tradition has a creation mythology or genesis story about the triumph of order, light and civilization over the powers of confusion, darkness and wilderness. Though details differ from culture to culture and era to era, many of the themes are remarkably similar: the churning waters of chaos in which all substances are intermingled and indistinguishable; the first divine act (a breath, a coupling, a hatching, a birth) that begins the process of separation; the death or dismemberment of a deity to create the very stuff of the universe.
As people living in a modern society informed by the discoveries of science, we have a tendency to think of these cosmogonic (literally, “order-begetting”) myths as made-up stories that our ancestors turned to for explanation in their ignorance of the facts. Particular creation myths might be moving, beautiful or meaningful for us, and so true in some deeply metaphorical way, but most of us shy away from claiming that these stories must therefore be factual accounts of what actually happened. Instead, science offers us evidence in support of theories like evolution and the Big Bang to explain how the world came into existence and life evolved into the myriad species we see today.
But what if science uncovered evidence that these ancient creation stories might just have gotten some of the facts right after all? That’s looking more and more likely, according to geneticists seeking clues to the origin of life on this planet in the shared genetic traits of plants, animals, bacteria and microorganisms known as archaea. Piecing together the puzzle of evolution over the past several billion years, scientists now believe that our last common ancestor may have been a planet-wide “mega-organism” so huge that it was the size of the sea itself.
Scientists Meet Mother Ocean
From the beginning, evolutionary biologists have postulated that all of the organisms currently living on the planet must have originated from a single shared ancestor — a theory that recent statistical analysis now confirms is more probable than there being multiple ancestors by a factor of 10^2860. Scientists call this great-great-grandparent organism from which all current life descends LUCA, or the Last Universal Common Ancestor, and estimate that it lived between 2.9 and 3.8 billion years ago.
Since very little evidence remains to show what kind of beings lived in the ancient seas of our young planet, genetic researchers have had to piece together the lingering traces of similarities in molecular structure shared among the three domains of life: single-celled archaea, bacteria and multicellular eukaryotes (plants, animals, fungi and the rest). The details get pretty technical (if you want to know more, check out this article in Science Daily), but the long and short of it is that scientists now have a pretty clear picture of what LUCA might have looked like.
What does that picture show? Something pretty startling. Billions of years ago, life existed as a primordial living soup that used the oceans as its medium, spanning the entire planet in what scientists are calling a “mega-organism.” (Think: the leviathan from the Illuminatus! trilogy or, better still, the living ocean of the planet Solaris in the novel of the same name.)
The latest research suggests LUCA was the result of early life’s fight to survive, attempts at which turned the ocean into a global genetic swap shop for hundreds of millions of years. Cells struggling to survive on their own exchanged useful parts with each other without competition – effectively creating a global mega-organism.
LUCA’s cells lacked the specialized molecular structures of cells today which allow them to efficiently and precisely control the production of the proteins they need for survival. However, those ancient cells did have primitive organelles and the basic enzymes necessary to break down and process nutrients, as well as the ability to build proteins in a clumsy, hit-or-miss kind of way. They also had “leaky” membranes that made the exchange of genetic material much easier, encouraging cooperation and coexistence rather than competition among cells.
That’s why LUCA had to be cooperative, with any cells that produced useful proteins able to pass them on throughout the world without competition. This was a weird variation on what we know as natural selection — helpful proteins could go from a single cell to global distribution, while harmful or useless proteins were quickly weeded out and discarded. The result was the equivalent of a planet-spanning organism.
This latest research puts a new twist on evolutionary biologists’ assumptions about “survival of the fittest” among primitive life on the planet. Rather than a single-celled organism that slowly evolved into a multicellular structure in order to gain the competitive edge over other early forms of life, it now seems likely that LUCA began as a vast, multicellular organism that thrived through cooperation and interdependence, breaking up into different entities as its parts became increasingly self-sufficient. Today’s bacteria are not more complex or sophisticated than LUCA’s cells; they are actually simpler and more streamlined.
Ancient Myth Meets Modern Science
So what did the old creation myths get right? Almost every culture in the world has a cosmogonic story that shares one or more of these themes: the primordial waters of chaos, the separation of substances into their complimentary (and competing) opposites, and the dismemberment of a god or other being from which the world itself is made. Each of these three themes can serve as a pretty accurate metaphor for what scientists now believe to be the factual history of how life evolved on earth.
Chaotic Waters
The dark waters and murky depths of the ocean have long held sway over the human imagination as the realm of confusion, disintegration and mystery as well as the source of creation and life. The ancient Babylonian creation myth describes a primordial goddess of chaos named Tiamat, who held the other gods — as well as the yet-unnamed sky and earth — within her body where “their waters were mingled together.” In the Judeo-Christian genesis story, the creator god Yahweh moves across the face of the roiling waters before speaking the single word that will part them to create heaven and earth. Similarly in ancient Egyptian mythology, life is said to have arisen out of the lifeless, watery abyss (deified as Nu), and in both Greek and Norse mythology the wellspring of creation exists within a dark void of nothingness from which the first waters of life spring.
In Japanese mythology, the story is told of how the two spouse-sibling deities Izanagi and Izanami plunged a jeweled spear into the thick soup of the ocean and stirred until the briny substance congealed into islands, forming the archipelago of Japan. Nearby in China, it is said the primordial giant P’an-ku formed inside a cosmic egg in which all the stuff of the universe was mixed up together, and that as he grew, he cracked the egg open and divided its shell and inner mixture into the opposites of yin and yang, earth and sky, male and female, and so on. In their own way, each of these myths evoke the sense of life appearing from the dark, chaotic depths of undifferentiated form where all substances mix and mingle together. One could hardly find a better description for what life must have been like in the earth’s oceans some 3 billion years ago.
Separation and Competition
In several of these myths, we can also see the recurring theme of the separation of these chaotic, intermingling waters into distinct elements that both compliment and compete with each other. Gods like Yahweh, P’an-ku and Atum are said to have divided this basic formless stuff of the world into opposites like heaven and earth, land and sky, male and female, light and dark, day and night, sun and moon. In Greek mythology, out of the void of Chaos comes Gaia (earth), along with Tartarus (abyss) and Eros (love) — or in other words, both separation and space, and the potential for attraction and relationship between distinct beings.
Sometimes this separation is an act of masturbation, while other stories describe it as a birth. In some cases — such as in the Chinese story of P’an-ku, the Hiraṇyagarbha (“Golden Egg”) of Brahma in Hindu cosmology, and in some versions of the Egyptian creation story — the birth takes the form of hatching from the cosmic egg. In Polynesian mythology, the earth-goddess Papa creates the oceans when her belly swells so full of water that they suddenly burst forth, giving birth to the sea god Tangaroa, who proceeds to separate his mother earth from her lover, the sky (Rangi). Besides being a separation of the offspring from the mother, such a divine birth often results in the separation of primordial gods into male and female pairs. Egyptian mythology holds that Geb (earth) was joined in eternal sexual union with Nut (sky) until their offspring Shu (air, or emptiness) came between them and forced them apart. In Greek mythology, the machinations and betrayals of the father by a son who sides with his mother is a theme that recurs through several generations of deities.
These stories of separation, division and distinction strongly echo what scientists think might have been the reality of LUCA’s fate, as this planet-sized, oceanic mega-organism broke apart into individuated, self-sufficient entities capable of surviving on their own. With this new independence came an the end to the playground of free genetic exchange, and in its place arose competition and the more familiar process of natural selection as we know it today. Ancient myths of divine sibling rivalry and conflict seem especially poignant in light of such scientific theories.
Dismembered Gods
Finally, another common element in many creation stories is the dismemberment and scattering of a divine being’s body to create the very stuff of the universe. In Norse mythology, the frost giant Ymir and the giant cow Auðumbla are both born of the commingling of opposite elements in the life-giving moisture called eitr, which formed when the congealed rime of the icy realm of Niflheim fell through the void into the fiery realm of Muspelheim where it melted and joined with sparks of flame. The sons of Auðumbla’s offspring eventually rise up to kill Ymir and dismember his body to create the world. His blood becomes the sea, his bones make the mountains and his skull becomes the sky. In a similar story in Babylonian myth, the primordial sea-goddess and mother of creation Tiamat plots to kill her own descendants, but they discover her plans and eventually her great-great-grandson, Marduk, defeats her in battle, cutting her body in half. He uses one half to create the earth and the other to make the sky, while her tears became the source of the Tigris and Euphratus rivers. From the blood of her consort, Kingu, Marduk created the first human beings. Both of these creation myths are arguably further examples of the male and female separating from a single undifferentiated substance, with their divine offspring or descendants eventually rising up to set against the parents.
Another example of the dismembered god can be found in Hindu cosmology, which tells the story of Purusha, a primeval giant chosen by the gods as a sacrifice from whom they make the world. His feet become the earth and his head the sky, his breath is the wind, his eyes are the sun and his mind becomes the moon. The four castes of Indian society were also said to have been made from Purusha’s body. And last but not least — in ancient Chinese mythology, after being born in the nourishing soup of the cosmic egg and separating the elements into their opposites, our old friend P’an-ku finishes his act of creation by bursting apart his own body to create the ten thousand things: his eyes become the sun and moon, his head the sacred mountains, his blood makes the rivers, his hair becomes the grass, his breath the wind and his voice the thunder.
In these tales — and in particular stories about how new living creatures and the very existence of human beings themselves are formed from the corpse of a god or giant — we can see clear parallels with the literal “dis-membering” of LUCA from a single mega-organism into disparate creatures of specialized and competing interests. From the ancient unity of this great mother ocean was born, quite literally, the ten thousand (and more!) things.
Ancestor Worship Just Got Nerdy
Many modern Pagans and polytheists honor the ancestors of their bloodlines and homelands alongside the gods and goddesses of pre-Christian peoples. With the genetic theory of LUCA evolving (no pun intended!) in new and exciting directions, we can see how scientifically viable facts can sometimes support the poetry and insight of the old stories. The possibility of a living mother ocean as our Last Universal Common Ancestor not only blurs the lines between ancestor and deity reverence, but also challenges us to keep a more open mind about the ways in which science and religion can shape and inform each other.
So next time you’re relaxing to the soothing sounds of the ocean’s tides, or marveling at the amazing diversity and interdependence of life on this planet, take a moment to say a prayer for our vast and clumsy Grandmother LUCA, as old and deep as the sea.
Held high in the candlelight, the knife flashes. Words are quietly spoken, words of sacrifice. Hecate, I offer this small, white dog to you. The knife comes down. Slicing through marzipan and almond paste shaped into the likeness of a canine. The head is removed and placed in glass bowl on her altar.
We no longer worship in great marble temples. Real dogs do not die on Hecate’s Night, their burned bodies buried at the crossroads, a gift for the dread lady. We no longer make animal sacrifice. We no longer spill the blood of animals upon our altars. (With certain exceptions, but let’s open that can of worms another time) Yet, we remember these things. We find some way to pay homage to them. We honour an ancient deity’s connection to certain plants and animals, to the sacred land.
Even sitting in a room of townhouse in a typical Canadian urban neighbourhood (that’s where I’m living right now) we can pay respects to the connection between Nature and the Divine. Designs made with powdered minerals and ground herbs can be carefully drawn upon the altar or on the floor or ground. Offerings of food and incense are more than bribes, stage setting and correspondences.
Hecate’s wheel, her crossroads, was drawn with flour, salt, brimstone, mullein, red ochre, belladonna and mandrake (some of those are baneful btw). Other plant matter, such as cypress and garlic skins, was blended with incense. It was burned in her honour and to please her.
I also always add a small amount of dog fur to the incense I make for her night. Dogs are so sacred to her that we once sacrificed and reverently ate them to honour her. Well, the least I can do is offer some dog fur from the pooch that I love.
Gifts of garlic, honey, wine and steak are offered up to Her. Ancient hymns translated from the Greek to modern English are recited. The witches who gather at the crossroads, who laid out the altar and furnished her throne, wear blue jeans and hooded sweaters.
Candlelight flickers. The air smells of smoke and the woods and earth and spice, a hint of singed fur. The feel of dried herbs in my hand, I rub the leaves and stems between my fingers. Plants once burned in those marble temples are now held in my hand. A moment to offer a prayer of thanks to the spirit of the plant before it is made sacred: given up as sacrifice.
I delight in the feel of the red ochre, silky and earthy, the kind of texture that recalls the discovery of wet clay and warm mud. Some of the oldest art made by man often had red ochre traces it for archaeologists to find. The oldest burials, the oldest of the sacred places … red ochre.
My favourite is flour, the very essence of bread. Do I really need to start singing about corn and grain, corn and grain? When is flour ever not appropriate? Especially if you can find/afford the nice, ethical, whole grain, organic stuff. Have you ever plunged your hand in a bag of flour? Then made some design of … power, purpose, devotion, thanksgiving? Have you ever held up a fistful of it in the wind, watching it scatter into a field of wheat or barley?
Do you know the smell of sulphur? Have you ever watched it crackle when blended with self igniting incense?
Have you ever applied red ochre or woad to your body?
Do you carefully choose a food offering with consideration for that spirit or deity’s connection to the sacred land?
Do you know the feel of herbs in your hand, the smell of watching them burn, the choice to give it to the unseen?
Do you treat the plants, minerals and animals you use in ritual like nothing more than tools? Just ingredients?
Have you ever thanked the sage in the smudge stick you are burning?
Next time you perform ritual, do it with a bag of flour. Then, be grateful that you can “waste” such a food staple in such a way.
Some of the greatest sacrifices I have made were food. Food when I had next to nothing. Have you ever shared the last cup of rice (the last food in the house) with the gods? A cup of tea offered to the gods, yet I was too poor to buy sugar or milk for it. Now, when I can pour flour on the floor and create sacred designs I do with reverence and joy … and gratitude. I stop and think about what I am doing. It means something to me.
What might it mean to you? What might it mean to your gods?
December 4, 2011 by Eli Effinger-Weintraub • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.
(With apologies to Tom Waits.)
So, let me tell you a story. It’s Lammas, and I’m sitting in an area of the Mississippi River bluff known to locals as the “Giggly Hills”, listening to a very talented Witch spin a tale about Lugh. I mean to say, this woman can really tell a story. Yet I keep getting distracted by the carpet of clover, the industrious bees, the way the breeze rustles the leaves of the enormous burr oaks…and I think, Surely these are among the deities of this place. I want to tell their stories.
That planted the seed of the idea that is growing “Restorying the Sacred”. The crafting of some new science- and nature-based myths to, if I may be so bold, stand alongside the ancient tales, to add the “here and now” to the “long ago and far away”, interspersed with musings on the what, why, and what next of such story creation. After all, as John noted in the comments of “S and R Dance On”, “Our ancestors put their understanding of the natural world into stories – we should do the same.” And at this time in the human adventure, science is one of the ways in which we understand the natural world.
It’s an ambitious project, possibly fraught with peril, and one danger is of confusing the “real” with the “unreal”. After all, bees and orchids never really made any sort of co-evolutionary “deal”, and the Outcast Star isn’t flying out of the Milky Way because it paid too much attention to its binary partner. Of course, one thing I’ve learned as a Pagan is that reality has many levels; we just need to stay on the appropriate level for a given situation.
So let us make a pledge, you and I who are embarking on this journey together. Let us say:
“I, [name of choice], being sound of body, mind, and spirit, do pledge by myself and by [Divine name of choice] that I will take the stories of “Restorying the Sacred”, and any stories of my own that may be inspired by it, as metaphorical truth, rather than literal. I promise that I will not anthropomorphize the nonhuman beings around me but will acknowledge that they have their own existence that, although connected to me through the Web of All Being, has nothing to do with me. So mote it be.”
There we have it. The groundwork laid for a new adventure. Let sacred story time begin in earnest.
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