We’Moon Holy Days: Seasonal Blessings by Carolyn Myers
In each edition of the We’Moon datebook, we feature one Holy Day writer who shares with us her unique perspectives of each of the eight holy days. This year, we have the pleasure of sharing the work of Carolyn Myers, funnywoman and theatermaker. For the theme of We'Moon 2015: WIld Card, Carolyn greets each seasonal holiday writing with the sacrament of a joke: making holy with laughter. along with her innovative magical creative spirit.
Carolyn Myers (Hornbrook, CA) is a pioneer funny feminist and theater womon. She has been a core member of: The Gorilla Theater & Lilith, a women’s theater collective; Mixed Company; Teen Theaters of Southern Oregon; The Hamazons; and The Crackpot Crones.
HA! O Queen of Play!
We invoke you with this holy Breath of Life: HA!
Laughter, your gift to us; Joy, your sacrament
Mirth, your flaunt-in-the-face of stern fear:
fear of the underbelly, the belly, the female, the earth.
Come out from Shadow, all you reviled She-demons
Eris, Goddess of Chaos—Lilith, Dark Moon Goddess—
Laverna, Goddess of Rascals.
Kali-Ma, disrupt our demonizing habits
Help us face the Other within, smile into the mirror,
find ally beneath the monster masks—guffaw until we cry?
The deck is stacked, the planet running out of trumps.
Stakes are high, wrongdoing is no joke: How do we deal?
Coyote-woman, Isis, Morrigan—
Show us your shape-shifting tricks of transformation
Khandromas, trickster Dakinis of the rainbow,
Deepen the clever arts of Invention, of Resistance
Flip each day into a new game of unimagined Possibility.
Beguile us from old patterns. Charm us into Change.
She-Who-Jests, crack us up. Crack us Open.
A HA! Restore the Wild. A HO!
In the chill of ice, trees stand stark as bones, the land is cold iron, frost slows all movement so Gaia is still as death. Only the brilliant stars in the black sky remember the rhythms of earth as they wheel through the night. All is connected. As stars bloom and die, as flowers fall to seed, as bone becomes nurturing ground, the wheeling universe lives in its Beauty and pattern. We are stardust, born of the Great Goddess, and in her is all hope. Even in the most severe terror of darkness and cold that Kali brings, the Spark flares again to ignite the perfect miracle of life. When all seems lost, the mystery of the universe begins to lift us into light and renewal once more. Women will tend the sacred fires until the voice of Demeter is heard in the Halls of Dis, and Persephone returns, a Queen filled with the knowledge of great mysteries. The pomegranate seed will become again a tree of life....
Dream: ...I am in a crowd of people, and I hear a telephone ringing. Someone answers the phone and hands it to me and says, “It’s for you.” I say “hello,” and the person on the other end is a woman, and she says, “I am calling from the Hopi Nation. The ember is in the canoe. The time is now.”
The canoe carries precious cargo through flood-high waters in a desert land. The time is upon us and we are in this boat together, grateful that we are not alone.
The keepers are guided by helpers who send signals ahead.
They know the way by how it feels in their bodies.
It is a feeling of resonance that they follow.
The keepers are the guardians of the precious ember.
The ember will spark the imagination, allowing the slow burn of ideas to ignite and become clear harbingers of creative solutions for a troubled land.
Ahhh! Lunar Samhain: New Moon, in Scorpio, the Sun, newly in Scorpio, and partial solar eclipse coming up this afternoon...can you feel the shadows?
Darkness sinks its teeth into day as the year’s descent deepens. Shadows fill up the street and cold creeps under our skin. Small valleys are bowls of mist brimmed with endings: bones, leaf-litter, rinds, skins, all the husks that held bright fires of life. This is the hour of the Cauldron of Transformation—from death comes rebirth. Listen for wisdom-voices in the storm: Kali, Crow-Woman, Ceridwen, Hecate—all know the need to cut and cull—let the Hag guide you to face down fear. Do not get lost in grief. Ride your power, disturb the air; be the witch, the shocking voice of truthful stories that shatter the status quo. Protest, refuse, fight for a new equality that places the wellbeing of Mother Earth in the centre. The seven generations that will follow us are waiting, crying for a vision. It will come from women working together: sisters weaving magic circles of intent.
Rose Flint © Mother Tongue Ink 2013
...In the Neighborwives’ Garden
In the twilight
The highway’s rhythm a few blocks away
Creates a lulling to cradle the occasional barking dog, crying child
And basketball dribbled down
The center of the street
Streetlights overtake the stars in the city,
Punctuated with flashing lights from the police in the distance
Deep in this city
On a good block in a not-that-good neighborhood
Lives the Neighborwives’ garden
Leaves blaze tawny and russet
with bright beauty in this last fall of light.
Seedpods thicken on wild grasses,
elderberries shake fistfuls of dark rain,
quinces shine treasure brighter than coin.
We give thanks for Gaia’s storehouse of plenty,
for this true wealth, as she gives and gives of her body:
berries, squashes, beans—
more and more we request and receive.
Eat, she says, to all creaturely life—
this is your being.
Honour Gaia’s nature
by refusing to squander or disrespect her.
Learn to need less and waste nothing;
find ways to create sustainability and
safeguard the magnificent diversity that is
the body of the Goddess.
We are living in the Sixth Great Extinction,
losing our beloved creatures and plants.
Take time to care for something that is other,
and in need;
from garden bird to snow leopard,
all ecology is linked directly to our hearts.
We may grieve for the lost summer of the world
but change is our certainty:
the balance of all future abundance
is in our hands.
Rose Flint © Mother Tongue Ink 2013