The Old Woman Weaves the World

 

.... Inside the cave, there lives an old woman who remains unaffected by the rush of time and the confusion and strife of daily life. She attends to other things; she has a longer sense of time and a deep capacity for vision. She spends most of her time weaving in the cave where light and shadows play. She wants to fashion the most beautiful garment in the whole world. She has been at this weaving project for a long time and has reached the point of making a fringe for the edge of her exquisitely designed cloak. She wants that fringe to be special; wants it to be meaningful as well as elegant, so she weaves it with porcupine quills. She likes the idea of using something that could poke you as an element of beauty; she likes turning things around and seeing life from odd angles. In order to use the porcupine quills, she must flatten each one with her teeth. After years of biting hard on the quills, her teeth have become worn down to nubs that barely rise above her gums. Still, the old woman keeps biting down and she keeps weaving on.

The only time she interrupts her weaving work is when she goes to stir the soup that simmers in a great cauldron at the back of the cave. The old cauldron hangs over a fire that began a long time ago. The old woman cannot recall anything older than that fire; it just might be the oldest thing there is in this world. Occasionally, she does recall that she must stir the soup that simmers over those flames. For that simmering stew contains all the seeds and roots that become the grains and plants and herbs that sprout up all over the surface of the earth. If the old woman fails to stir the ancient stew once in a while, the fire will scorch the ingredients and there is no telling what troubles might result from that.

So the old woman divides her efforts between weaving the exquisite cloak and stirring the elemental soup. In a sense, she is responsible for weaving things together as well as for stirring everything up. She senses when the time has come to let the weaving go and stir things up again. Then, she leaves the weaving on the floor of the cave and turns to the task of stirring the soup. Because she is old and tired from her labors and because of the relentless passage of time, she moves slowly and it takes a while for her to amble over to the cauldron.

As the old woman shuffles across the floor and makes her way to the back of the ancient cave, a black dog watches her every move. The dog was there all along. Seemingly asleep, it awakens as soon as the old weaver turns her attention from one task to the other. As she begins stirring the soup in order to sustain the seeds, the black dog moves to where the weaving lies on the floor of the cave. The dog picks up a loose thread with its teeth and begins pulling on it. As the black dog pulls on the loose thread, the beautiful garment begins to unravel. Since each thread has been woven to another, pulling upon one begins to undo them all. As the great stew is being stirred up, the elegant garment comes apart and becomes a chaotic mess on the floor.

When the old woman returns to take up her handiwork again, she finds nothing but chaos where there had been a garment of great elegance and beauty. The cloak she has woven with great care has been pulled apart, the fringe all undone; the effort of creation has been turned to naught. The old woman sits and looks silently upon the remnants of her once-beautiful design.

She ignores the presence of the black dog as she stares intently at the tangle of undone threads and distorted patterns.

After a while, she bends down, picks up a loose thread, and begins to weave the whole thing again. As she pulls thread after thread from the chaotic mess, she begins again to imagine the most beautiful garment in the whole world. As she weaves, new visions and elegant designs appear before her and her old hands begin to knowingly give them vibrant shape. Soon she has forgotten the cloak she was weaving before as she concentrates on capturing the new design and weaving it into the most beautiful garment ever seen in the world.

This is the generative task of all women. The task is to care and protect seven generations forward and honor seven generations back (as the Iroquois say). It is a wise teaching and one forgotten in the Western world today that honors only the good of the individual and the present moment. Women have been enculturated to believe they can no longer make a difference, but the wise crone knows better. She calls to all of her children to bring forth a brighter future even if it can't be envisioned today. All we need to do is to pick up that single thread to begin.

A story by Michael Meade, from “Why the World Doesn’t End.” 

She’s finding the gift inside her gift.

She’s arriving at the place which had been concealed, waiting to be found. There was something she had to do first, to find it. She had to spend her gift ~ give it generously, abundantly, with all her heart. Offering it was an act of daring, but her gift would have it no other way. She nourished her gift, and it nourished her back. The goodness of it imbued her and her world. Her life and her gift joyously flowed through her. As she dived deeper, her gift shone in its luminosity, fragrance, music and poetic quality.
Her gift guided her to take many pauses, to realign and recalibrate her life. As she became more and more intimate with her gift, it is impossible to tell them apart. She is the gift fully matured. And one cycle of her rich life is ending.
She’s slowing down to listen deeply to what this ending means. Her gift is whispering: ‘here’s a reward for honouring me so deeply. In my centre is your new gift. Let it arrive into your heart now.’
She’s currently in the pause, very still, allowing the gift within the gift to arrive. She’s sensing its very different flavour and fragrance. It feels new, fresh, and different. Even though the temptation to continue her rich old life tugs at her sometimes, she’s allowing her old life to slip away through her fingers.

- Sukvinder Sircar

Grandfather Elder Manataka

I don’t speak of sorrow like it’s a weakness.

I don’t lower my voice for it.

Sorrow is not something that happens to us -

it’s something that walks with us

once we’ve loved deeply enough.

Some people think sorrow means you are broken.

But our old people knew better.

They knew sorrow is the proof

that your heart stayed open

when it would have been easier to close it.

Sorrow is love with nowhere to go.

It’s memory looking for a body.

It’s the echo of laughter

still moving through the room

after everyone has gone.

In our way,

we don’t rush sorrow out the door.

We make it a place by the fire.

We feed it.

We listen.

Because sorrow carries teachings

you can’t learn any other way.

It teaches you how thin the veil really is.

How close the ancestors stand.

How fragile - and how powerful - this life is.

Sorrow slows your steps

so you don’t forget who you’re walking for.

It reminds you that every breath is borrowed.

That every name you speak

is still alive somewhere.

And yes -

sorrow is heavy.

But it’s not meant to crush you.

It’s meant to shape you.

Like river stones shaped by time,

not force.

We don’t ask sorrow to leave.

We ask it what it came to teach.

And when the lesson settles,

when the tears finally rest,

we don’t erase the sorrow.

We carry it forward -

carefully, respectfully -

as part of the bundle.

Because to live without sorrow

would mean to live without love.

And that…

was never our way.

Ekosi.

And so it continues.

*

from: 'Standing Bear Network'

* Portrait of Grandfather Elder Manataka American Indian Council

Messages from a Transcendent Dimension

One winter afternoon in New York, February 1943, at the height of the Second World War, my mother, her sister, her sister-in-law, and a close friend, met to talk about the life-and-death struggle that was tearing Europe apart. (My father was serving under General Montgomery, in North Africa). Suddenly, although the windows of the apartment were closed because of the cold, they heard a roar like thunder and the glass door onto the terrace was blown inwards by a powerful blast of air. Lightning flickered all around them although there was no storm. They cried out in terror, and went to shut the door, but suddenly felt a tremendous presence in the room and, falling on their knees, were overcome with awe. Then they heard a voice which told them to write down what they heard. I have brought together these Messages in memory and in love for my mother and love for the Higher Assembly of Beings who watch over the life of this planet. They have been the foundation and the inspiration of all my own work. May they reach those who can assimilate their teaching and take it further. Their words are witness to the fact that we do not live in a dead, insentient universe that is without consciousness, purpose or meaning. On the contrary, we live in a universe that is alive, sentient, full of wonders, peopled with countless beings in higher dimensions, as well as in other galaxies and on other planets — all directed by an evolutionary intention. 

What they transmitted to my mother and her friend in 1943, is more relevant today than it was eighty years ago since the dangers we face are far greater now. AI technology is racing ahead, urged on by the same male competitive ethos that is driving the further development of nuclear weapons, the dangerous work of gain-of-function laboratories and other technologies which harm the miraculous organism of the human body and interfere with the delicate balance of the planet’s life — all involving the participation of people who do not hold the best interests of the planet at heart. Our survival demands that we relinquish the ongoing rivalry and struggle for power between nations which could destroy the Earth and ourselves with it, and choose the alternative path of love and service of the planet and all the precious orders of life it embraces. This is a key moment in our evolutionary journey. The choices we make now will determine our future and whether there is a future. The Messages say that if we are to experience the Blessing of the Millennium, we need to end all war and killing now. Women are one half of humanity and, therefore, hold the balance at this crucial time of choice. The power of millions of women, coming together to protect this Sacred Planet, could not only eliminate war but allow us to write a New Story.

- Anne Baring, Excerpt from 'Messages from a Transcendent Dimension'

Asherah

 

In the Book of Genesis, God discusses creating humankind “…in our image, after our likeness…” It is not the only instance in which the deity appears to refer to another being present by using the plural term. It is more than a passing use of language. What we know from earlier writings is that there actually was more than one, because God, or ‘El’ in the texts, had a consort, whose name was Asherah. While the Hebrew Bible does not explicitly state that Yahweh had a wife, there are references to Asherah in the context of worship and religious practices in ancient Israel and Judah.

What happened? The goddess who was God’s equal partner was quietly edited out of the texts so that the masculine deity could take the credit for creating everything. But it did not end there. Asherah was turned into a wooden idol that had to be destroyed, and her destruction marked the definitive end of any female deity in the whole of scripture. And so we speak only of “God the Father” and “God the Son”.

But in other beliefs we know that Osiris had his Isis, Odin had his Freya, Jupiter had his Juno, Zeus had his Hera, and Shiva has his Shakti. And yet Asherah was depicted as the very Tree of Life, nurturing her creatures who sought sustenance from her branches, for what she fed them from her leaves would always grow back in abundance.

Asherah, then, was seen as the provider and the sustainer of life, and not just as its co-creator. How much have we lost in what is now the world’s most widespread religion by banishing this vital sustaining female life force from scripture?

Art: 'Asherah' by David Bergen

Where my Books Go

 

WHERE MY BOOKS GO

All the words that I gather,

And all the words that I write,

Must spread out their Wings untiring,

And never rest in their flight,

Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,

And sing to you in the night,

Beyond where the waters are moving,

Storm darkened or starry bright.

- William Butler Yeats

Artist: Kristin Vestgard

The Beginning

"Where have I come from, where did you pick me up?" 

the baby asked its mother.

She answered half crying, half laughing, 
and clasping the baby to her breast, -- 
"You were hidden in my heart as its desire, my darling.

You were in the dolls of my childhood's games; 
and when with clay I made the image of my god every morning, 
I made and unmade you then.

You were enshrined with our household deity, 
in his worship I worshipped you.

In all my hopes and my loves, in my life, 
in the life of my mother you have lived.

In the lap of the deathless Spirit who rules our home
you have been nursed for ages.

When in girlhood my heart was opening its petals, 
you hovered as a fragrance about it.

Your tender softness bloomed in my youthful limbs, 
like a glow in the sky before the sunrise.

Heaven's first darling, twin-born with the morning light,
you have floated down the stream of the world's life, 
and at last you have stranded on my heart.

As I gaze on your face, mystery overwhelms me;
you who belong to all have become mine.

For fear of losing you I hold you tight to my breast. 
What magic has snared the world's treasure 
in these slender arms of mine?" 

- Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)

WOMAN

 

In search of the desert witch, the shaman-woman,

Forget the archetypes, forget the dark and petrified profile,

Do not examine the clouds

Packed on the horizon, violet and green,

For her image, do not chase

The ready-made abstraction, do not gaze at symbols,

As long as you want her without a face, without a scent

Or voice, as long as she does not squat

To piss or scratch herself, as long

As long as she does not snore under her blanket

Or grin when she early in the morning

Grabs the stone-cold millstone,

As long as she does not have her own peculiar face,

With light bags under her eyes or with a stripe

Topaz shining in the black

Of an eye, as long as she does not limp

As long as you try to simplify her meaning

As long as she only symbolizes power

She is kept helpless and conventional

Her true power fled back, further into the past in,

We cannot touch or name her

And silenced by those who need her

She suffocates in unspeakable loneliness.

Art: Cailleach Bheur by Victoria Ni Keltica

The Unruined Heart

 

The Use of the Seven Swords through the Heart.

The swords through your heart

are not the ones which caused your wounds,

but rather, these mighty swords of Strength,

were earned by your struggles through hard times.

Sword of Surrender: to withstand this time of learning.

Sword of Veils: to pierce the hidden meanings of this time.

Sword of Healing: to lance one's own agony, bitterness.

Sword of New Life: to cut through, cut loose, plant anew.

Sword of Courage: to speak up, row on, touch others.

Sword of Life Force: to draw from, lean on, purify.

Sword of Love: often heaviest to lift consistently;

turns one away from war, to instead,

fall into the arms of the Immaculate Strength.

O Immaculate Heart of My Mother,

give me shelter in the beautiful chambers of your heart.

Keep me strong, fierce, loving, and able in this world.

Remind me daily, that despite my imperfections,

my heart remains,

completely unruined.

- Clarissa Pinkola Estes (2011), Untie the Strong Woman, p.79.

Art: "Closed Eyes" by Odilon Redon

Michaelmas

 

The Feast of Saint Michaël is the symbol for the human being to be aware in consciousness to recognize evil in the world and to fight it.

According to John's Book of Revelation this fight takes place in the heavens. Michaël and his angels fought against the dragon and his helpers. "And the great dragon, the old snake, ...was conquered and thrown out of heaven into the deep." Hereby Michaël emerged as victor of the battle against the powers of darkness.

The celebration time of Saint Michaël is a calling to us to recognize and acknowledge these powers and call them to a halt.

There are countless legends from earlier ages which tell about Saint Michaël's deeds. And in art many images can be found of Michaël with his sword, personified as an angel or a knight.

Since medieval times, when knights occupied themselves with spreading Christianity, the legend of George and the dragon started to become known. Without fear he set off to fight the dragon. He overwon the monster with his lance and by doing so he freed the king's daughter, who would otherwise have been sacrificed to the dragon. With this deed George accomplished on earth, what Michaël accomplished in the heavens.

The Tales of the Sands

A stream, from its source in far-off mountains, passing through every kind and description of countryside, at last reached the sands of the desert. Just as it had crossed every other barrier, the stream tried to cross this one, but it found that as fast as it ran into the sand, its waters disappeared.

It was convinced, however, that its destiny was to cross this desert, and yet there was no way. Now a hidden voice, coming from the desert itself, whispered: "The Wind crosses the desert, and so can the stream."

The stream objected that it was dashing itself against the sand, and only getting absorbed: that the wind could fly, and this was why it could cross a desert.

"By hurtling in your own accustomed way you cannot get across. You will either disappear or become a marsh. You must allow the wind to carry you over, to your destination."

"But how could this happen?"

"By allowing yourself to be absorbed in the wind."

This idea was not acceptable to the stream. After all, it had never been absorbed before. It did not want to lose its individuality. And, once having lost it, how was one to know that it could ever be regained?

"The wind," said the sand, "performs this function. It takes up water, carries it over the desert, and then lets it fall again. Falling as rain, the water again becomes a river."

"How can I know that this is true?"

"It is so, and if you do not believe it, you cannot become more than a quagmire, and even that could take many, many years; and it certainly is not the same as a stream."

"But can I not remain the same stream that I am today?"

"You cannot in either case remain so," the whisper said. "Your essential part is carried away and forms a stream again. You are called what you are even today because you do not know which part of you is the essential one."

A Sufi Story by Idries Shah