Far away in the mists of ancient days, there once dwelt a band of extraordinary trees with the gift of prophecy: oaks with the power of human speech, answering the needs of mortals who journeyed far to seek their wise counsel. This sounds like a folk tale, but it is not. Deeply rooted in archaic Greek myth, these oaks also lived in history as the first and only oracle existing in Greece for many years. Ancient mythographers remembered the priestesses who tended these oaks as the first females on earth who ever sang their own compositions; their companion nymphs were compassionate nurses for Zeus, shielding him in his vulnerable infancy, and henceforth revealing his will to mortals. In the remote and mountainous terrain of Epirus in northwest Greece, from the second millennium BCE, this sacred forest grew in the mystical sanctuary of Dodona.
Posts tagged #myth
Born of the Spirit: Storytelling is the Breath of Life
Once upon a time, within the swirling molecules of space, the Creator drew forth a deep breath of every color of energy and blew it into a clear, nearly spherical bowl. S(he)/we swirled the bowl gently, lovingly watching the sparkles of energy coalesce and cascade, mixing every possible setting, every conflict, every character, and every archetype. Then S(he)/we gently rolled the bowl out away from its BEing.
Goddess of Borderland, Mistress of Crossroads--Pokeweed-Hekate
Having watched the moon set with the sun’s rising, the ancient lunar goddess Hekate is on my mind. And near the Huron river path this morning, a pokeweed plant reaches upward offering a message and posing a hieroglyphic sign as she raises her arms in slender scarlet sleeves. Fresh green pendants nestle beside fully ripe ink-purple fruit on her supple limbs where she drapes luxurious flowing tresses, trailing glossy clusters from slender stems. Wildly flowering, the goddess and plant step from forest edge as one to emerge into the waking world. Hekate dances within her chosen ally pokeweed, just as ancient Greeks thought nymphs ensouled their trees in mutual lifelong union.
Field of the Five Horses
I’d been given some gourmet coffee for Christmas. It was late at night. I’d have to work in the morning, but, feeling impelled to give it a try, I brewed the rich dark potion.
The next day I remembered a night when I was eight years old. I was living in the tropics with my family, where heat thins boundaries and can induce fertile dreaming. I’d been allowed to drink a caffeinated beverage just before going to bed, a one-time occurrence. As I lay wide awake, the aquarium music from Saint-Saens’ Carnival of the Animals played in my brain. It got louder and louder. My room faded into green mist and shoals of golden fish swam through it from various angles and directions, hovering and then dissolving. Having gone to school opposite one of those old, gothic mental hospitals, I was frightened I might be locked up in it when we returned to the States, and I clutched the sheets until the vision dissipated.
