Crone Sap Rising

As January turns into February we are invited to turn our thoughts to the Gaelic festival of Imbolc / Brigid's Day / Candle mas. Halfway between Winter solstice and the spring equinox it's a time to remember that deep below the snows and frost of winter there are stirrings of irrepressible energies.

We can notice the days getting longer, and the sun when it shines has a warmer touch. In the farmlands the sheep are beginning to birth their lambs and the rich milk is flowing… hence the term Imbolc for festival for lactating sheep. This marks the beginning of the Maiden segment of the Maiden- Mother- Crone times as the Earth prepares for renewal and transformation…

Outside in the dark night

There's a fierce north wind blowing

I turn tighter into the brittle nest, my protective cocoon

Nevertheless there are stirrings in the great ground around me

Fresh Life-force is slowly seeping upwards

Insistent as the sweet sap of the maple trees

Will they ever lose their hope for new beginnings?

I crave glowing colours; deep flowing mysterious purple

Intense bursts of golden yellow, incandescent turquoise

These winter-tired bones dream of cracking open, releasing luscious green

These ears have heard enough of frigid silence

I am turning slowly clockwise

Tuning into spring vibrations deep down under sodden snow

Calling for great metamorphosis … Nature renewing life once more

I turn again … persistent

THOUGHTS ABOUT DIAN FOSSEY

A Google doodle yesterday told me that January 16th was Dian Fossey's birthday, and after a short trip around the web to brush up on her bio, I thought I'd add her to our list of famous January Crones. Mythical Crones often come with non-human companions; the old woman and her cat, burned together at the stake, are a tragic part of Herstory.

Born in 1932, Fossey was only three when her father, a heavy drinker, left the family. A few years later her mother remarried, but the new stepfather was rigid and unloving. Until she was ten, Dian took all of her meals in the kitchen with the housekeeper. Early on she knew she wanted to be a vet--animals simply engaged her more than people--and she was already a gifted equestrian. Her stepfather opposed her plan, but Dian plowed ahead anyway, working different low wage jobs to earn tuition. Ultimately, the mathematics portion of the curriculum defeated her, and she ended taking a degree in occupational therapy.

She took a job as director at the Kosair Crippled Children's Hospital in Kentucky, where she worked with disabled and autistic children, finding connections others could not with the later. After work, she lived on a farm, in a time of real happiness. Here she was closer to the rhythm dictated by the needs of the animals she cared for and where she could ride her beloved horses.

And here I'll end the biography, as the rest is better known, especially her life in Africa, where she was first an observer, and then a friend and guardian to a family of shy, gentle, endangered mountain gorillas. Before yesterday, I had never known much about her childhood, but it doesn't take a psychologist to understand reasons for the trajectory of Dian Fossey's life. She'd had a hard childhood, abandoned by both father and then emotionally by a mother who cared more for a new husband than for her own child. Looking for a family who would not disappoint, Dian arrived in Africa more than open to the idea of a non-human one. 

"I feel more comfortable with gorillas than people. I can anticipate what a gorilla's going to do, and they are purely motivated." ~~ Dian Fossey

Gorilla families will fight to the death to protect their infants, so when hunters take a baby, they usually kill all the adults, too. The killing of Digit, a young male gorilla whom she'd loved since his infancy, as well as other members of his family during such a raid, sent her off on crusade--against the colluding park rangers, against the villagers who cut trees and grazed cattle inside the park, and against the poachers, who could make as much as $200,000 for the head of a gorilla. A middle-aged woman alone in a volcanic jungle, almost single-handedly, she tried increasingly desperate and extra-legal measures to protect her adopted family and their wild home.

 “The man who kills the animals today is the man who kills the people who get in his way tomorrow.”

Since her unsolved murder, in 1985, which might have been politically motivated, some, (predictably, a writer at The Wall Street Journal) have done their best to disparage at Dian's reputation and belittle her. "Racist" and "alcoholic" are among the epithets, but I wonder who among us whose family has been murdered and whose land has been invaded and ruined, would not be full of despair, rage and a passionate desire for revenge upon those responsible? 

The mountain gorillas remain in danger of extinction, more so than in Fossey's day, when she, out of her own pocket, paid to protect them from poachers and corrupt politicians. She raised awareness of the plight of these close primate cousins, whose DNA is 98% similar to ours and whose social organization, individuality, and emotions so much mirror our own. 

“When you realize the value of all life, you dwell less on what is past and concentrate more on the preservation of the future.”   


The Dian Fossey Gorilla fund:

http://gorillafund.org/page.aspx?pid=379



~~Juliet Waldron
Historical Novels:
http://www.julietwaldron.com
https://www.facebook.com/jwhistfic
http://www.amazon.com/author/julietwaldron

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January Birthday Crones

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Hagar in the Wilderness

Hagar in the Wilderness was sculpted in 1868 in Rome by Edmonia Lewis, a woman of African and Native American heritage. What did it mean to her to sculpt the figure of the mother of Ishmael with white features, flowing hair, calmly folded hands. It was probably necessary to make a sale, but surely she did not picture Hagar this way in her imagination. Hagar loomed large in the literature of abolitionists of the time. Were all Biblical characters – even the darkest servants of Egypt – Europeans in the “civilized Western” mind? Were all women important only as they were related to men?

Hagar was the mother of Ishmael - the son that Abram feared he would never have; the son that Sarai was willing to allow, until she had her own miraculous child. Hagar was Sarai’s handmaiden, property, her slave. Sarai gave Hagar to Abram as a gift, his concubine or even a second wife. Second wives were nothing new. Certainly they knew enough not to make the first wife angry. Not so for Hagar. Did she think that her beauty and sexuality, once initiated, would make her Sarai’s superior in Abram’s eyes? As a slave of Egypt, did Hagar believe she had earned her freedom? With the new security of her position, did she begin to delight in her own beauty and dance with a lighter step, or smile from mischievous eyes? Did she truly despise Sarai? Or was that just what Sarai believed?

Oh, the jealousy of women. In what desert, in what foreign lonely country would I hand a beautiful young woman to my husband? In what fevered mind might I consider the gift , if pleasing to him, pleasing to me? What woman can welcome her husband’s second wife into her circle? And in how many homes are the sons of other wives loved by their step-mothers, as if the boys are their own?

Hagar ran into the desert twice to escape the angry Sarai. The first time she was sent back by God to obey her mistress -  with the promise of His protection. The second time, Hagar was fleeing with her son Ishmael, and God saved her and the son who would sire 12 princes. The Bible records their names, but what became of Hagar?

In one of many stories of Islamic pre-history, Hagar lived until she was 90. She was known for her great beauty and remained the beloved of Abraham, who visited her daily in Mecca on the winged horse al-Burāq (Lindsay). Ishmael was the forebear of Muhammad, so she is clearly of greater importance to the people of Islam than to the descendants of Isaac, and the writer of the Bible.

But what is the importance of these ancient women of the Bible today? Isn’t theirs the same story in every time? There is one man and two women. He doesn’t have to take a stand for either one. He just turns them loose on each other. Abram loves both his sons – Ishmael and Isaac are both his gifts from God. But the women are vessels. Like the empty jar at Hagar’s feet in the wilderness, they fall away from the scene.

It is up to us to live a new story and create a new history for women of the future. Will we tell a story about men and their sons and their spiteful, bitter wives? Or will we tell a story about wives and mothers who bring their sons back from the wilderness? Hagar and Sarai mothered many princes, tribes and nations. God chose them as well. 

                                                    -          Frederick Goodall (unsigned)

Lindsay, James E. "Sarah And Hagar In Ibn 'Asākir's History Of Damascus." Medieval Encounters 14.1 (2008): 1-14. Academic Search Premier. Web. 1 Jan. 2014.

I Had Rather Die: Rape in the Civil War

For over a year now, I've been mentioning my upcoming title, I Had Rather Die: Rape in the Civil War. When I first studied the Civil War for my fictional trilogy, I read quotes from historians that claimed the Civil War was a "low-rape" war. At the time, I didn't question their research, but as I learned more about the war, I began to doubt the belief. Around seven years ago, I started researching the subject in earnest with the intent on writing an article. I found more historians repeating "low-rape" war without any citations or serious research.

Words like "restraint" were fairly common as to why Victorian men supposedly didn't rape during wartime. These same Victorian men had no difficulty shedding that restraint when it came to raping black or Native American women. So restraint meant white women specifically. As I dug into the material further, it became clear that restraint was reserved for upper-class white women, and even then, women of all classes had been raped.

As it turns out, I wrote an article, using mostly secondary sources. Eventually, a now defunct Civil War magazine published it, almost a year after submission. By that time, I had amassed a database numbering into hundreds of incidents of rape. Only then did I realize my article had grown into a book. At first, I scoured the period newspapers and the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, which are commonly referred to as the Official Records or OR for short. The OR consist of 128 lengthy volumes of the official reports, orders, and correspondence of the two armies.

This research was easy compared to the next phase when I started collecting records from the courts-martial. For over two years, I traveled back and forth to the National Archives in Washington, D.C., photographing the trial records of soldiers who had been accused of rape. When I got home, I went through the tedious process of transcribing the records. At the same time, this method allowed me to maximize my time at the Archives by photographing as many records as possible in any given visit.

Sometimes, I'd miss a page or a couple of pages came out blurry. As a result, I had to pull the record again on my next visit and locate the missing pages. Fortunately, most court transcribers of the era numbered the documents, which usually helped my search. Some of the Confederate guerrillas had been accused of numerous crimes besides rape. Those particular trials could be over 100 pages in length, and I would have to scour through them to locate the relevant info for my book.

The title I Had Rather Die comes from a court-martial record. One woman testified that she would "rather die" than be raped. In that particular case, the two men were executed, which was fairly uncommon during the time, even though rape was considered a capital offense. The men in question had a history of trouble making, plus she had a sympathetic ear from General Marsena Rudolph Patrick. He located the assailants because one of the men had bragged about what they had done.

As anyone might guess, reading so many accounts of rape was daunting, and there were many times that I wanted to give up. The stories were heartbreaking. That's also the reason why I couldn't let go. The women who spoke of their torment had been silenced before, when their voices had been dismissed to a "low-rape" war. Like any other war, the Civil War had numerous rapes. At long last, the survivors' voices have been heard.

Kim Murphy
www.KimMurphy.net

Crone Henge: THE SUN'S BIRTHDAY

Crone Henge: THE SUN'S BIRTHDAY:     New Grange Once known as Bru na Boinne, or Palace of the Boyne , was built in the Boyne river valley around 3200 BC, by a s...

THE SUN'S BIRTHDAY

 

 

New Grange

Once known as Bru na Boinne, or Palace of the Boyne, was built in the Boyne river valley around 3200 BC, by a society of Neolithic people who were clearly well-organized, well-fed and dedicated to the task at hand. They wouldn’t have been able, otherwise, to utilize the manpower to construct this enormous monument , 249 feet across, 39 feet high and covering 1.1 acres of ground, consisting of alternating layers of earth and stone. The structure wasn't just massive, but, when first built,  it was also perfectly aligned with sunrise on the winter solstice. At the end of a passage which is 60 feet long, and lined with large engraved stone slabs, is the most famous feature, where there is a large room with three antechambers and a high, corbelled (and still water-tight) vaulted roof.

 

 

 

 

Here, on the solstice--through a roof box which was only rediscovered during excavations in 1967—enter the first rays of the rising winter sun.  (Irish folktales had always spoken of magical rooms within tumuli where, in the midst of eternal darkness, the sun shone...) When that beam of light penetrates the bee hive chamber, the winter sun touches the floor just below a great stone engraved with a tri-spiral, perhaps in honor of the ancient triple goddess, maiden, mother and crone. Spirals, symbols of our life path, carry us on our journey from birth to death to rebirth. The end is also a beginning, as a new seasonal cycle commences again.

 

 

 

 

The chamber is illuminated for a mere 17 minutes, but, this year more than 30,000 people entered their names into a lottery to win a ticket to witness a marvel which has been occurring since before Stonehenge—or the pyramids--were built.

 

 

This winter Sun, seen by the ancient people as “new born” feels like a miracle to observers today, those of us who watch the skies and mark the seasons with festival, feast and meditation, much as our ancestors did. From that day forward, we know that the darkness will begin to recede, and the tide of light will come in again, until we again reach the summer solstice and the longest day. Crops will grow, lambs and calves and children will be born. No wonder the early adherents of an odd new eastern religion called Christianity, hoping for converts, were eager to conflate the birthday of their "dying" god with the associatively powerful symbol of the rising winter solstice sun.

 

Kerb stone symbols 

 

 

 

The roof box and megalith with spirals

 

 

 

A modern Stonehenge solstice

 

 

Bright Blessings to all, as we welcome a new year!

 

 

 

Learn more at these sites:

 

 http://www.heritageireland.ie/en/midlandseastcoast/brunaboinnevisitorcentrenewgrangeandknowth/

 

http://www.newgrange.com/

Juliet Waldron

http://www.julietwaldron.com

Crone = Ugly ?

My sister claims I must have a lot of karmic debt to pay off since the past seven years of my life have been mostly spent taking care of the sick, dying, and aged — first helping with my dying mother, then my terminally-ill life mate/soul mate, now my elderly father — but I have a hunch it’s more that I’m going through my crone stage a bit earlier than normal. Although “crone” has become a pejorative term, crone is one of the mythological stages of a woman’s life (maiden, mother, crone). Crones cared for the dying and were spiritual midwives at the end of life, the link in the cycle of death and rebirth. They were healers, teachers, way-showers, bearers of sacred power, knowers of mysteries, mediators between the world of spirit and the world of form.

Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? Something to look forward to becoming — a wise woman — and yet crone is a word few women embrace, and no wonder since over the centuries, crone has come to mean “ugly old woman.”

It seems strange that there are so many derogatory words for ugly old women — witch, hag, crone, harridan, battle-ax, beldam, shrew, termagant — yet not a single derogatory to word to describe ugly old men. (At least, I can’t think of any.) And why are such wise women considered ugly, anyway? Apparently, after men have had their way with young maidens, then used up their youth in bearing and rearing children, they somehow expect women to still be attractive. Nowadays, of course, with creams and lotions and make-up and hair-dyeing and all the other beauty treatments available, most women do retain at least a semblance of their youthful looks. And yet those ancient terms for “wise old woman” still retain their pejorative connotations.

But no matter what she looks like or what she is called, a woman who calmly listens to the crotchets of the old folks, who patiently sits by the bedside of the dying, who deals with life’s unpleasant chores with a minimum of complaint, has an aura of beauty. I would be willing to be that no one who is ministered to by one of these “crones” thinks she is ugly. I bet her beauty shines through to them, if no one else.

I also bet she isn’t aware of her beauty. Like me, she is probably simply doing what needs to be done as calmly as possible.

It seems odd that so many of us who have lost our mates end up taking care of aged parents, but perhaps we are the ones who have the patience for dealing with the slow and inexorable ways of age and death.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+

To Grandmother's House We Go

 “Over the river and through the woods to Grandfather’s house we go. The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh through the white and drifted snow.”

When was the last time I sang that song? I can’t remember. I had to Google the rest of the words. The song ends with “Hurrah for the pumpkin pie,” in case you forgot as well.

Thanksgiving used to be so special. It was second only to Christmas on my list of favorite days of the year. The four of us would pile into our white station wagon and ride through the fields to my Grandparents’ house. With aunts, uncles and cousins there were never less than 12 people at the two large tables pushed together in the dining room of the 19^th century house where my father was born. The home-cooked meal was delicious, and after dinner the men snored to the sound of a football game while the women cleaned up and we kids played games on the living room floor. Dessert was always pumpkin or minced meat pie. It was another world.

Thanksgiving was the teaser for Christmas, but there were no decorations out, no Christmas ads, no Black Friday appellations. There was Buck Monday. The hunting season would open, and the men would depart for the woods. At some point that became a shopping tradition for women on the day after Thanksgiving. The men were leaving so women were released from the obligations of taking care of their husbands and they could go shopping instead! Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Well, it did in 1965. For many years the Monday after Thanksgiving weekend was a day off as well. Most of the boys would be hunting with their dads.

A bit more emphasis was placed on the original Thanksgiving as well. Or perhaps that is just my grade school memory. There were Indians and Pilgrims and that sense of Blessed Destiny. Today there is a slightly better sense of equality between the two cultures, but we are far from getting the story straight. And I don’t mean small pox and broken treaties. Research is still necessary for some of the facts.

When the first settlers stepped off the Mayflower and into their New World, they encountered a larger cultural difference than they realized in the native Wampanoag people – or the People of the Dawn. The women who might have served the pilgrims the “three sisters” – corn, squash and beans – were landholders. They were the heads of their families. They gave shelter to the men who married their daughters. And they were able to become sachems – the political leaders of their communities.

What might have happened if  Eleanor Billington, Elizabeth Hopkins, Mary Brewster, and Susanna Winslow had been permitted to sit down and eat with the Wampanoag women who might have decided to attend the Harvest Feast of 1621? If Weetamoo, Awashonks, Wunnatuckquannumou, and Askamaboo had regaled the four white women with their history and customs, how might our history have changed? Suppose Mary had told Weetamoo she should be helping to serve, and Weetamoo had said, “I’m the big Kahuna and you shouldn’t be waiting on those men.” And what if, upon hearing this, Elizabeth had proposed a toast: “Thanks be to God, we have arrived in a truly New World. Stephen, bring me a turkey leg.”

In 1965, my last name might have been my Grandmother’s maiden name. Dad might have taken me hunting that year, and my uncle might have joined my aunt to wash the dishes after our turkey dinner. Half the signers of the Declaration of Independence might have been women, so when I was learning about the Indians in 3^rd grade, I might have also learned about our Foremothers. I might be a nuclear physicist instead of an English teacher!

On an educational website I found this interesting tidbit.

What were men and women's roles in the Wampanoag tribe?
Wampanoag men were hunters and sometimes went to war to protect their families. Wampanoag women were farmers and also did most of the child care and cooking. Both genders took part in storytelling, artwork and music, and traditional medicine. In the past, Wampanoag chiefs were always men, but today a Wampanoag woman can participate in government too.

Revisionist history is alive and well. Evidently 3^rd grade children are still learning that Indian women were drudges, just like the Pilgrim women.

We have come a long way in 50 years. Many women work outside the home. A very few even make lots of money. Men are becoming nurses, and women can be Nurse Practitioners. Women are serving in the military, and my husband does the dishes. We just have to resist the temptation to be satisfied with where we are. The Daughters of the Dawn remind us that we have a long, long way to go – to Grandma’s house.

"Indians of Southern New England and Long Island, early period" Handbook of North American Indians, vol. 15. Ed.Bruce G. Trigger. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution, 1978. 171f. Wikipedia. 27 November 2013.

“Wampanoag Indian Fact Sheet.” Native Languages of the Americas. 1998-2013. Web. 27 November 2013.