A yellow tulip that has been blooming for 20 years (a baby shower gift), more rows on the grey panel, and the Midwife card from Nick Bantock’s Archeo deck.
Artemis
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
How apt that now when so much is at stake for girls when women unleash the hounds of Artemis upon the ones who prey upon our young when we call out against the cruelty yearning for a more humane way that we would send this arrow moonward this rocket basket of beautiful souls into space to commune with the moon and name one of her dimples for a beloved one to show us we can be human again
Over the years of saying the rosary, I have taken up the practice, suggested by Perdita Finn, of considering the three parts of the Hail Mary as invocations to the tripartite aspects of the Goddess as Maiden, Mother, and Crone: Hello Maiden, full of grace, Love is with thee, Blessed art thou among women, Wild Mother, and blessed is the force of thy desire, all life. Holy Grandmother, Queen of the Wild and the Wellspring, pray for us now and in the hour of our Death/Struggle.
Lately, however, I have been pondering the way the Maiden has, for centuries, been packaged as the object of male desire, how the paedophilic trope has been coded into our stories and culture for millennia–think Virgin Mary, Maiden Persephone, Little Red Riding Hood. The Maiden/Virgin who steps onto her path, makes her way in the world, and chooses her own bodily autonomy has been subverted and caged by male desire. Her pinnacle desire, according to the cultural molding, is to be desired. Her goals and plans and ambitions are subverted into submission to the male–she must want what he wants: Herself in gilded cage.
Before the Maiden, however, is the Girl Who Breathes Fire*, the Wild Child, the youngster who believes she can do anything: win, fly, travel through time. She is Pippi Longstocking, not defiant for the sake of defiance, but simply because she has time only for her own wild path. Now I pray: Hello Fire-Breathing Feral Girl, Love is with thee. . .
(*I borrowed this term from the Nurjahan Boulden, a Tanzanian-American Dancer and Fierce Advocate for Women’s Selfhood)
Wild Girl lives in a garden populated by fantastical creatures, exotic plants–all of it fierce and dangerous, whimsical and friendly, ready for adventure. I’ve decided that I need to reconnect with my Wild Girl as I explore more deeply how the Maiden in my own story fell asleep. Here in the landscape of my personal fairy tale, the Maiden had encountered enough feminist ideas and retained a little of the wildness of the Girl; even so, she became a little intoxicated by the exchange of desire for desirability. Fortunately, she fell in love not with a prince but a kind and gentle farmer, and they made a life together–much safer than the life of a sleeping Maiden awakened into life as a prince-bro’s servant and plaything. Good fortune met me in a shared life with a good man–we have lived outside the realm of the cultural fairy tale as fully as we are able.
Still, no matter how well I’ve escaped the hegemony of the cultural trope, it reaches everywhere, trying always to lull me into the gilded cage, into performing femininity, into questing for desirability rather than desire, for being of service rather than belonging to the reciprocally woven community, for wishing for the slender beauty of youthfulness rather than the fulsome beauty of age.
This morning on Substack, I encountered Sharon Blackie’s latest post, titled “The Fairy Tale Heroine and the Wild Girl Archetype.” I have only read the first little bit because it hit me between the eyes, and I wanted to make sure I wrote some of my ramblings on the matter before reading her analysis. I have been wanting to read her book Hagitude, but now I think I have a whole stack of Sharon Blackie books to read. After my own explorations of what it means to be a shapeshifting woman in midlife, I also want to read her Foxfire, Wolfskin.
As I have stepped over the threshold into my crone season, I have been pondering how all the former seasons of my life continue to be part of the season I am in. I never left the Wild Child behind, or the Maiden. Even now, as I enter a somewhat late-blooming croning, I am Mother to my own young adults, and nurturing growth in my students. The intermediary season of Queen, that perimenopausal period that seemed to last for fifteen years, that season of Becoming more and more myownself, that too continues into this crone season, this shedding of old expectations, this time of settling more deeply into my body. I claim not only sovereignty of my Queenself, and the tenderness of my Motherself, but the self-possession of my Maidenself, and the absolute wildness of my Childself.
In Our Lady’s Garden, tall birds strut and bow, ravens call from high in the branches of an old oak tree, a deer steps out from the brambles, a long green snake winds its way through the grasses, and a ladybug redder than a drop of blood takes wing. An owl calls from deep in the shadowed forest.
Here you feel your grandmothers’ eyes upon you, you hear your name in the breeze that rattle the branches of the witch hazel, and the scent of roses surrounds you.
You could take on any shape you choose. Any word will transport you. Any fluttering leaf could become a wing.
Today’s poem is a quickie. I like the basic idea, but I’m throwing down the ideas tonight in hopes that I can come back later and refine it if I still like it.
Vampire by Beth Weaver-Kreider
He needs our outrage, our fear, our despair. He feeds on our anger, our exhaustion. Creates chaos, watches hungrily for morsels of panic to consume. Do not invite him in. We must starve him. Feed him our fortitude, our joy, our whimsy. Prepare feasts of compassion for our neighbors, banquets of beauty and art, fiestas of free thinking, Gorge him with humor and hilarity. These things he cannot abide. They will not nourish him. Bring him into the sunlight.
Crocheting with such fine yarn is really slow going. This is when I usually start to abandon a project. So this is the point of my choice to finish my UFOs for this 100 days—to keep me engaged in projects that don’t show a lot of progress.
shadblow snow scatters petals across the walk last year’s nest (left empty by robins fledged last spring) hidden now (almost) in starry blossoms
this tree (named for the fish that fed the Susquehannocks) spawns rose and purple berries (sharp tang, and sweet) in May and June each blossom now a promise of tomorrow’s delight
A couple rows on the gray panel while I listened to Heather Cox Richardson talk about the mad king and his unhinged war. I think I’ll head to the Lancaster Make Some Noise Protest this evening.
Meanwhile by Beth Weaver-Kreider
Meanwhile, he threatens genocide. Meanwhile, we hold children in concentration camps. Meanwhile, there’s still no justice for people shot in the streets. Meanwhile, he is still in the Epstein Files. Meanwhile, the children don’t care about your damn signature. Meanwhile, he probably shouldn’t even be allowed near children. Meanwhile, we bombed a girls’ school. Meanwhile, we killed over one hundred people on boats in the Caribbean. Meanwhile, they’re serving rotten in the concentration camps. Meanwhile, girls and women are getting raped in the concentration camps. Meanwhile, sick people aren’t receiving medical care in the concentration camps. Meanwhile, he keeps threatening war crimes. Meanwhile, some Christians still call him God’s Chosen. Meanwhile, he is increasingly unhinged and impaired. Meanwhile
A little more work today on the Grey panel of the shrug. I counted my hearts and flowers for Pride: 129 in the current batch.
Shapeshifting by Beth Weaver-Kreider
Before I was born I was a little owl gliding over moonlit fields listening with the dish of my face feeling my way through air as a fish feels the water which is both its existence and its road.
When I die, I will curl into the womb of the World, the coils of my snake body sliding through the passages of earth which will be both my pathway and my truth.
Finished panel 2 in the shrug. This is definitely not going to fit if I construct it as I was thinking of doing. Some re-designing will be necessary. Unlike my knitted sweater, this is not something I would completely frog and re-do.
I also made the pink hearts and flowers and the rose today. The little blue heart was a gift from a friend, along with the three stones. I finished the last of my Kilimanjaro tea in my Tanzania mug. Blueberry mango smoothie for supper.
Question by Beth Weaver-Kreider
Who is calling your name in the dawn? Whose voice do you hear in the garden? Will you come alive? Will you be reborn?
Day 42: Spent yesterday visiting beloveds and didn’t get home until late. Here is yesterday’s project and poem. A couple rows on the shrug (with some frogging in the process) and hearts and a scrappy grey flower. The scrap basket I finished yesterday, except for weaving in the ends. I heard a raven cronk behind the dawn chorus when I was out taking photos. Grandma’s (green) and Aunt Lizzie’s (brown) crochet hooks.
Birth by Beth Weaver-Kreider
What bird sang at the moment you were born?
What animal stood suddenly, poised and waiting, listening as if for the tiniest murmur in the quivering air?
What bud felt the surge of life force in its roots and bloomed?
Mockingbird Chronicles 