It is raining. Pouring. Again! For weeks now it has rained just about every day. The entire Northeast is inundated with more rain than we can possibly deal with.
In the best of times, precipitation is seen as beneficent, raining down life-sustaining liquids for our benefit. And then we are grateful, or ought to be.
But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. We are nearly drowning in the stuff. Saturated, soaked, sogged. Completely waterlogged. Rivers rushing down city streets, the drains overflowing. Towns, fields and highways flooded. Dams, bridges, houses and lives swept irrevocably away. And the predicted storms aren’t over yet.
People have long believed that bad weather is some kind of vengeful divine retribution. Punishment for our earthly misbehavior. Certainly in the face of extreme hardship, this is a tempting response, based, perhaps, on guilt. But, of course, weather is weather, a neutral force. Our perception of whether it is good or bad is based solely and myopically on our own immediate inconvenience.
But maybe this rain is not aimed at us. Maybe Mother Earth is engaged in a deep purification ritual, a much needed purging of Her soiled body and profound pain. Picture Her, like any rape victim standing under a pounding shower for hours, days and weeks, trying to wash away the dirt and degradation that we have heaped upon Her so mercilessly.
Or maybe She is weeping, sobbing, down pouring tears of sad disappointment in us, Her errant, arrogant offspring, so rude and disrespectful. After all, just look at what we gave the Poor Old Dear for Mother’s Day in gratitude for all of Her great gifts to us: greenhouse gases, radiation, drilling, missile tests, oil spills and chemical trails.
Or this is a watery warning, perhaps. A reminder to appreciate the present and prepare for the future. To re-enforce our roofs, buy Wellington boots and build a safe, waterproof ark where we can collect, preserve and protect, two by two, all of our best intentions and human qualities: hope and love, charity and understanding, forgiveness and peace, compassion and reverence for all life.
Best blessings for keeping dry,
xxQMD
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
The Queen’s Chronicles: REQUIEM FOR POPPY’S PIGEON
I killed another bird this week. That is to say, that I rescued an injured bird two weeks ago that I was not able to prevent from dying. Again. I do this every spring. Somehow every year I find a fallen baby bird. I take it home and nurse it, but the results are rarely good. On occasion I have raised one to the point when it can fly off on its own. But usually, the ending is not so happy.
In this case, it was a young pigeon still with some baby fuzz and fluffy rust-colored pinfeathers. You never see baby pigeons. The parents keep them totally out of sight until they can be independent. But here was one sitting on the pavement of the parking lot of my building. I had to move it, or it would have been run over. I could have just put it into some bushes, but it surely would have been eaten by the marauding night cats,
I noticed that it had a head wound and also a few on its chest. It had fallen from one of the ledges on the building where pigeons roost. It was very still, perhaps in shock, and let me pick it up. I took it home and cleaned its wounds with peroxide and put it in a box. I tended the cuts and abrasions often, and after a couple of days they were healed.
It became more alert and clearly stronger. The next thing was to feed it. But it refused the gruel that I made from pulverized cat food — the recommended food for baby birds. About five days passed with no food or water. And yet it kept getting better and better. Animals don’t eat when they are sick or injured, so I didn’t force-feed it.
Then I offered it some seeds and he pecked t them. Yea! I took the box outside onto my terrace. He (familiarity changed him from an it to a he) immediately discovered the pan of water that I keep out there for the birds and climbed in. He drank and waded, then pecked some more. Victory!
This went on for days. We had a routine. I took him in at night and covered the box with a dark cloth and then took him outside into the sunshine each day. He walked further and further everyday, exploring, pecking, flapping his wings. But he loved his box and spent most of his time nesting.
Poppy, my little dog was fascinated by him and followed him around. And visa versa. They bonded with each other and I am not sure who imprinted on whom. But they were a team. This was definitely Poppy’s pigeon. She had just had her fifth birthday and I couldn’t have gotten her a better or more beloved present.
All went well. He liked coming into the house and I would usher him back out, not wanting pigeon poop all over. One day I found him in my office. I picked him up and took him back outside. I threw him up a bit and he flew a little. So now it was just a matter of time and he would soon fly away into his adult life.
Two days ago I drank my morning tea on the terrace enjoying the dog and pigeon show. I needed to change clothes to go to the gym and called the dog inside and closed the door. But the two little lovers each ran to the glass door, trying to reach each other through the panes. So I let Poppy back out.
My fatal mistake. A stupid misjudgment. An idiotic lapse of vigilance.
I changed and when I came out to the terrace the bird was dead on the floor and Poppy was cowering under a chair. I couldn’t believe it. Poppy killed her pigeon. She did the deed but the blood is on my hands. It was totally my fault and the guilt is tormenting me. I was furious with her, but much angrier with myself. How could I have let this happen?
Poppy is devastated. Not by guilt. She doesn’t understand what happened, but by grief. She misses the bird and keeps looking for it. I don’t believe it was animal killer instinct. She is not a killer, but a Papillion/Shitzu mix, a lapdog breed. She literally loved him to death.
And I guess that is what I do. I mean well. I want to help, to heal, to rescue, to save, to love all life into health and happiness. And I always succeed, but just to a point and then something happens. I make a mistake of some sort and all is lost.
So what is the lesson? And when will I learn it? They say that one shouldn’t interfere with Nature. But aren’t we all part of Nature? Isn’t it up to each of us to try to save and heal each other? I don’t know the answer. But I do know that I will probably do it again. That is my nature.
Best blessings of healing,
xxQMD
In this case, it was a young pigeon still with some baby fuzz and fluffy rust-colored pinfeathers. You never see baby pigeons. The parents keep them totally out of sight until they can be independent. But here was one sitting on the pavement of the parking lot of my building. I had to move it, or it would have been run over. I could have just put it into some bushes, but it surely would have been eaten by the marauding night cats,
I noticed that it had a head wound and also a few on its chest. It had fallen from one of the ledges on the building where pigeons roost. It was very still, perhaps in shock, and let me pick it up. I took it home and cleaned its wounds with peroxide and put it in a box. I tended the cuts and abrasions often, and after a couple of days they were healed.
It became more alert and clearly stronger. The next thing was to feed it. But it refused the gruel that I made from pulverized cat food — the recommended food for baby birds. About five days passed with no food or water. And yet it kept getting better and better. Animals don’t eat when they are sick or injured, so I didn’t force-feed it.
Then I offered it some seeds and he pecked t them. Yea! I took the box outside onto my terrace. He (familiarity changed him from an it to a he) immediately discovered the pan of water that I keep out there for the birds and climbed in. He drank and waded, then pecked some more. Victory!
This went on for days. We had a routine. I took him in at night and covered the box with a dark cloth and then took him outside into the sunshine each day. He walked further and further everyday, exploring, pecking, flapping his wings. But he loved his box and spent most of his time nesting.
Poppy, my little dog was fascinated by him and followed him around. And visa versa. They bonded with each other and I am not sure who imprinted on whom. But they were a team. This was definitely Poppy’s pigeon. She had just had her fifth birthday and I couldn’t have gotten her a better or more beloved present.
All went well. He liked coming into the house and I would usher him back out, not wanting pigeon poop all over. One day I found him in my office. I picked him up and took him back outside. I threw him up a bit and he flew a little. So now it was just a matter of time and he would soon fly away into his adult life.
Two days ago I drank my morning tea on the terrace enjoying the dog and pigeon show. I needed to change clothes to go to the gym and called the dog inside and closed the door. But the two little lovers each ran to the glass door, trying to reach each other through the panes. So I let Poppy back out.
My fatal mistake. A stupid misjudgment. An idiotic lapse of vigilance.
I changed and when I came out to the terrace the bird was dead on the floor and Poppy was cowering under a chair. I couldn’t believe it. Poppy killed her pigeon. She did the deed but the blood is on my hands. It was totally my fault and the guilt is tormenting me. I was furious with her, but much angrier with myself. How could I have let this happen?
Poppy is devastated. Not by guilt. She doesn’t understand what happened, but by grief. She misses the bird and keeps looking for it. I don’t believe it was animal killer instinct. She is not a killer, but a Papillion/Shitzu mix, a lapdog breed. She literally loved him to death.
And I guess that is what I do. I mean well. I want to help, to heal, to rescue, to save, to love all life into health and happiness. And I always succeed, but just to a point and then something happens. I make a mistake of some sort and all is lost.
So what is the lesson? And when will I learn it? They say that one shouldn’t interfere with Nature. But aren’t we all part of Nature? Isn’t it up to each of us to try to save and heal each other? I don’t know the answer. But I do know that I will probably do it again. That is my nature.
Best blessings of healing,
xxQMD
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The Queen’s Chronicles: MOTHER EARTH DAY EVERY DAY
The Queen’s Chronicles: MOTHER EARTH DAY EVERY DAY
Earth and woman share a correspondence of function, a facility for creativity and abundance, a worldly wisdom. Each is primary and potent. Even in appearance, are they the same. Just as the roundness of the earth and Her cyclical seasons resonate in every woman, the surface shapes and internal configurations of the earth are defined by the physical attributes of the female physique.
The soil, smoothly moist and rich, arid, cracked and parched, is Her skin; and the lush foliage, the fuzzy moss, the spindled grasses, are Her many splendid tresses. The trees are arms, legs, limbs, which reach out and dance in all directions. The roots, feet firm on the ground. Gems and crystalline minerals make Her strong skeletal system; and the rivers, creeks and streams are the blood that flows through Her veins.
The air is Her hot breath, Her holy exhalation. The seeds of plants are Her sacred monthly flow. Her pregnant belly is indicated in the rounded hills and Her mountainous breasts swell all the way to the sky. The valleys reflect the soft shapes of Her cradling elbows and comforting lap. The ocean is Her womb, the saline-rich source of all life. Rock clefts like labia, and vulvic caves are passageways into Her cavernous interior; the power of Her hallowed deep places, palpable.
Mother Earth, Mother Nature, has Her moods as well as any woman might. Her emotions, like the weather, are mutable and span the full spectrum. She rainbow-glows, radiant in health and beauty. She twinkles like the stars; sparkles with good humor. She grows overcast, gets dark, oblique, breezy and cool. She weeps with dew. She simmers and hisses on slow burn. She vents her steam. She quakes in anger. She rumbles and grumbles and tears the house down. She sparks, bursts, erupts, explodes, implodes in passion. She can be gentle, generous, humorous, dependable, destructive and very, very scary. Hell, indeed, hath no fury like an earthy woman scorned.
Mother Earth, universally worshipped as the fertile, female provider, protector and parent, was always treated with great dignity and care. Cultivated fields were left to rest one year in seven lest they become worn out with the never ending work of producing food, and wars were routinely put on hold during the planting season. Woman was cherished as the incarnate daughter of the Great Cosmic Queen, because she embodied the same supreme capability of life. Her natural understanding was held in esteem, and her body, its terrestrial contours reminiscent of those of Mother Earth, was respected. Once upon a time, that is.
A rather bizarre form of pornography, known as pornotopia, was produced during the Victorian period in England. Mother Earth was personified as a voluptuous female landscape laid bare to the voyeuristic viewing pleasure of man who surveys the scene before him from the perspective of a fly promenading upon Her full-figured splendor. Her hills and caves, rises and recesses, were described in somewhat smarmy terms which were meant to elicit the fascinating, fearsome, forbidden Oedipal fantasy of a man mounting his own mother in lust. Where in the past, the Earth had once been revered, She was here reviled, defiled, desecrated. Stripped bare of Her powers, She was reduced to a passive sexual object, sacked and soiled.
Today the body of the Earth, our first mother, is routinely bruised and abused. Raped and burned; dug and dammed; dynamited and nuked. As many as one hundred distinct species of plants and animals are disappearing from existence each day, directly or indirectly due to human domination. And the bodies of women everywhere fare no better.
How in the world did The Good Earth — the very material (from the Latin, mater, meaning, “mother”) of life itself — get to be a dirty word? Or Mutha, for that matter? According to the esteemed Oxford English Dictionary, dirt means, “grime,” “stain,” “smut.” Dirty is “lewd,” “defiled,” “contaminated,” “dingy,” “unsanitary,” “filthy,” “polluted,” “foul.” Not one mention of dirt as the flesh of the Goddess, as the source of the nutrients that nourish us, as the bosom of the Mother that will cradle us when we die. How did it come to pass that the Earth Mother whose grace we depend upon for absolutely everything has become so thoroughly sullied? And more important, how can we repair the damage?
We can begin by commemorating Earth Day in Her honor. Since 1971, Earth Day has been celebrated to remind the people of the world of the need for continuing care which is vital to Earth’s safety and our own. The vernal equinox was originally chosen as the official date to honor Earth for its symbolism — equilibrium and balance — in order to encourage and inspire a universal sense of interdependence, cooperation, and unity. Now we celebrate it on April 22, which has, heretofore, been Arbor Day.
The vernal equinox calls on all mankind to recognize and respect Earth’s beautiful systems of balance, between the presence of animals on land, the fish in the sea, birds in the air, mankind, water, air, and land. Most importantly there must always be awareness of the actions by people that can disturb this precious balance.
- Margaret Mead
On Earth Day the United Nations Peace Bell is rung to initiate a moment of global equipoise when people worldwide can join in a renewed heartfelt commitment to the protection and care of our planet. The United Nations Earth Day event is the centerpiece of an annual global holiday that strives to awaken a common objective of local and global harmony with nature and neighbors.
The original Earth Day proclamation states, “All individuals and institutions have a mutual responsibility to act as Trustees of Earth, seeking the choices in ecology, economics, and ethics that will eliminate pollution, poverty, and violence; foster peaceful progress; awaken the wonder of life; and realize the best potential for the future of the human adventure.”
Last month, two billion people worldwide participated in Earth Hour by turning off their lights as a visual demonstration of the dramatic difference made possible by each individual coupled with the efforts of others. But one hour, one day is barely a beginning. Let one hour, one day inspire two, twenty, two hundred. Let every day be Earth Day.
There is no social-change fairy. There is only change made by the hands of individuals.
- Winona LaDuke
With every blessing from Mother Earth and every blessing for Her,
XxQMD
Earth and woman share a correspondence of function, a facility for creativity and abundance, a worldly wisdom. Each is primary and potent. Even in appearance, are they the same. Just as the roundness of the earth and Her cyclical seasons resonate in every woman, the surface shapes and internal configurations of the earth are defined by the physical attributes of the female physique.
The soil, smoothly moist and rich, arid, cracked and parched, is Her skin; and the lush foliage, the fuzzy moss, the spindled grasses, are Her many splendid tresses. The trees are arms, legs, limbs, which reach out and dance in all directions. The roots, feet firm on the ground. Gems and crystalline minerals make Her strong skeletal system; and the rivers, creeks and streams are the blood that flows through Her veins.
The air is Her hot breath, Her holy exhalation. The seeds of plants are Her sacred monthly flow. Her pregnant belly is indicated in the rounded hills and Her mountainous breasts swell all the way to the sky. The valleys reflect the soft shapes of Her cradling elbows and comforting lap. The ocean is Her womb, the saline-rich source of all life. Rock clefts like labia, and vulvic caves are passageways into Her cavernous interior; the power of Her hallowed deep places, palpable.
Mother Earth, Mother Nature, has Her moods as well as any woman might. Her emotions, like the weather, are mutable and span the full spectrum. She rainbow-glows, radiant in health and beauty. She twinkles like the stars; sparkles with good humor. She grows overcast, gets dark, oblique, breezy and cool. She weeps with dew. She simmers and hisses on slow burn. She vents her steam. She quakes in anger. She rumbles and grumbles and tears the house down. She sparks, bursts, erupts, explodes, implodes in passion. She can be gentle, generous, humorous, dependable, destructive and very, very scary. Hell, indeed, hath no fury like an earthy woman scorned.
Mother Earth, universally worshipped as the fertile, female provider, protector and parent, was always treated with great dignity and care. Cultivated fields were left to rest one year in seven lest they become worn out with the never ending work of producing food, and wars were routinely put on hold during the planting season. Woman was cherished as the incarnate daughter of the Great Cosmic Queen, because she embodied the same supreme capability of life. Her natural understanding was held in esteem, and her body, its terrestrial contours reminiscent of those of Mother Earth, was respected. Once upon a time, that is.
A rather bizarre form of pornography, known as pornotopia, was produced during the Victorian period in England. Mother Earth was personified as a voluptuous female landscape laid bare to the voyeuristic viewing pleasure of man who surveys the scene before him from the perspective of a fly promenading upon Her full-figured splendor. Her hills and caves, rises and recesses, were described in somewhat smarmy terms which were meant to elicit the fascinating, fearsome, forbidden Oedipal fantasy of a man mounting his own mother in lust. Where in the past, the Earth had once been revered, She was here reviled, defiled, desecrated. Stripped bare of Her powers, She was reduced to a passive sexual object, sacked and soiled.
Today the body of the Earth, our first mother, is routinely bruised and abused. Raped and burned; dug and dammed; dynamited and nuked. As many as one hundred distinct species of plants and animals are disappearing from existence each day, directly or indirectly due to human domination. And the bodies of women everywhere fare no better.
How in the world did The Good Earth — the very material (from the Latin, mater, meaning, “mother”) of life itself — get to be a dirty word? Or Mutha, for that matter? According to the esteemed Oxford English Dictionary, dirt means, “grime,” “stain,” “smut.” Dirty is “lewd,” “defiled,” “contaminated,” “dingy,” “unsanitary,” “filthy,” “polluted,” “foul.” Not one mention of dirt as the flesh of the Goddess, as the source of the nutrients that nourish us, as the bosom of the Mother that will cradle us when we die. How did it come to pass that the Earth Mother whose grace we depend upon for absolutely everything has become so thoroughly sullied? And more important, how can we repair the damage?
We can begin by commemorating Earth Day in Her honor. Since 1971, Earth Day has been celebrated to remind the people of the world of the need for continuing care which is vital to Earth’s safety and our own. The vernal equinox was originally chosen as the official date to honor Earth for its symbolism — equilibrium and balance — in order to encourage and inspire a universal sense of interdependence, cooperation, and unity. Now we celebrate it on April 22, which has, heretofore, been Arbor Day.
The vernal equinox calls on all mankind to recognize and respect Earth’s beautiful systems of balance, between the presence of animals on land, the fish in the sea, birds in the air, mankind, water, air, and land. Most importantly there must always be awareness of the actions by people that can disturb this precious balance.
- Margaret Mead
On Earth Day the United Nations Peace Bell is rung to initiate a moment of global equipoise when people worldwide can join in a renewed heartfelt commitment to the protection and care of our planet. The United Nations Earth Day event is the centerpiece of an annual global holiday that strives to awaken a common objective of local and global harmony with nature and neighbors.
The original Earth Day proclamation states, “All individuals and institutions have a mutual responsibility to act as Trustees of Earth, seeking the choices in ecology, economics, and ethics that will eliminate pollution, poverty, and violence; foster peaceful progress; awaken the wonder of life; and realize the best potential for the future of the human adventure.”
Last month, two billion people worldwide participated in Earth Hour by turning off their lights as a visual demonstration of the dramatic difference made possible by each individual coupled with the efforts of others. But one hour, one day is barely a beginning. Let one hour, one day inspire two, twenty, two hundred. Let every day be Earth Day.
There is no social-change fairy. There is only change made by the hands of individuals.
- Winona LaDuke
With every blessing from Mother Earth and every blessing for Her,
XxQMD
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
The Queen’s Chronicles: April Fool’s Day
People everywhere seem to have regarded themselves as sufficiently ridiculous as to require some serious comeuppance, judging by the universality of Festivals of Fools. The special Fool Days are dedicated to a ritualized recognition of our all-too-human folly. On Days of the Fool there are no intermediary clowns. Everybody gets to play the fool.
Within this ceremonial context, we can act out an upside-down idiot reality with absolute impunity. We are free to tease and taunt, safely flaunt our fatuous fate. This comic relief, this unrestrained retreat from seriousness, serves as a safety valve for society. It allows for the cathartic release of emotion, tension, anxiety, and the diffusion of disappointments and dangerous resentments.
Archaic definitions for fool include “imbecile, idiot, mentally defective, silly, stupid, devoid of wisdom.” “Fool” is from the Latin, follis, which means, “bellows, ball filled with air.” As in, wind bag. Airhead. Buffoon is related to the Italian, buffare, “to puff.” There is an airy quality implied in the language, which describes a fool — an incredible lightness of movement, of the moment, of being. A new way of seeing, which dissolves the solidity of the so-called real world. There is a Yiddish proverb that says, “The complete fool is half prophet.”
In Scotland, November 8, is kept as Dunce Day. This Fool’s Day was named after Duns Scotus, a ninth century scholar who created a cone-shaped hat to energize the brain of his foolish students. The first Tuesday in May is the Fool’s Fair in Wales. Awa Odori, A Fool Dance is staged annually in Japan, while the Russians celebrate the Day of St. Basil the Fool of Moscow. Fashing, or Fastnacht, is a raucous two-day Feast of Fools that precedes the pre-Lenten carnival in Austria. Purim, the Jewish Feast of Esther, is celebrated with an atmosphere of exuberance, a joyous, boisterous mocking of tradition and decorum, when it is customary, on this one day only, to drink to giddy excess.
The Hindu holiday of spring fools is Holi, celebrated as a high-spirited fire festival, which proclaims the death of Winter and the onset of spring fever. For five days there is utter relaxation of the accepted rules of behavior. Lewdness prevails. People spray each other in the streets with powdered color pigments. There is a ribald shift in the normal relations among the castes and between the sexes, which often degenerates into mudslinging and public beatings of men by women.
Most of Europe and North America celebrate the Fool on April 1st. In Scotland, April 1 is known as Huntigowok. In Fife, a peninsula north of Edinburgh, the foolishness continues on April, 2, Taily Day, when the fun is limited to the immediate area of the backside. An entire day dedicated to buttocks jokes and “kick me” signs.
In France, the Fools Festival is Poisson d'Avril, “April Fish.” Is this a reference to the sun's leaving the constellation Pisces? Because April fish are easy to catch? Or, perhaps, a symbol of the meatless Lenten month? Here, too, people concentrate on each other’s ass ends. The idea of the day is to surreptitiously pin paper fish on the backsides of the unsuspecting. Unsigned joke cards decorated with fish are also exchanged.
So why April Fools' Day? Because April weather is so capricious? Because in April we are like a kindergarten class of hyperactive puppies exploding out of winter into recess? Or, as they say in Indiana, "April is the cruelest month?" Holi and Purim are celebrated near the Spring Equinox, as were the Roman holiday Hilaria and also the vernal festival for the Celtic God of Mirth.
Perhaps these spring high jinx were the true precedents of April Fool’s Day, but the official story goes: Until the Middle Ages, New Year was celebrated in Europe beginning on March 25, the approximate Vernal Equinox and lasting eight days until April 1 when festivities culminated in a day of visiting and gift exchange. Then in 1582, the new Gregorian calendar was adopted and New Year’s Day was suddenly changed and officially established as January 1. Those folks who forgot the change or who insisted on maintaining the old traditions were called April Fools. They were gifted with joke presents and sent on fool's errands.
Today, we silly so and so’s who putter with nature, who foolishly toy with the elements and fool with the future could stand a strict Trickster talking-to. A little comical self-critique is most certainly called for about now. A good swift kick in the perspective is what we need. The stakes are enormous. The joker is wild. We can no longer afford to play the fool.
With blessings of serious fun,
xxQMD
Within this ceremonial context, we can act out an upside-down idiot reality with absolute impunity. We are free to tease and taunt, safely flaunt our fatuous fate. This comic relief, this unrestrained retreat from seriousness, serves as a safety valve for society. It allows for the cathartic release of emotion, tension, anxiety, and the diffusion of disappointments and dangerous resentments.
Archaic definitions for fool include “imbecile, idiot, mentally defective, silly, stupid, devoid of wisdom.” “Fool” is from the Latin, follis, which means, “bellows, ball filled with air.” As in, wind bag. Airhead. Buffoon is related to the Italian, buffare, “to puff.” There is an airy quality implied in the language, which describes a fool — an incredible lightness of movement, of the moment, of being. A new way of seeing, which dissolves the solidity of the so-called real world. There is a Yiddish proverb that says, “The complete fool is half prophet.”
In Scotland, November 8, is kept as Dunce Day. This Fool’s Day was named after Duns Scotus, a ninth century scholar who created a cone-shaped hat to energize the brain of his foolish students. The first Tuesday in May is the Fool’s Fair in Wales. Awa Odori, A Fool Dance is staged annually in Japan, while the Russians celebrate the Day of St. Basil the Fool of Moscow. Fashing, or Fastnacht, is a raucous two-day Feast of Fools that precedes the pre-Lenten carnival in Austria. Purim, the Jewish Feast of Esther, is celebrated with an atmosphere of exuberance, a joyous, boisterous mocking of tradition and decorum, when it is customary, on this one day only, to drink to giddy excess.
The Hindu holiday of spring fools is Holi, celebrated as a high-spirited fire festival, which proclaims the death of Winter and the onset of spring fever. For five days there is utter relaxation of the accepted rules of behavior. Lewdness prevails. People spray each other in the streets with powdered color pigments. There is a ribald shift in the normal relations among the castes and between the sexes, which often degenerates into mudslinging and public beatings of men by women.
Most of Europe and North America celebrate the Fool on April 1st. In Scotland, April 1 is known as Huntigowok. In Fife, a peninsula north of Edinburgh, the foolishness continues on April, 2, Taily Day, when the fun is limited to the immediate area of the backside. An entire day dedicated to buttocks jokes and “kick me” signs.
In France, the Fools Festival is Poisson d'Avril, “April Fish.” Is this a reference to the sun's leaving the constellation Pisces? Because April fish are easy to catch? Or, perhaps, a symbol of the meatless Lenten month? Here, too, people concentrate on each other’s ass ends. The idea of the day is to surreptitiously pin paper fish on the backsides of the unsuspecting. Unsigned joke cards decorated with fish are also exchanged.
So why April Fools' Day? Because April weather is so capricious? Because in April we are like a kindergarten class of hyperactive puppies exploding out of winter into recess? Or, as they say in Indiana, "April is the cruelest month?" Holi and Purim are celebrated near the Spring Equinox, as were the Roman holiday Hilaria and also the vernal festival for the Celtic God of Mirth.
Perhaps these spring high jinx were the true precedents of April Fool’s Day, but the official story goes: Until the Middle Ages, New Year was celebrated in Europe beginning on March 25, the approximate Vernal Equinox and lasting eight days until April 1 when festivities culminated in a day of visiting and gift exchange. Then in 1582, the new Gregorian calendar was adopted and New Year’s Day was suddenly changed and officially established as January 1. Those folks who forgot the change or who insisted on maintaining the old traditions were called April Fools. They were gifted with joke presents and sent on fool's errands.
Today, we silly so and so’s who putter with nature, who foolishly toy with the elements and fool with the future could stand a strict Trickster talking-to. A little comical self-critique is most certainly called for about now. A good swift kick in the perspective is what we need. The stakes are enormous. The joker is wild. We can no longer afford to play the fool.
With blessings of serious fun,
xxQMD
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The Queen’s Chronicles: AN HOUR IN THE DARK
I am writing this in the dark. It is Earth Hour, a rolling blackout around the world intended as a visual, visceral vote for increased awareness and concern about climate change. In fact, it is the first-ever global vote on anything.
All of my lights are out. I can see the Manhattan skyline from the windows in my loft in Exotic Brooklyn. It is eerily dark. Landmarks and iconic buildings everywhere from the Empire State building to the Eiffel Tower, to the Golden Gate Bridge to the Great Pyramids and Sphinx went dark.
I cooked dinner by candlelight on a gas range. How many others around the world were doing the same? How many were sitting around dining room tables at home and in restaurants in the soft light of lanterns and oil lamps? How many cook and eat by a fire every night?
It is estimated that one billion folks in four thousand cities in eighty-eight countries worldwide participated in this massive project. Earth Hour is a graphic pledge to do one’s part for planetary protection and healing. I feel so connected to all the participants as we share this global ritual. For one hour, we are all one, joined in service to our mutual Mother Earth and ultimately each other.
Earth Hour can have very concrete potential consequences if everyone follows through and acts responsibly going forward. For example, if every business and household replaced just one light bulb with a compact fluorescent one, enough energy would be saved that one nuclear power plant could be taken off the grid.
We can turn this crisis around. We each need to do our part. Not just for Earth Hour, not just for Earth Day, but for every minute of every hour every day. We CAN do this. Yes we can!
With blessings to and from and for the Earth.
xxMama Donna
All of my lights are out. I can see the Manhattan skyline from the windows in my loft in Exotic Brooklyn. It is eerily dark. Landmarks and iconic buildings everywhere from the Empire State building to the Eiffel Tower, to the Golden Gate Bridge to the Great Pyramids and Sphinx went dark.
I cooked dinner by candlelight on a gas range. How many others around the world were doing the same? How many were sitting around dining room tables at home and in restaurants in the soft light of lanterns and oil lamps? How many cook and eat by a fire every night?
It is estimated that one billion folks in four thousand cities in eighty-eight countries worldwide participated in this massive project. Earth Hour is a graphic pledge to do one’s part for planetary protection and healing. I feel so connected to all the participants as we share this global ritual. For one hour, we are all one, joined in service to our mutual Mother Earth and ultimately each other.
Earth Hour can have very concrete potential consequences if everyone follows through and acts responsibly going forward. For example, if every business and household replaced just one light bulb with a compact fluorescent one, enough energy would be saved that one nuclear power plant could be taken off the grid.
We can turn this crisis around. We each need to do our part. Not just for Earth Hour, not just for Earth Day, but for every minute of every hour every day. We CAN do this. Yes we can!
With blessings to and from and for the Earth.
xxMama Donna
Friday, March 13, 2009
The Queen’s Chronicles: LUCKY FRIDAY THE 13th
When the 13th day on the month lands on a Friday, the culturally unfavorable attributes of each are multiplied by infinity. Friday, the day of original sin, the day Jesus died, the day of public hangings, in combination with 13, the number of steps on a gallows, the number of coils of rope in a hangman’s noose, the number of the Death card in the tarot deck, is indubitably designated as a day of portent and doom.
The pitiful suicide note of a window washer that was found with his body in a gas-filled room at his home and quoted in a 1960 issue of the Yorkshire Post, underscores its powerful, popular reputation, "It just needed to rain today - Friday the 13th - for me to make up my mind." Poor sod.
But up until the patriarchal revolution, both Fridays and 13s were held in the very highest esteem. Both the day and the number were associated with the Great Goddesses, and therefore, regarded as the sacred essence of luck and good fortune. Thirteen is certainly the most essentially female number - the average number of menstrual cycles in a year. The approximate number, too of annual cycles of the moon. When Chinese women make offerings of moon cakes, there are sure to be 13 on the platter. Thirteen is the number of blood, fertility and lunar potency. 13 is the lucky number of the Great Goddess.
Held holy in Her honor, Friday was observed as the day of Her special celebrations. Jews around the world still begin the observance of the Sabbath at sunset on Friday evenings when they invite in the Sabbath Bride. Friday is the Sabbath in the Islamic world. Friday is also sacred to Oshun, the Yoruban orisha of opulent sensuality and overwhelming femininity, and Frig the Norse Goddess of love and sex, of fertility and creativity. Her name became the Anglo-Saxon noun for love, and in the sixteenth century, frig came to mean “to copulate.”
Friday the 13th is ultimately the celebration of the lives and loves of Lady Luck. On this, Her doubly-dedicated day, let us consider what fortuitous coincidences constitute our fate. The lucky blend of just the right conditions, chemistries, elements and energies, which comprise our universe. The way it all works. The way we are. That we are at all. That, despite whatever major or minor matters we might think are unlucky, we have somehow managed to remain alive and aware. This Friday the 13th, let us stand in full consciousness of the miraculousness of existence and count our blessings. Knock on wood!
With blessings of luck and love.
xxQMD
The pitiful suicide note of a window washer that was found with his body in a gas-filled room at his home and quoted in a 1960 issue of the Yorkshire Post, underscores its powerful, popular reputation, "It just needed to rain today - Friday the 13th - for me to make up my mind." Poor sod.
But up until the patriarchal revolution, both Fridays and 13s were held in the very highest esteem. Both the day and the number were associated with the Great Goddesses, and therefore, regarded as the sacred essence of luck and good fortune. Thirteen is certainly the most essentially female number - the average number of menstrual cycles in a year. The approximate number, too of annual cycles of the moon. When Chinese women make offerings of moon cakes, there are sure to be 13 on the platter. Thirteen is the number of blood, fertility and lunar potency. 13 is the lucky number of the Great Goddess.
Held holy in Her honor, Friday was observed as the day of Her special celebrations. Jews around the world still begin the observance of the Sabbath at sunset on Friday evenings when they invite in the Sabbath Bride. Friday is the Sabbath in the Islamic world. Friday is also sacred to Oshun, the Yoruban orisha of opulent sensuality and overwhelming femininity, and Frig the Norse Goddess of love and sex, of fertility and creativity. Her name became the Anglo-Saxon noun for love, and in the sixteenth century, frig came to mean “to copulate.”
Friday the 13th is ultimately the celebration of the lives and loves of Lady Luck. On this, Her doubly-dedicated day, let us consider what fortuitous coincidences constitute our fate. The lucky blend of just the right conditions, chemistries, elements and energies, which comprise our universe. The way it all works. The way we are. That we are at all. That, despite whatever major or minor matters we might think are unlucky, we have somehow managed to remain alive and aware. This Friday the 13th, let us stand in full consciousness of the miraculousness of existence and count our blessings. Knock on wood!
With blessings of luck and love.
xxQMD
Monday, March 9, 2009
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