I extend all manner of spooky greetings for these three days of the dead:
October 31 Halloween
November 1 All Saints Day
November 2 All Soul's Day or Dia de los Muertos.
Halloween descends from Samhain, the most significant holiday of the Celtic calendar. Being a pastoral people, the Celts counted their seasons according to the needs of their cattle and sheep, rather than the agricultural seasons that farmers might mark. The year was divided
into summer, when the herds are led our to graze, and winter, when they were brought back home again. Samhain, the day when the cows came home, was considered the first day of winter and also the first day of the new year.
Samhain exposes a crease in time. A fissure between summer and winter. Between the old year and the new. During this period, the dead have easy access to the living, and are likely to pay a visit. Just as the herds returned home to the warmth and security of the hearth in winter, so too, must the ghosts of the dead want to be cheered by familiar surroundings and loved ones. Certainly one owes the same hospitality to the ancestors as one gives to the animals!
For hundreds of years Christian missionaries tried without success to suppress Samhain and convert the Celts. In the eleventh century, Odilo, abbot at Cluny, claimed this heathen death feast for the Church. Hallow Tide, Holy Time, is a three-day feast -- All Hallowed Eve, All Hallowed, and All Saint's Day -- during which prayers are offered for Christian saints and souls, and only for Christian saints and souls. All others, those doomed souls whose burials were not consecrated in Christ, return to Earth on the eve of All Hallow’s to haunt the living. Menacing demons and flying witches along with their trusty black cat sidekicks, the persistent practitioners of the pagan religion, were also thought to be out and about and up to no good.
The potato famine of 1846 sent a million Irish immigrants to the United States. They brought with them their ancient Celtic customs, among them the feast of Samhain, which, as good Catholics, they now called Hallowe'en. This shadow festival of soul survival struck a responsive chord in the American people who instantly adopted it. To this day, Halloween is celebrated in some fashion by practically every person in North America. Sales of decorations and goodies rival the lucrative Christmas season.
We modern Americans rarely -- if ever -- think about death if we can possibly help it. We like to watch it on a big screen well enough, or perpetrate it on innocent populations overseas, but in real life, we just don't do death. Which is why I think Halloween has become so popular. It offers us a way to engage with our natural fascination with death in a way which is scary yet superficial. At Halloween we get to acknowledge our fear of death while still having a good time.
All best blessings,
xxQMD
To read about Halloween in more depth, check out my book, Celestially Auspicious Occasions: Seasons, Cycles & Celebrations at: www.DonnnaHenes.net
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The Queen’s Chronicles: EARTH ATTACKS MOON
“Of all the creatures who had yet walked on Earth, the Man-apes were the first to look steadfastly at the Moon. And though he could not remember it, when he was very young Moon-Watcher would sometimes reach out and try to touch that ghostly face rising above the hills. He has never succeeded, and now he was old enough to understand why. For first, of course, He must find a high enough tree to climb.”
- Arthur C. Clarke
2001 A Space Odyssey
Well, we Earthling Moon-Watchers built ourselves some really tall trees so that we could get to the moon. Rocket-propelled trees to carry us through space. And so we got to the moon.
No sooner did we land there than we set about trashing it. In the short time that we have been visiting our attendance upon it, we have left over twenty tons of debris — biological, atmospheric and manufactured — on the surface of our once pristine satellite.
Here are just some of things we left to litter Lady Luna: flags and dedication plaques from each moon mission, video cameras at the launch sites, sensitometers, the launch legs for the lunar module,
geologic tools, laser reflecting mirrors, the lunar rovers, a gold plated extreme ultraviolet telescope, a Tesco super market shopping cart, several Apollo backpacks, and three golf balls.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, we have reached new highs in our lows. At 7:30AM EDT on Friday, October 9, 2009 the Lunar Crater Observation and Sensing Satellite (LCROSS) mission, will fire a Centaur rocket into a crater at the South Pole of the moon which will act as a “heavy impactor” crashing into the lunar surface at nearly 6,000 mph sending a debris plume of 300,000 to 350,000 tons of material from the crater floor over 30 miles high.
A second sensor satellite will then drop down into this plume analyzing its contents in the hope of finding water. The result of this search will ultimately determine how realistic a full-time base on moon can be.
After the booster rocket hits the crater, blasting out a hole 90 feet deep, the shepherd will follow through the plume. After analyzing the plume, the shepherd craft will itself slam into the crater four minutes later, creating a second hole 60 feet deep.
According to NASA, this crash will be so big that we on Earth may be able to view the resulting plume of material it ejects with a good amateur telescope. The operation will unfold live on the Internet, as well as under the watchful eyes of dozens of amateur and professional astronomers and orbiting observatories, including the Hubble Space Telescope.
"Water on the moon has haunted us for years," said William Hartmann of the Planetary Science Institute. "It's all part of humanity's quest to understand our nearby cosmic environment." Yeah, right, understand it so we could rape it.
"Who (said the moon)
Do you think I am and precisely who
Pipsqueak, who are you
With your uncivil liberties
To do as you damn please?
Boo!
I am the serene
Moon (said the moon).
Don't touch me again.
To your poking telescopes,
Your peeking eyes
I have long been wise.
Science? another word
For monkeyshine.
You heard me.
Get down, little man, go home,
Back where you come from,
Bah!
Or my gold will be turning green
On me (said the moon)
If you know what I mean."
- Robert Francis
Yours with heartsick, heartfelt blessings for Mama Moon,
xxQMD
- Arthur C. Clarke
2001 A Space Odyssey
Well, we Earthling Moon-Watchers built ourselves some really tall trees so that we could get to the moon. Rocket-propelled trees to carry us through space. And so we got to the moon.
No sooner did we land there than we set about trashing it. In the short time that we have been visiting our attendance upon it, we have left over twenty tons of debris — biological, atmospheric and manufactured — on the surface of our once pristine satellite.
Here are just some of things we left to litter Lady Luna: flags and dedication plaques from each moon mission, video cameras at the launch sites, sensitometers, the launch legs for the lunar module,
geologic tools, laser reflecting mirrors, the lunar rovers, a gold plated extreme ultraviolet telescope, a Tesco super market shopping cart, several Apollo backpacks, and three golf balls.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, we have reached new highs in our lows. At 7:30AM EDT on Friday, October 9, 2009 the Lunar Crater Observation and Sensing Satellite (LCROSS) mission, will fire a Centaur rocket into a crater at the South Pole of the moon which will act as a “heavy impactor” crashing into the lunar surface at nearly 6,000 mph sending a debris plume of 300,000 to 350,000 tons of material from the crater floor over 30 miles high.
A second sensor satellite will then drop down into this plume analyzing its contents in the hope of finding water. The result of this search will ultimately determine how realistic a full-time base on moon can be.
After the booster rocket hits the crater, blasting out a hole 90 feet deep, the shepherd will follow through the plume. After analyzing the plume, the shepherd craft will itself slam into the crater four minutes later, creating a second hole 60 feet deep.
According to NASA, this crash will be so big that we on Earth may be able to view the resulting plume of material it ejects with a good amateur telescope. The operation will unfold live on the Internet, as well as under the watchful eyes of dozens of amateur and professional astronomers and orbiting observatories, including the Hubble Space Telescope.
"Water on the moon has haunted us for years," said William Hartmann of the Planetary Science Institute. "It's all part of humanity's quest to understand our nearby cosmic environment." Yeah, right, understand it so we could rape it.
"Who (said the moon)
Do you think I am and precisely who
Pipsqueak, who are you
With your uncivil liberties
To do as you damn please?
Boo!
I am the serene
Moon (said the moon).
Don't touch me again.
To your poking telescopes,
Your peeking eyes
I have long been wise.
Science? another word
For monkeyshine.
You heard me.
Get down, little man, go home,
Back where you come from,
Bah!
Or my gold will be turning green
On me (said the moon)
If you know what I mean."
- Robert Francis
Yours with heartsick, heartfelt blessings for Mama Moon,
xxQMD
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Queen’s Chronicles: 911 EMERGENCY ALTAR
September 11, 2001 found me far, far from home in a picture-book cabin on the south shore of the St. Lawrence River in Quebec. I had been making my long-anticipated way to the Gaspé when the horrific news crashed in upon my idyll, turning that perfect piece of paradise into a surreal hell, a fantastically gorgeous jail house cell from which I helplessly watched my city being destroyed live on Quebequois TV. “Etats Unis Attacqué,” it screamed. “C’est la Guerre.”
The phone lines were down. There was no internet access. The borders were sealed. I couldn’t call. I couldn’t help. I couldn’t come home. I couldn’t do anything. But I desperately needed to do something. Something positive. So I decided to create a memorial altar.
I borrowed my landlady Claudette’s large white plastic Our Lady who was normally employed to block the small dirt road that ran through Cabines Sur Mér property yard. I took Her to the edge of the land and placed Her among the ancient gray rocks bordering the great river running by. Wild rose bushes, heavy with hips, bowed at Her feet.
I just happened to have a bottle of holy water with me which I had collected only two days before at the pilgrimage site of Sainte Anne de Beaupré north of Quebec City on the opposite shore. This water has been associated with thousands of healings over the centuries. An important component of my Healing Waters of the World collection that I use it in my ceremonies. The original purpose of this trip was to refill my depleted supplies.
I had a small traveling candle that Miriam had given me a couple of years before. I had carried this with me in my toiletry bag on several trips to Paris, but had never felt moved to light it. I put the fire into a glass and set it next to the glass of healing water. In a third glass I arranged a bouquet of the yellow, white, and purple wild flowers growing in the earth around the cabin.
The fourth glass on my makeshift altar was a container of a different sort. At the bottom of my amulet bag I found a small reflective crystal that had been part of the sunrise to sunset vigil for peace that I had organized at the World Trade Center on the Summer Solstice 1999. It had absorbed the solar energy of the longest, lightest day of the year. I always carry it to help me see the light when times are dark.
I had a very long ritual relationship with the World Trade Center. For a quarter of a century it was my own private/public shrine, an urban Stonehenge for an urban shaman. Eighteen of my 26 Spring Equinox Egg Standing events have been held there. That means that 6480 eggs have stood on end in the shadow the Twin Towers. About double the estimated number of presumed dead.
On that black day I wondered about the fates of all of the building staff people whose names I never knew who have helped to set up and facilitate our public seasonal ceremonies over the years, and I prayed that they were all safe. And I prayed for the thousands of people in those buildings who have added their energy to our celebrations.
Also in the medicine bag was the dog tag with the peace symbol on it that Tommy Sullivan, R.I.P, wore when he was serving as an unwilling sailor during the Viet Nam War. Last, I offered a shriveling red rose hip that was going to seed. May the seeds of the rose be those that we sow.
I sat on the rocks all day, the African River Orisha Oshun by my side, washing my fears away.
I chanted and chanted for peace.
Chant for Peace.
Chant for Peace.
For Peace on Earth.
For Peace on Earth.
Chant for Peace.
Chant for Earth.
For Peace on Earth.
For Peace of Mind.
Chant for Peace.
There’s a Chance for Peace.
A Chance for a Change.
For a Change for Peace.
For a Change for Earth.
Chant for Earth.
Chant for Peace.
Chant for Us.
Chant for Peace.
There’s a Chance for Peace.
Still a Chance for Peace. S
till a Chance for Earth.
Still a Chance.
Still.
There is still a chance for a change. We must be that chance.
With best blessings for reverence, respect and peace,
xxQMD
The phone lines were down. There was no internet access. The borders were sealed. I couldn’t call. I couldn’t help. I couldn’t come home. I couldn’t do anything. But I desperately needed to do something. Something positive. So I decided to create a memorial altar.
I borrowed my landlady Claudette’s large white plastic Our Lady who was normally employed to block the small dirt road that ran through Cabines Sur Mér property yard. I took Her to the edge of the land and placed Her among the ancient gray rocks bordering the great river running by. Wild rose bushes, heavy with hips, bowed at Her feet.
I just happened to have a bottle of holy water with me which I had collected only two days before at the pilgrimage site of Sainte Anne de Beaupré north of Quebec City on the opposite shore. This water has been associated with thousands of healings over the centuries. An important component of my Healing Waters of the World collection that I use it in my ceremonies. The original purpose of this trip was to refill my depleted supplies.
I had a small traveling candle that Miriam had given me a couple of years before. I had carried this with me in my toiletry bag on several trips to Paris, but had never felt moved to light it. I put the fire into a glass and set it next to the glass of healing water. In a third glass I arranged a bouquet of the yellow, white, and purple wild flowers growing in the earth around the cabin.
The fourth glass on my makeshift altar was a container of a different sort. At the bottom of my amulet bag I found a small reflective crystal that had been part of the sunrise to sunset vigil for peace that I had organized at the World Trade Center on the Summer Solstice 1999. It had absorbed the solar energy of the longest, lightest day of the year. I always carry it to help me see the light when times are dark.
I had a very long ritual relationship with the World Trade Center. For a quarter of a century it was my own private/public shrine, an urban Stonehenge for an urban shaman. Eighteen of my 26 Spring Equinox Egg Standing events have been held there. That means that 6480 eggs have stood on end in the shadow the Twin Towers. About double the estimated number of presumed dead.
On that black day I wondered about the fates of all of the building staff people whose names I never knew who have helped to set up and facilitate our public seasonal ceremonies over the years, and I prayed that they were all safe. And I prayed for the thousands of people in those buildings who have added their energy to our celebrations.
Also in the medicine bag was the dog tag with the peace symbol on it that Tommy Sullivan, R.I.P, wore when he was serving as an unwilling sailor during the Viet Nam War. Last, I offered a shriveling red rose hip that was going to seed. May the seeds of the rose be those that we sow.
I sat on the rocks all day, the African River Orisha Oshun by my side, washing my fears away.
I chanted and chanted for peace.
Chant for Peace.
Chant for Peace.
For Peace on Earth.
For Peace on Earth.
Chant for Peace.
Chant for Earth.
For Peace on Earth.
For Peace of Mind.
Chant for Peace.
There’s a Chance for Peace.
A Chance for a Change.
For a Change for Peace.
For a Change for Earth.
Chant for Earth.
Chant for Peace.
Chant for Us.
Chant for Peace.
There’s a Chance for Peace.
Still a Chance for Peace. S
till a Chance for Earth.
Still a Chance.
Still.
There is still a chance for a change. We must be that chance.
With best blessings for reverence, respect and peace,
xxQMD
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Queen’s Chronicles: BEGIN AGAIN
Fall always feels like New Year to me. It carries so much more significance than does January 1. The first crisp hint of a chill in September always shakes me out of my summer lethargy, wakes me, makes me more alert. It focuses and concentrates my attention. I can smell the possibilities of a fresh start in the air.
Reinvigorated by the sunny days and laze of summer, life now begins again in earnest in schools, government agencies, cultural institutions and businesses across the country. There is an unmistakable aura of enthusiasm and energy in the air, a palpable sense of intensified determination. This annually renewed resolve seems so much more natural than the resolutions we make at the turn of the calendar year.
Fall jumpstarts everything, including itself. Labor Day has become the popular indicator of autumn, rather than the equinox, which occurs three weeks later. In the same way, Memorial Day, which predates the solstice by three weeks ushers in the civic summer season. By this reckoning, school starts in the fall.
Most of us have been indelibly imprinted with the excitement and optimism of the first day of school. There is nothing quite so inspiring as buying blank notebooks, pencils you have to sharpen yourself and some brand new white blouses. So clean, so fresh, so hopeful.
The Jewish New Year falls in the fall. My memories of the High Holy Days that I celebrated as a child with my family have little to do with organized religion. Rather, I remember a domestic sense of auspicious new beginnings: major house cleaning, usually a new outfit to wear to temple and best of all, we ate off of the good china with the real silverware.
I think of my birthday as being in the fall, but it is actually three or four days before the equinox. Our birthday is our own personal New Year. It is an annual reunion that we have with ourselves, and attendance is required. Our birthday is our periodic opportunity to take serious personal stock. “How am I doing?” as old Ed Koch, former mayor of New York City, would always ask. Like any new beginning, our birthday is an ideal time to sharpen our priorities, realign our perspective and rededicate ourselves to living the very best life that we can.
How old! and yet how far I am from being what I should be....I shall from this day take the firm resolution to study....to keep my attention always well fixed on whatever I am about, and strive everyday to become less trifling and more fit for what, if Heaven wils (sic) it, I’m someday to become!
- Princess (Queen-to-be) Victoria of Great Britain
In her diary on her 18th birthday
Every Autumn I take time out of time to evaluate my past experiences and actions and to prepare myself mentally, physically and spiritually for the coming year. I usually retreat to some extent and fast to some degree during the two-week period surrounding my birthday. The new and full Harvest Moon, and the equinox usually coincide.
This experience is intended to center me and slow me down. It is my birthday gift to myself. During my fast/retreat I devote myself completely to cleansing and centering myself: body, mind and spirit in readiness for the future. I rinse my system with fresh water and teas, I clean my house and altars and I use yoga, meditation and t’ai chi to flush my mind clear of the mental detritus that I have accumulated.
Since the early 1980’s, I have kept a birthday book. Therein, I ritually record an accounting of the past year. I process my impressions and my life lessons. How have I grown? What have I learned? And what is it that I just can’t seem to get through my thick skull? I plot my progress. I ponder my possibilities. I pour over my problems. I plan my goals.
This civic fall also marks the eight-year anniversary of September 11. Let us mark this propitious time by reflecting honestly upon our vulnerability in today’s terrifying political/economic climate, our culpability in the deadly repercussions that arise from our own chauvinistic attitudes and deeds, as well as our impressive individual and communal capacity for extraordinary acts of courage and devotion.
May this new season signal the beginning of a new era of planetary peace and plenty for all.
With best blessings for a new beginning,
xxQMD
Reinvigorated by the sunny days and laze of summer, life now begins again in earnest in schools, government agencies, cultural institutions and businesses across the country. There is an unmistakable aura of enthusiasm and energy in the air, a palpable sense of intensified determination. This annually renewed resolve seems so much more natural than the resolutions we make at the turn of the calendar year.
Fall jumpstarts everything, including itself. Labor Day has become the popular indicator of autumn, rather than the equinox, which occurs three weeks later. In the same way, Memorial Day, which predates the solstice by three weeks ushers in the civic summer season. By this reckoning, school starts in the fall.
Most of us have been indelibly imprinted with the excitement and optimism of the first day of school. There is nothing quite so inspiring as buying blank notebooks, pencils you have to sharpen yourself and some brand new white blouses. So clean, so fresh, so hopeful.
The Jewish New Year falls in the fall. My memories of the High Holy Days that I celebrated as a child with my family have little to do with organized religion. Rather, I remember a domestic sense of auspicious new beginnings: major house cleaning, usually a new outfit to wear to temple and best of all, we ate off of the good china with the real silverware.
I think of my birthday as being in the fall, but it is actually three or four days before the equinox. Our birthday is our own personal New Year. It is an annual reunion that we have with ourselves, and attendance is required. Our birthday is our periodic opportunity to take serious personal stock. “How am I doing?” as old Ed Koch, former mayor of New York City, would always ask. Like any new beginning, our birthday is an ideal time to sharpen our priorities, realign our perspective and rededicate ourselves to living the very best life that we can.
How old! and yet how far I am from being what I should be....I shall from this day take the firm resolution to study....to keep my attention always well fixed on whatever I am about, and strive everyday to become less trifling and more fit for what, if Heaven wils (sic) it, I’m someday to become!
- Princess (Queen-to-be) Victoria of Great Britain
In her diary on her 18th birthday
Every Autumn I take time out of time to evaluate my past experiences and actions and to prepare myself mentally, physically and spiritually for the coming year. I usually retreat to some extent and fast to some degree during the two-week period surrounding my birthday. The new and full Harvest Moon, and the equinox usually coincide.
This experience is intended to center me and slow me down. It is my birthday gift to myself. During my fast/retreat I devote myself completely to cleansing and centering myself: body, mind and spirit in readiness for the future. I rinse my system with fresh water and teas, I clean my house and altars and I use yoga, meditation and t’ai chi to flush my mind clear of the mental detritus that I have accumulated.
Since the early 1980’s, I have kept a birthday book. Therein, I ritually record an accounting of the past year. I process my impressions and my life lessons. How have I grown? What have I learned? And what is it that I just can’t seem to get through my thick skull? I plot my progress. I ponder my possibilities. I pour over my problems. I plan my goals.
This civic fall also marks the eight-year anniversary of September 11. Let us mark this propitious time by reflecting honestly upon our vulnerability in today’s terrifying political/economic climate, our culpability in the deadly repercussions that arise from our own chauvinistic attitudes and deeds, as well as our impressive individual and communal capacity for extraordinary acts of courage and devotion.
May this new season signal the beginning of a new era of planetary peace and plenty for all.
With best blessings for a new beginning,
xxQMD
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Summer has become intolerable for me. It is just too damn hot and I am miserable, sweaty and cranky, much of the time. But when my little pooch Poppy starts panting in the heat, her little pink tongue drooping out of her open mouth, I know the Dog Days of Summer have arrived.
For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, summer is sizzling at its most intense right now. This is the horrid weather when, according to Noel Coward, only “mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid day sun.”
The term “dog days” was coined by the ancient Romans, who called these hot and humid days caniculares dies or “days of the dogs” after the star Sirius, Canis Majoris, the “Greater Dog,” which is one of the hunting dogs of Orion, the Hunter in the constellation that bears his name. The ancient Egyptians named Sirius the “dog star” after their god Osiris, who was often depicted as having the head of a dog.
Sirius is the brightest star in the night sky. In fact, it is so bright that it was once thought that it produced heat. In the summer, Sirius rises and sets with the sun, and beginning in July, the two stars are in conjunction. In the latitude of the Mediterranean region, this period coincided with sweltering days that were plagued with disease and discomfort.
The Dog Days are officially counted as 20 starting days before the conjunction and continuing to 20 days afterward which spans July and August, which are hottest and muggiest part of the season. The ancients believed that the heat from Sirius added to the heat of the sun during this period of conjunction, created a stretch of especially hot and sultry weather. Hence, Dog Days.
The conjunction of Sirius with the sun varies somewhat with latitude. And the “precession of the equinoxes” (a gradual drifting of the constellations over time) means that the constellations today are not in exactly the same place in the sky as they were in ancient Egypt and Rome. Today, the Dog Days occur during the period between July 3 and August 11.
Although the Dog Days are certainly the warmest period of the summer, the heat is not due to the added radiation from a far-away star, regardless of its brightness. Nor is summer’s heat in the Northern Hemisphere caused by our proximity to the sun. Earth is actually furthest away from the solar heat lamp in summer. But, because of the tilt of its axis in relation to the sun, we are blasted by a direct hit of fiery heat.
As I write this, the heat index is upward of 115 degrees. This summer is especially bad, with extreme heat waves sweeping much of North America. Our tempers are on boil and even the most innocuous disturbance is enough to send us over the emotional edge.
The entire planet is heating up right now. Literally. Global warming is playing havoc with weather patterns, which in turn, affects all plant and animal life. The debate about the greenhouse effect is also revved up to high.
In fact, all disagreements are reaching a boiling point, as is evidenced by the ever increasing and escalating geo-religious-cultural-political-economic conflicts around the globe. The world seems to be populated by a pack of wild rabid dogs fighting over scraps.
Time out!
Cool down!
Let us turn our attention to positive solutions and focus our thoughts and actions toward creating peace. Peace of Mind. Peace of
Heart. Peace on Earth. There is still a chance for peace.
With best blessings for keeping it cool,
xxQMD
For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, summer is sizzling at its most intense right now. This is the horrid weather when, according to Noel Coward, only “mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid day sun.”
The term “dog days” was coined by the ancient Romans, who called these hot and humid days caniculares dies or “days of the dogs” after the star Sirius, Canis Majoris, the “Greater Dog,” which is one of the hunting dogs of Orion, the Hunter in the constellation that bears his name. The ancient Egyptians named Sirius the “dog star” after their god Osiris, who was often depicted as having the head of a dog.
Sirius is the brightest star in the night sky. In fact, it is so bright that it was once thought that it produced heat. In the summer, Sirius rises and sets with the sun, and beginning in July, the two stars are in conjunction. In the latitude of the Mediterranean region, this period coincided with sweltering days that were plagued with disease and discomfort.
The Dog Days are officially counted as 20 starting days before the conjunction and continuing to 20 days afterward which spans July and August, which are hottest and muggiest part of the season. The ancients believed that the heat from Sirius added to the heat of the sun during this period of conjunction, created a stretch of especially hot and sultry weather. Hence, Dog Days.
The conjunction of Sirius with the sun varies somewhat with latitude. And the “precession of the equinoxes” (a gradual drifting of the constellations over time) means that the constellations today are not in exactly the same place in the sky as they were in ancient Egypt and Rome. Today, the Dog Days occur during the period between July 3 and August 11.
Although the Dog Days are certainly the warmest period of the summer, the heat is not due to the added radiation from a far-away star, regardless of its brightness. Nor is summer’s heat in the Northern Hemisphere caused by our proximity to the sun. Earth is actually furthest away from the solar heat lamp in summer. But, because of the tilt of its axis in relation to the sun, we are blasted by a direct hit of fiery heat.
As I write this, the heat index is upward of 115 degrees. This summer is especially bad, with extreme heat waves sweeping much of North America. Our tempers are on boil and even the most innocuous disturbance is enough to send us over the emotional edge.
The entire planet is heating up right now. Literally. Global warming is playing havoc with weather patterns, which in turn, affects all plant and animal life. The debate about the greenhouse effect is also revved up to high.
In fact, all disagreements are reaching a boiling point, as is evidenced by the ever increasing and escalating geo-religious-cultural-political-economic conflicts around the globe. The world seems to be populated by a pack of wild rabid dogs fighting over scraps.
Time out!
Cool down!
Let us turn our attention to positive solutions and focus our thoughts and actions toward creating peace. Peace of Mind. Peace of
Heart. Peace on Earth. There is still a chance for peace.
With best blessings for keeping it cool,
xxQMD
Saturday, August 1, 2009
The Queen’s Chronicles: LAMMAS BLESSINGS OF BREAD
August 2 is the exact halfway point of summer. The Summer Cross-Quarter Day was celebrated by the Saxons as Hlaf Mass, “Feast of Bread,” and by the Celts as Lughnasadh, Commemoration of Lugh. Lugh was the grain god, son of Mother Earth. Every August he was sacrificed with the reaping of the corn only to be born again in the new shoots of spring exactly as the Egyptian, Osiris, had
been. At the moment of death, according to Egyptian scriptures, a person is also a kernel of grain, “which falls into the earth in order to draw from her bosom a new life.”
Loaf Mass and Lugh Mass evolved into Lammas, the Druid corn feast, one of the four cornerstone festivals around which their year revolved. When the Church adopted, co-opted, Lammas, it was referred to as Lamb's Mass in commemoration of St. Peter in Chains, and the practice of the offering of the first fruits on the altar remained exactly the same.
Traditional celebrations of the first corn were observed on August 1 or 2 in many cultures. Named for Juno Augusta of Rome, August was particularly sacred to the Goddess Who Gives All Life and Feeds It, Too. It was considered for this reason an especially propitious time to be born. To this day, when a Scot says that someone was born in
August, it is a compliment in praise of skilled accomplishment, with absolutely no bearing on the person's actual birthday.
The Midsummer Cross-Quarter Day is the only one of the four, which is not still actively celebrated in our contemporary culture. Midsummer is celebrated in Europe, but there it refers to June 21, the first day of summer and not the middle at all. Shakespeare's “A Midsummer Night's Dream” actually takes place on the Summer Solstice.
The only living vestige of Lammas in the United Stated is a rural holiday called Second Planting. But unless you read the Farmer's Almanac or belong to the Grange or 4H Clubs, you would have no reason to hear about it. It is celebrated exactly as Midsummer has always been celebrated. The first grain is harvested, threshed, milled, baked into bread and cake, and then shared in community. After a night of feasting and dancing, work starts again at first light planting the second crop of summer wheat, which will the mature by the fall harvest.
How can we, separated from the agricultural process by city and century, appreciate the atmosphere of the season which surrounds us, but which we cannot see? What is the Goddess of Good Grain to us of the boulangerie? The patisserie? We who buy our grain in bags, in boxes, premixed, pre-measured, prepackaged, prepared; sown, grown, harvested, hulled, milled, by someone else, somewhere else. How can we identify with the earth values taught by Terra Mater during this time of year from where we are held captive in the synthetic heart of the pop tart culture which claims us?
Well, we can behave, as they say, as if we were born in August. We can, in fact, become august — wise and generous and gloriously noble, each in our own chosen paths. We can hone our skills as the tenders of Mother Earth. We can hoe our row. We can carry our load. We can break bread together. We can feed the hungry.
We reap what we sow.
With best blessings of bountiful bread,
xxQMD
For a more detailed explanation, refer to my book, Celestially Auspicious Occasions: Seasons, Cycles and Celebrations. It is available on my website, www.donnahenes.net
been. At the moment of death, according to Egyptian scriptures, a person is also a kernel of grain, “which falls into the earth in order to draw from her bosom a new life.”
Loaf Mass and Lugh Mass evolved into Lammas, the Druid corn feast, one of the four cornerstone festivals around which their year revolved. When the Church adopted, co-opted, Lammas, it was referred to as Lamb's Mass in commemoration of St. Peter in Chains, and the practice of the offering of the first fruits on the altar remained exactly the same.
Traditional celebrations of the first corn were observed on August 1 or 2 in many cultures. Named for Juno Augusta of Rome, August was particularly sacred to the Goddess Who Gives All Life and Feeds It, Too. It was considered for this reason an especially propitious time to be born. To this day, when a Scot says that someone was born in
August, it is a compliment in praise of skilled accomplishment, with absolutely no bearing on the person's actual birthday.
The Midsummer Cross-Quarter Day is the only one of the four, which is not still actively celebrated in our contemporary culture. Midsummer is celebrated in Europe, but there it refers to June 21, the first day of summer and not the middle at all. Shakespeare's “A Midsummer Night's Dream” actually takes place on the Summer Solstice.
The only living vestige of Lammas in the United Stated is a rural holiday called Second Planting. But unless you read the Farmer's Almanac or belong to the Grange or 4H Clubs, you would have no reason to hear about it. It is celebrated exactly as Midsummer has always been celebrated. The first grain is harvested, threshed, milled, baked into bread and cake, and then shared in community. After a night of feasting and dancing, work starts again at first light planting the second crop of summer wheat, which will the mature by the fall harvest.
How can we, separated from the agricultural process by city and century, appreciate the atmosphere of the season which surrounds us, but which we cannot see? What is the Goddess of Good Grain to us of the boulangerie? The patisserie? We who buy our grain in bags, in boxes, premixed, pre-measured, prepackaged, prepared; sown, grown, harvested, hulled, milled, by someone else, somewhere else. How can we identify with the earth values taught by Terra Mater during this time of year from where we are held captive in the synthetic heart of the pop tart culture which claims us?
Well, we can behave, as they say, as if we were born in August. We can, in fact, become august — wise and generous and gloriously noble, each in our own chosen paths. We can hone our skills as the tenders of Mother Earth. We can hoe our row. We can carry our load. We can break bread together. We can feed the hungry.
We reap what we sow.
With best blessings of bountiful bread,
xxQMD
For a more detailed explanation, refer to my book, Celestially Auspicious Occasions: Seasons, Cycles and Celebrations. It is available on my website, www.donnahenes.net
Monday, July 27, 2009
Mama Donna Blesses the Fleet
Mama Donna Blesses the Fleet on River Day, June 5, 2009, the kick off of the Quadricentennial Celebration of Henry Hudson's Voyage sponsored by New York Governor David Paterson. Music by the Midshipman Band of Long Island. Video by Yana Kraeva.
The Queen’s Chronicles: HOW MY GARDEN DOES GROW
Being an urban being, I have never had a garden where I grew food. My terrace is devoted exclusively to flowers, food for the soul, for sure, but with the exception of the day lilies they are not edible.
My container garden gives me immense pleasure. I love digging in the dirt with my bare hands. No gloves or trowels for this Queen, thank you very much. I cherish the feel of the earth on my skin and don’t mind getting it under my nails. That is why the Goddess invented scrub brushes and soap, after all. I even make my own rich fertile soil by composting dead leaves and food scraps in a garbage pail.
I can spend hours on end dead heading my plants and picking off the dry leaves one by one. I tend my garden with love and care and it cultivates me in return. My plants are my dear friends, my children, really. They have been with me, loyally flourishing and flowering for decades. All of my geraniums, for instance, are from cuttings from one small plant that I had on my windowsill in my Greenwich Village apartment in 1969!
My ceremonial space, Mama Donna’s Tea Garden & Healing Haven is an indoor garden paradise decorated with vintage yard furniture and filled with plants. Some of these I have had for 30 years or more. Some I have inherited from family and friends who have passed on. I am so glad to be the caretaker of these living memorials. Their spirit is alive in the plants that they loved and nurtured. And everyone who enters this sacred space feels the green healing energy.
Once upon a time I grew weed(s) for imbibing from the seeds in my stash. This crop, too, was food for my soul. But that was then and this is now. And now I am drawn to plant and raise some foodstuff. My options are limited by space constraints, but the time feels right to start with some herbs and maybe some berries or baby lettuces. Or maybe it is too late for this season. I don’t know. I will have to do some research. What I do know is that I want to taste what I grow.
With best blessings for nourishment from Mother Earth,
xxQMD
My container garden gives me immense pleasure. I love digging in the dirt with my bare hands. No gloves or trowels for this Queen, thank you very much. I cherish the feel of the earth on my skin and don’t mind getting it under my nails. That is why the Goddess invented scrub brushes and soap, after all. I even make my own rich fertile soil by composting dead leaves and food scraps in a garbage pail.
I can spend hours on end dead heading my plants and picking off the dry leaves one by one. I tend my garden with love and care and it cultivates me in return. My plants are my dear friends, my children, really. They have been with me, loyally flourishing and flowering for decades. All of my geraniums, for instance, are from cuttings from one small plant that I had on my windowsill in my Greenwich Village apartment in 1969!
My ceremonial space, Mama Donna’s Tea Garden & Healing Haven is an indoor garden paradise decorated with vintage yard furniture and filled with plants. Some of these I have had for 30 years or more. Some I have inherited from family and friends who have passed on. I am so glad to be the caretaker of these living memorials. Their spirit is alive in the plants that they loved and nurtured. And everyone who enters this sacred space feels the green healing energy.
Once upon a time I grew weed(s) for imbibing from the seeds in my stash. This crop, too, was food for my soul. But that was then and this is now. And now I am drawn to plant and raise some foodstuff. My options are limited by space constraints, but the time feels right to start with some herbs and maybe some berries or baby lettuces. Or maybe it is too late for this season. I don’t know. I will have to do some research. What I do know is that I want to taste what I grow.
With best blessings for nourishment from Mother Earth,
xxQMD
Mama Donna Blesses Hudson River
Mama Donna and 9 members of her Blessing Band bless the waters of the Hudson River as the closing ceremony of the Hudson River Pageant on May 9, 2009, (The Full Flower Moon). The blessing used holy/healing waters from around the world and rose petals. Live music by David Hykes. Video by Yana Kraeva.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
The Queen’s Chronicles: WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS
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
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
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
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
The Queen’s Chronicles: OUT WITH THE OLD, BLESS THE NEW
When Kate Clinton invited me to conduct the purification ceremony at a public event she organized for the eve of the inauguration called, Sage the White House, I was delighted. Certainly, after eight long years of dirty deals, dirty politics, dirty wars and dirty little secrets our country was in need of a deep cleansing. And I have a lot of experience as a public blesser.
But focusing our purification intention on the White House was too narrow, I thought. So I was pleased when we were forced to relocate the event to Dupont Circle. This way, we could direct our energy out in a complete circle. We can’t just focus on the president. What about Congress? What about the courts? What about Wall Street?
And most importantly, what about us? We have been culpable, too. We let it all happen through our complacent co-operation. Me might not have approved of what was going on, but what did we do about? We did protest the Iraq war, but where was the mass outrage as one by one our constitutional rights were revoked?
Who among us did not shop and enjoy the lucrative, good times? We need to remember that in a democracy we have not only the right, but also the responsibility to comment on the conduct and ethos of our nation — vociferously, if we have to.
So my ritual was about releasing all that we do not wish to take with us into this new era that we are now beginning — our attitudes and values, our culpability and our laziness, as well as the ill deeds of our government. Once we let all the negativity go, it was important to cleanse the toxic residue that it can leave behind. And then once the atmosphere was cleared and purified, we called in all our good qualities and intentions for a positive change for the good of all.
We accomplished all that in a big way. Nearly a thousand souls gathered at Dupont Circle in Washington, DC to participate in the Inauguration Purification Ritual.
Inauguration Purification Ritual Part 1:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1tkLlf5MXE&feature=channel_page
Inauguration Purification Ritual Part 2:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TudynPUgnpc&feature=channel
We now have a fresh start. This time, may we step into the fray and involve ourselves, not only in discussions and complaints about our problems, but also in search of creative solutions to them.
With blessings of peace, sanity and sustainability,
xxQMD
But focusing our purification intention on the White House was too narrow, I thought. So I was pleased when we were forced to relocate the event to Dupont Circle. This way, we could direct our energy out in a complete circle. We can’t just focus on the president. What about Congress? What about the courts? What about Wall Street?
And most importantly, what about us? We have been culpable, too. We let it all happen through our complacent co-operation. Me might not have approved of what was going on, but what did we do about? We did protest the Iraq war, but where was the mass outrage as one by one our constitutional rights were revoked?
Who among us did not shop and enjoy the lucrative, good times? We need to remember that in a democracy we have not only the right, but also the responsibility to comment on the conduct and ethos of our nation — vociferously, if we have to.
So my ritual was about releasing all that we do not wish to take with us into this new era that we are now beginning — our attitudes and values, our culpability and our laziness, as well as the ill deeds of our government. Once we let all the negativity go, it was important to cleanse the toxic residue that it can leave behind. And then once the atmosphere was cleared and purified, we called in all our good qualities and intentions for a positive change for the good of all.
We accomplished all that in a big way. Nearly a thousand souls gathered at Dupont Circle in Washington, DC to participate in the Inauguration Purification Ritual.
Inauguration Purification Ritual Part 1:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1tkLlf5MXE&feature=channel_page
Inauguration Purification Ritual Part 2:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TudynPUgnpc&feature=channel
We now have a fresh start. This time, may we step into the fray and involve ourselves, not only in discussions and complaints about our problems, but also in search of creative solutions to them.
With blessings of peace, sanity and sustainability,
xxQMD
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Queen’s Chronicles: HAPPY NEW ERA
I don’t know about you, but I am so glad and relieved that we are finally in 2009. And just in time, is all I can say. The house-of-cards-culture of deception, cynical exploitation, excess and greed that has prevailed for the past decades has collapsed under the weight of its own consumption, crushing the lives and dreams of millions of people.
A new year, a new beginning, a fresh start is just what we need about now. New Year is a return to the eternal beginnings. Back to where there is only hope and promise and enthusiastic, well-intentioned energy. Back to the original big bang back seat cosmic conception where all things are possible.
Despite the dismal prognostications, there is definitely hope in the air these days, and excitement at the prospect of change. The freshness, idealism, and renewed faith in the future, even in the face of impending hardship, is palpable and vivifying.
Ironic, isn’t it? And so very heartening.
It is like the entire nation is waking up from a stuporous dream, drugged by too much food and drink, our adrenals depleted by years of operating in frantic overdrive racing to achieve, to succeed, to spend, to accumulate, to expand until we explode. Enough already. Basta!
Time to shake off the shroud of vacuous values and get back to the basics.
People everywhere are girding themselves for tough times ahead, but instead of resistance and resentment, I sense a sincere desire to live in a more conscientious, connected and authentic manner. A yearning for life built on principles that we can be proud of.
This fall I went to the 60th birthday party of a very old and dear friend. Due to budget constraints, the venue was the back room of a funkyish bar. The
refreshments consisted of pitchers of beer and sangria and scant little fried things. All in all, perfect for a college bash, but a bit strange for a room full of midlife women. Or so it seemed at first.
The birthday Queen specified no gifts, but requested a song, instead. And her adoring guests complied. They brought songs alright, complete with costumes and creative props. The show was fabulous — touching and hilarious. And there was dancing. Lots of dancing. It was a really great celebration, rich in all the right components. I can’t remember having so much simple down home fun at a party in a long time.
After all, how many poo-poo foodie parties can you stand? You know the kind I mean. “This cheese is so special, only two cows in the whole world make it! And it only costs $46. a quarter of a pound.” Pulease.
One of my New Year resolutions is to entertain more this year. Not big parties, but intimate dinners with six or eight people who can be depended upon for fascinating conversation and true communion. I am craving old-fashioned one-pot suppers — soups, stews, casseroles, salads. Good bread. Good wine. Good talk. Good quality time.
I remember my mother talking about the depression. It dashed her plans to go to college. Instead, she had to work in a fruit store. But she never complained about that. (Don’t get me wrong, my mother was a great complainer.) She always said about those years, “People stuck together then, and helped each other.” And, “We knew how to have fun.”
With this new year we enter a new era. The main challenge that we will face in these uncertain times is not the economy. Nor is it the unnerving and seemingly psychotic political scenarios being played out all around the world. Not to mention the grief that they create.
Our challenge is to stay in our center come what may. Our challenge is to breathe in the energy of the life force and to exhale respect, reverence and awe. Our challenge is to be unshakeable in our faith. To share our love. And to shine our spiritual light.
This year may we discover and embrace our own purpose, passion and power.
May we accept our responsibility and our rule. May we take our ideas and our skills and use them to create a viable, safe, sustainable and sane world for us all.
With blessings of peace and joy. Peace! And joy!
xxQMD
A new year, a new beginning, a fresh start is just what we need about now. New Year is a return to the eternal beginnings. Back to where there is only hope and promise and enthusiastic, well-intentioned energy. Back to the original big bang back seat cosmic conception where all things are possible.
Despite the dismal prognostications, there is definitely hope in the air these days, and excitement at the prospect of change. The freshness, idealism, and renewed faith in the future, even in the face of impending hardship, is palpable and vivifying.
Ironic, isn’t it? And so very heartening.
It is like the entire nation is waking up from a stuporous dream, drugged by too much food and drink, our adrenals depleted by years of operating in frantic overdrive racing to achieve, to succeed, to spend, to accumulate, to expand until we explode. Enough already. Basta!
Time to shake off the shroud of vacuous values and get back to the basics.
People everywhere are girding themselves for tough times ahead, but instead of resistance and resentment, I sense a sincere desire to live in a more conscientious, connected and authentic manner. A yearning for life built on principles that we can be proud of.
This fall I went to the 60th birthday party of a very old and dear friend. Due to budget constraints, the venue was the back room of a funkyish bar. The
refreshments consisted of pitchers of beer and sangria and scant little fried things. All in all, perfect for a college bash, but a bit strange for a room full of midlife women. Or so it seemed at first.
The birthday Queen specified no gifts, but requested a song, instead. And her adoring guests complied. They brought songs alright, complete with costumes and creative props. The show was fabulous — touching and hilarious. And there was dancing. Lots of dancing. It was a really great celebration, rich in all the right components. I can’t remember having so much simple down home fun at a party in a long time.
After all, how many poo-poo foodie parties can you stand? You know the kind I mean. “This cheese is so special, only two cows in the whole world make it! And it only costs $46. a quarter of a pound.” Pulease.
One of my New Year resolutions is to entertain more this year. Not big parties, but intimate dinners with six or eight people who can be depended upon for fascinating conversation and true communion. I am craving old-fashioned one-pot suppers — soups, stews, casseroles, salads. Good bread. Good wine. Good talk. Good quality time.
I remember my mother talking about the depression. It dashed her plans to go to college. Instead, she had to work in a fruit store. But she never complained about that. (Don’t get me wrong, my mother was a great complainer.) She always said about those years, “People stuck together then, and helped each other.” And, “We knew how to have fun.”
With this new year we enter a new era. The main challenge that we will face in these uncertain times is not the economy. Nor is it the unnerving and seemingly psychotic political scenarios being played out all around the world. Not to mention the grief that they create.
Our challenge is to stay in our center come what may. Our challenge is to breathe in the energy of the life force and to exhale respect, reverence and awe. Our challenge is to be unshakeable in our faith. To share our love. And to shine our spiritual light.
This year may we discover and embrace our own purpose, passion and power.
May we accept our responsibility and our rule. May we take our ideas and our skills and use them to create a viable, safe, sustainable and sane world for us all.
With blessings of peace and joy. Peace! And joy!
xxQMD
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