Persephone, Ogboinba, Cybele, Oya: or, What Samhain can do for you, pt II

(If you missed Pt I, you'll want to start here.)

And fell for the longest time.

Persephone. Ogboinba. Cybele. Oya.

With the exception of Oya, who wasn't drawn, but jumped out of the deck, not a single one of those goddesses was mine. 

Persephone was where it began. I sat back, curious to see how she had been interpreted:

Persephone, the Maiden. Find ways to use your innocence as your strength.She is for innocence, and you had yours taken from you much earlier than it should have been, and I think she is here to point out that you need to explore your relationship with that. But there's something else here, something about how you've felt towards that self, maybe? I'm not sure, but I get this feeling that she's here to point to an anger, or even something darker, that you feel to the part of yourself that is vulnerable.

So easy. It would have been so easy to pull back from that, tell her she was wrong whilst acknowledging that 'Yes, I do need to tap into my innocence and vulnerability to be stronger as per Brene Brown, blah blah. Thank you for this, but I might be just a bit angry about it all, but really, I'm just fine.' *Good Mother Demeter airy handwave*

But to do that would have been to continue the lie, to deny the tidal wave of feeling emerging, to make the choice to continue my parents' work and remain disconnected from others. The time had come to make a different choice and speak the truth. But as it always is when I lose myself in writing, I'm never sure what that truth is till I read it back:

Fuck. YES... I am SO angry. Yes, you're right. I've hated Persephone since I was a child, because she pranced around picking flowers doing girly shit FEELING SAFE and HA! LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO HER, SEE, YOU STUPID NAIVE BITCH???? And then she tried to trick her way out OF WHAT SHE DESERVED BECAUSE SHE WAS TOO STUPID TO KEEP AN EYE OUT. As far as I was concerned, she was weak. I wanted NO part of her in Jean Shinoda Bolen's book, NONE. SHE was weak. *I* was not. Fucking Kore.

And that's how I've felt about my vulnerability: not just ANGRY at it, but repelled by it. At some level, part of me thinks that vulnerable child got exactly what she deserved because she wasn't looking. Like Persephone.

I typed out the full comment, not fully aware of what I was saying till I sat back and read it. Again. And again. 

Horrified. Shaken. But finally knowing the truth: 

I'd always blamed Persephone for her rape, because of her innocence, her freedom from care (which I equated with irresponsibility) and her lack of vigilance. And in the same way, I blamed the child I'd been, her vulnerability and lack of vigilance, for her parents' emotional abuse and her uncle's sexual abuse.

MY. MY PARENTS. MY UNCLE.

And yet, I'd rip the throat out of anyone who dared suggest that a child was in any way at fault for any abuse that befell them; that a woman was at fault for being raped. But somehow, it was ok to blame the child I was for not being stronger, more vigilant, for not acting.

I'm just starting to cope with that. As I continued in my comment, 'Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I knew it was bad, but.'

And in the moment I realised what I'd done, I finally understood the truth about innocence, which I'd conflated with naivete and wilful ignorance:

[W]hat strikes me about innocence is that it is a NATURAL state. Like Cybele's wildness. And in my rage at my NATURAL innocence, twisting it into a reason for being abused, I cut myself off from my NATURE as a whole. That's why I don't know who I am outside this identity of helper; what my gifts are; what my intuition says for ME; why I'm not in touch with my wild side, as it were - why it's only the responsible, CONTROLLED side that shows.There's so much in my nature I'm not even aware of, such primal, passionate, wild side - Cybele, who Persephone really needs to grow into, not her more controlled mother (hence no Demeter in this reading, because she is very much part of my persona, and this reading is about who I REALLY am underneath it all, the parts I don't know).

In my vulnerability, my innocence, is my wildness - and my way. As Clarissa Pinkola-Estes put it, 'The wild has a vast integrity to it.' And that is what I have cut myself off from - and why I find it so hard to move.

It is why I have never found this - which I desire more than anything - because to have that intimacy - emotionally, spiritually and sexually - one needs to be able to truly surrender, to truly let go - to become vulnerable and trust. To be wild, natural. And I can't. I'm not easily held, even - perhaps most especially - in the deepest pain and despair. 

But perhaps yesterday made a start. Time will tell. 

Persephone and Cybele, anchoring the reading because they were the overarching theme: innocence, nature, wild, integrity. 

As my friend pointed out, we ALL start from the Kore. For me to deny the Kore, yet accept Persephone, Queen of Hades and conveyor of the dead, is to deny my process, my wholeness, and in the end, myself.

That should have been enough, might have been, but Ogboinba appeared in the reading. I had a hunch she would, and she has always been the one I'd rather not see. The short version of her story is that though her powers grew and she became the most sought-after healer and prophetess, she could not have children, and travelled seven kingdoms to seek a way to become able to bear a child and become a mother.

The warning against discontent is too close to the bone, as is the desire for children - both of these make her an apparently easy read when she shows up for me. 

But as I fell into that literal reading, I felt an intense resistance. This wasn't right, and I knew it wasn't just avoidance. I sat with it for a while, asking Ogboinba what she wanted to say here. When the answer came, it shifted the ground under my feet, which will never be the same again:

I could see that [about the child], but I thought, 'Yeah, we know that about me. But this isn't quite about that.'

And then I realised - in this case, the child Ogboinba is looking for is ME. Me as a child who grew up in a happy family; me the undamaged child, the child who was allowed to BE a child. In essence, she is me, travelling over the world again and again, searching for that halcyon childhood I wanted so desperately, the only way I ever believed that I would find out who I was. Searching for the safety, the love, the time to become who I was, to have that group, those people who loved me unconditionally, in whom I could rest.

In my hands were all these gifts born in the crucible of my family - the ability to see, the ability to heal, the ability to know, the incredible strength, problem-solving, the empathy, the ability to use anger as a tool - my arms were overflowing with gifts.

But *I* wanted home. I was FURIOUS at having these gifts; furious that I would HAVE TO USE THEM, be a COMMODITY to the DIVINE, like I was a COMMODITY to my parents. I KNEW, when I asked you last night, that Ogboinba was going to show up; I knew it.

And when I read what you wrote about Ogboinba, this RAGE filled me; this UTTER FURY worthy of Oya. I thought, 'HOW DARE YOU. HOW DARE YOU DEMAND OF ME WHEN YOU GAVE ME *NOTHING*. NO PLACE TO REST, NO PLACE TO BE LOVED, NO SANCTUARY. HOW. FUCKING. DARE. YOU. I REFUSE. YOU *OWE* ME. WHY? WHY SHOULD I PUT MYSELF OUT FOR YOU?

"I WOULD HAVE GIVEN BACK EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THESE GIFTS TO BE LOVED. TO FIND MY BESHERT AND BE MARRIED AND RAISE CHILDREN AND HAVE A QUIET LIFE. EVERY SINGLE ONE. BUT YOU GIVE ME NOTHING AND HAVE THE NERVE TO DEMAND SO FUCKING MUCH. I HATE YOU. I DON'T WANT THIS AND I WILL NOT USE IT OF MY OWN ACCORD. YOU WANT ME TO USE IT, YOU'LL HAVE TO FUCKING PULL IT OUT OF ME."

THAT, for me, is the essence of Ogboinba here. I want what I can never, ever get back; what I can never ever be. I hold all this given me, all that I've made out of it, but I want to be able to be that laughing little girl; that girl who walked into adulthood certain of love. That girl who grew up playing with fashion, clubbing, experimenting, loving college and forming lifelong friendships even through the angst. And I haven't seen that I've gotten so much, but not in the way I wanted.

Finally, finally, years after I should have done, I did what I tell everyone else they should do. I told G-d the truth, no holds barred - everything that was in my heart, everything raw and wild, not pre-processed and analysed in a neat little 'Yes, I know I'm upset about this, and this is why, so it's ok' package. It wasn't okay. It still ISN'T ok. It may NEVER be ok.

But you know what? That's ok.

Because as all that was ripped out - my solar plexus STILL feels sore - and released, something else took its place.

Connection. I finally FELT G-d. And I finally felt ME.

I did one more long overdue thing: I wept. I wept for the little girl I was, the one I wanted to be, the woman I'd wanted to become, the woman I am. 

At long last, I was home.

The Ascension, Prologue - spiritual meltdown

God doesn't offer many neon signs - but this was one of them.

Today, 40 days after Easter, is the Ascension and a holy day of obligation. Normally, that would mean that if I can't make the 18.00 solemn mass - as would have been the case today - I could have gotten up early and gone to the 07.30 or, in extremis, the Vigil mass last night.

Unfortunately, NOT in England and Wales where, for some reason, the Bishops decided to ignore the fact that Jesus ascended 40 days after Easter, not 43, and transfer it to the Sunday. I have to admit, liberal as I am, that gets on my (not inconsiderable) tits. 40 days is 40 days.

That left me with a decision: business as usual, and go to the Sunday mass, or make a statement and go to the Tridentine rite (Extraordinary Form) mass of the Ascension today?

I leaned towards not going for three reasons:

1. Paz and I hadn't had a lunchtime walk all week, and I was looking forward to a catch up.

2. I had to leave early for counselling, and going to mass might cut out too much of the day.

3. More often than not, those associated with the Tridentine mass drive me into a murderous rage. Not ideal.

I got to work early, checked my nemesis, Outlook, for email messages that needed attention and got down to business - once I'd made coffee in my Pizzazzadoodle mug, of course. Nothing happens without morning caffeine. When Paz came in, I asked her what she wanted to do for lunch. She looked at me apologetically and said, 'I'm going to get my hair cut.'

I know when I'm being railroaded by the Holy Spirit.

In a last ditch attempt to avoid being run over by the Paraclete Express, I texted a friend in the know, asking him how long he thought mass would take. He reckoned 45 min - 1 hr, but I suspected I knew who the celebrant was and that I could shave about 5 min or so off that guesstimate, which made it more than feasible.

Damn.

After many whacks over the head with a clue-by-four, I've learned that if events are lining up towards a particular choice, going with the flow is the way forward, no matter how difficult it might seem to be. So I gave in and decided to go to the 12.15 mass - though I couldn't IMAGINE what God had in store, aside from irimtating me for the rest of the day.

Even so, I wondered - much has changed since the last Tridentine mass I'd attended. I've been in spiritual meltdown since March, when a decision I'd helped someone come to went from being simply 'very important' to 'life-changing'.

Now the work, of course, was hers. But in that moment, I suddenly realised that however much I tried to take myself out of the equation in what had happened, I couldn't. That I had been there *mattered*; that it was *me* mattered; that *I* had been placed there and worked through: I couldn't have orchestrated this, imagined it, made it happen, forced it, any of it.

Suddenly, I saw God's hand all over this and that He had used me - not just for brightening up someone's day; not the 'this is how I see it'; none of the stuff I'm used to. I looked away for *two seconds*, tops - and God put me THERE, where her having someone to listen, be there and ask questions to, so she could come to her decision, made all the difference. And I realised, 'Oh. my. God. If I let You all the way in, what the hell are You going to do?'

I guess I thought that I had figured You out
I knew all the stories and I learned to talk about
How You were mighty to save
Those were only empty words on a page
Then I caught a glimpse of who You might be
The slightest hint of You brought me down to my knees

Suddenly, briefly, I caught a glimpse of the tapestry and the Weaver - and I was absolutely terrified by how wrong I was and how limited my vision had been.

What do I know of You
Who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood
But the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire? Are You fury?
Are You sacred? Are You beautiful?
What do I know? What do I know of Holy?

Most of my faith had been dissolving for a while: certainty of who God is, what He intends and how He acts has made me recoil more and more; a lot of stuff around me has been making me uneasy. Much of my own armour was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I feel unsure that I have any idea what faith is, what holy looks like, how God works or what my journey to Him is meant to look like. I'm even less sure, meandering as it has been, that my journey has been a mistake at all - and I've been dead certain about the wrongness of my life for at least a decade.

And so began the descent into the Underworld.

I can take great emotional shifts in my stride, but this, on top of paper thin boundaries that meant I was feeling the emotions of everyone around me - which, just my luck, were mostly intense and chaotic - made my knees buckle. Early on, it became clear that it was too deep, too intense, for almost anyone to hold the space - and I was far too raw to be able to bear watching close friends squirm uncomfortably or look away. If I tested the waters and no response appeared to be forthcoming, I simply took it as 'I can't/don't know how do this kind of intensity, I'm sorry,' and left it at that. It was easier than asking again and hearing the 'I don't know how to be here for you.' I could go it alone, I knew that. So I got moving.

Traci and Ari were too stubborn to let me do that. Traci, a fellow Catholic, held the religious and emotional space; asked the questions; was there to wrestle with the relationship with God and the theology; called it like she saw it; called me on dissociating and not feeling what I was going through; let me be scared, angry, unsure. Ari was Ari - the friend who has known me in the darkest of places and moods, and just sat with me - listening, asking, letting me be fully me - intensely emotional - something I wick away from most people. I owe them the deepest gratitude - not feeling alone during the inner hurricane; being able to have space held for me when I couldn't hold things back to protect others - I couldn't even protect myself - was the most precious of gifts.

At church and work (which has a religious culture), I locked up tight. I was numb for most of Lent, and when I wasn't numb, I was furious. The Triduum was beautiful as ever, but I felt locked in ice; not even Tenebrae, which always moves me deeply, could touch me. There was the odd thaw - I can never shut out those close to me, and if they needed support, love, affirmation, I was drawn out of my icy enclosure to connect, which helped me too - for the most part, though, I wasn't there.

But the desert wasn't as barren as it seemed. Fr Dom's talk on prayer at the Passiontide Oratory unlocked something that took weeks to emerge. If I could pray, I did it. If I couldn't, fuck it. I prayed as I was, not as I wasn't. I remembered Mark Poulson's words from the pulpit at a funeral I'd been to: "I think God can take our questions, our doubts, our grief, our anger - all of it. I think He says, 'Give it to me. I can take it.' And He wants it all because He loves us." At some point, when I couldn't carry it any more, I must have let it go and handed it over, just saying, 'Fuck it. I have no clue. Let's see what happens.'

Only when I let it go - and let me be honest, not out of faith, but out of sheer exhaustion - did it begin to happen. A friend waxed poetic about Stephen Cope's The Wisdom of Yoga: a seeker's guide to extraordinary living in a blog entry or several. 'Huh,' I thought. 'I'll give anything a try.' I checked Amazon, and when I couldn't stop reading the VERY long excerpt from it, I ordered it - and then couldn't put it down as truth after truth launched themselves at me from every page, shattering my icy prison.

I was finally fully present; the game was afoot. I had no idea how things were going to unfold, but finally, I was good with that. Early days, but I was going to try to follow the signs and go with the flow. As far as I was concerned, God and life could bring it on.

It was in this state that I found myself under the Oratory arch this afternoon at 12.05. 'All right, Lord, I'm here. Bring it on.'

I took a deep breath and stepped through.