Hello witches and feminists! I know it's been a while since anything was posted here. There's more frequent action on the tumblr: http://walkingwithartemis.tumblr.com/, so check there.
Today I offer you a special treat: a sermon about Artemis and the drive to keep going through times of storm. This was written by my friend and sister priestess, Christina Gargiullo. Enjoy!
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The Huntress prowls
In dead of night
And hind and hound
Go by her side.
The Hunter howls
The sky alight
With clap of thunder
burning bright.
O—o, how I tremble
By my hearth on this wild night.
I—pray, Hunters gentle
Keep me safe within your sight.
I wrote this song in Iowa in late spring, after the end of the endless blanket of snow that threw the sun
into my eyes from a thousand iced surfaces—after this world of white planes and grey shadows had
melted into the muck and seedlings of new promise. I wrote this song in the season of water: runnels
singing in the streets, mud tugging on boots and getting friendly with bare toes, thawed lakes that once
again rumpled at the wind's touch, and most of all rain.
It doesn't rain in California, not really. Iowa rain pummels the earth, whips umbrellas out of careless
hands, pounds on ledges and thunders down gutters. Iowa rain raises rivers to the very edge of sandbag
barricades laid out by people with one eye on their work and one on the clouds. Iowa rain is a full
orchestra of percussion, complete with cymbal-flares in the sky. True awesome rain reminds me that
humans are still animals, that it is our kin who curl in caves and beneath trees to wait out the storm.
I wrote the song for Artemis of the hounds and the hunt. Artemis of the wild places. Artemis who runs
through forests in the silences beneath a whisker of a new moon. Artemis whose arrows fly swiftly and
find their homes in the hearts of all whom She pursues. Artemis who protects women in childbirth and
who kills them in labor, who cares for children newborn and stillborn alike. Artemis who tells me the
things I'm not sure I want to hear—but know I need to.
And I wrote it for Rudra, the Howler of the Vedas. Rudra whose keens and cries ride above the clamor
of the storms, who in later Hindu writings became also Shiva, the Lord of the places between life
and death. He dances the world into being with drums and dances it into obliteration with fire, hair
streaming in its own wind, arms arcing gracefully everywhere. He dances with such abandon that no
god dares interrupt Him, and worlds are created and destroyed beneath His feet.
Hurrying home that Iowa night, hoping my umbrella would last long enough to get me to a dry place,
I reminded myself how unlikely it was that lightning would strike right here, statistically speaking. I
watched the sky and the statistics weren't terribly comforting. We tell stories of the Wild Hunt, hounds
and spirits screaming across the stormy sky in naked and savage joy. Nights like that night, I knew
exactly why those stories linger in our collective memory.
I believe that the Divine in this world is gentle, loving, nurturing—but I also believe that nothing
exists that is not part of the body of the Goddess, and so the lashing of rain and the sharp teeth of the
lightning must also be holy.
We live in a world where rivers both inundate fertile fields and rampage through brittle towns. We live
in a world where the birthing-bed holds new life and sudden death. A world where young lovers curl
up together and nations bomb one another into submission. A world of open hands and closed fists.
And through all of it in its madness and its beauty, I see the body of the Goddess dancing. People are
asking, why me? Was I not good enough? Why? We live into these questions, each in our own way.
At this stage of my life, I hold everything as divine, and if it hurts and doesn't make sense, I howl right
along with the storm-bringers.
I make no presumptions here. I don't suggest that my answer should be yours, nor do I assume that it
will still be mine in twenty years, or forty. But that Iowa night, I prayed to the Goddess of the wild
that She hold me close, and I prayed to the Howler of storms that He protect my loved ones. When it
becomes too much I turn to more motherly deities who will simply give me a hug when I need it. But
when I wish to sink into Mystery, to find a way to hold both the wonder and the terror of the world
through which I move, I come to Artemis.
I am friends with far too many survivors of rape and assault. I volunteer at a homeless shelter with
people who have experienced things that make me cry to hear of them. I live with the knowledge that,
despite the best efforts of a growing number of doctors and neurologists, I might have ten migraines
every month for the thirty years that stretch between me and menopause.
I try to pray every morning, and some days I can't seem to get off my knees.
Artemis is always there, standing strong in the middle of the storm. She does not promise that it will
all be okay. She does not tell me to stop doubting, or that some other power is responsible for my grief.
She holds me close, and She listens patiently as I read her the riot act. Job should hear me when I get
going. And when at last I rest in raw emptiness She smiles, gently. I don't understand the storm any
better after those mornings. But somehow, I find refuge in Her arms.
How? Why seek deities who are not always loving in the way that humans think of love? As a
polytheist I have the luxury of interacting with the divine in ways that are too contradictory to fit
peacefully within a monotheistic view. I go to the stories that my ancestors told of gods and goddesses
who embody different aspects of this wild and painful and amazing world. And I find truth in Herbert
Anderson's meditation:
“The language of the soul is story and song, and paradox is the window to the holy.”
