Monday, December 14, 2009

Hallelujuah Everybody Say Cheese

Merry Christmas from the Ham-Family

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Prayer to Persephone

Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be:
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee:
Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here."

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

The High Priestess and The Queen of Cups

The High Priestess has been showing up in my tarot readings lately. A recent reading put her in the position of “what I fear” and the Queen of Cups in the position of “my hopes and dreams.” The Queen of Cups was no surprise; she's a familiar old friend. A beautiful woman, emotional, passionate, deep, fertile, fluid, everything I wish I was. She reminds me of a nursing mother literally full of the milk of human kindness. For many years, she was my touchstone, but those days are passing.

The High Priestess tell a completely different story. Swathed in blue and white like the virgin mary; crowned by the full moon with the crescent at her feet, surrounded by the pomegranates that bound Persephone to hell, balanced between the pillars of the beginning and the end, The High Priestess is the polar opposite of the fertile, fulsome Queen of Cups. In her lap she holds a book of secret knowledge and the cross on her covered breast acts as a protective shield. She’s a Papess, a female Pope, and as such she is peculiarly sexless. She does not wield power by means of her sex; hers is the power of the mind.

A woman matures and leaves her ripeness behind. It’s ridiculous to pretend otherwise. We subject ourselves to plastic surgery, hormones, pills, powders and potions in a desperate pursuit of juicy youth. Pursuing something that is gone is pointless and ultimately pathetic. The days of my beautiful youth are gone. Could it be time to cut my hair, don the nun’s habit and seek deeper knowledge?

The maiden is dead; long live the crone.