Sunday, November 20, 2016

My Goddess is not the Maiden, Mother, and Crone...

Copyright Susan Brooke, 2016

Lasara Allen's new book, Jailbreaking the Goddess, has been getting a lot of attention as of late for its reenvisioning of the Goddess. While her new perspective is interesting, it reminded me how my view of deity doesn't fit in well with a large portion of Paganism.

When I look at the natural world, especially now that the abundance of summer is over and the days are darker and colder, I tend to quickly strip away the order humans have placed on it. I see the harsh, difficult wildness underneath. 

I don't see the romance of wooing a maiden when I happen to glance to bucks fighting for a doe, knowing that the winner gets breeding rights and ownership of the female. I don't see the mother in a lioness who stands by when a new male takes over and murders every last cub. I don't see the crone in nature at all. So few wild animals live to old age.  

Instead what I see in the Goddess is wild and ravenous, the Goddess of my ancestors who had no choice but to eke out survival following the rules of Her world. I sometimes wonder if She and the God are one in the same, shifting between dominant and submissive in an endless power play of predator and prey. 

So when people talk of the Maiden, Mother, and Crone or the archetypes of Lasara's book, I often think that they are speaking of a much younger goddess. A goddesses only of humans, who has influence and play only in the narrow world of modern human society.

That is good, and there is certainly a place and need for the humanity of these new Gods. I, however, already get what they offer through my current ancestral practices. I prefer my Gods ancient and feral...

My goddess is not the Maiden, Mother, and Crone…

Mine is the goddess of old…
Before she was clothed in the lilac florets of spring,
the emerald prosperity of summer,
the flaxen yield of fall,
the frosted respite of winter.

Mine is the goddess of old…
She is shifting without form or face,
the vicious snap of teeth in the night,
the terrified screech at the end of failed flight,
mother of monsters and saints alike.

My goddess is of old…
She is feral and raw in the darkness,
reeking of blood, and shit, and rot.
She takes on a prick to raze her mate,
and rapes the world into creation. 


Susan
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