As my luck would have it, I was invited to a women’s new moon ritual in a kiva. How could that be? This was an underground chamber that was below everyone’s radar. We would have to hike to it, as this kiva was a very old one that had been discovered and restored by the people who had found it – not owned by anybody but secretly tended by local ceremonialists. A small group of us women hiked into the forest by starlight and snowlight, carrying along with our sage bundles and candles, a hammer and nails to repair the pole ladder. The leader knew her way and after a while, we came upon an earthen mound covered with snow. We stood among snow-laden pines in a biting cold night. Brushing away the snow, we excavated the wooden poles covering the doorway, placed a ladder into the hole, and descended into the black pit. Once inside, like typical women, we set about housekeeping – sweeping, tidying, arranging – and soon we were ready to begin. With candle flames bravely flickering little tongues of light against the brown walls, each woman offered sage smoke for smudging. We chanted. We prayed aloud. Then we fell silent.
No ripple of sound could penetrate; any rustle, any clatter, any clamor, any thud, any dissonance from the outside world was muffled before it could reach us. Any impulse to stirring was snuffed out. There, held within the womb of the Earth Mother, the silence was as immense as the blackness of the Void. I leaned back against the dirt wall, feeling as if I could lean into eternity... falling but safely cradled, absolutely still and yet filled with vibration, deep in the Earth, or was I among the stars? Breathing in, pausing... Breathing out, pausing... Pausing, pausing... I yielded to the magnificent embrace of the Void.
Little Becca disappeared. The snow-burdened mountains dissolved. The Pueblo Indians, and the whole roll of history unwound. Everything came undone. There was only pure Emptiness. Yet, I was aware of a constant, comforting vibration that buoyed me up in an infinite sea of bliss.
Thus I came to experience what a fine vehicle of spiritual technology the Pueblo people had developed.
The thunder of gunshots cracked through the Pueblo. The Christmas Eve vespers were done, and the procession was leaving the church, led by men shooting rifles into the air. A few small bonfires, called luminarias, had already been lit, providing firelight by which we could view the procession. Men beating hand drums and chanting in Tiwa followed the riflemen. They cleared a path for the Virgin Mary, a life-size santo (statue) who had been dressed up for the occasion, because, after all, this was her big night! Carried aloft on a decorated platform, she seemed to float above a sea of humanity. On my other visits to San Geronimo Church, I would always pay my respects to her; she was center stage at the front altar (Jesus to the side), and her depictions on the walls showed her sprouting corn and beans – an homage to the Earth Goddess, if ever I saw one. Tonight men and women followed her promenade through the village as they chanted and sang Christmas carols in Tiwa and Spanish.
Some might have thought it a strange brand of Catholicism, but having lived in Mexico where the Virgen de Guadalupe reigned, I understood how American indigenous goddesses had to go underground. The Pueblo Indians had had no choice but to convert to Christianity; during Spanish rule, they would have been literally nobodies (without names) if they had not been baptized, and under American rule, children had been taken from their families and shipped off to Indian schools (Anglicizing schools would be a better description). So now 90% of the residents were officially Catholic, though obviously it was a hybrid more in tune with their traditions.
After a tour of the village plaza, the Virgin Mary, accompanied by drummers and dancers, was brought back into the chapel. Now the large luminarias were lit. The greasewood, stacked in crisscross piles, allowed flames to blaze up several stories high.
“Calling back the sun“ through fire rituals at winter solstice was as old as human memory... a primordial impulse that sought expression. So at winter solstice time, Incas held the Inti Raymi (Festival of the Sun), Persians celebrated Mithras’ Light defeating Darkness at Shab-e Chelleh, Japanese welcomed Amateratsu’s (the Sun Goddess’) reemergence from the cave, Hindus ignited an enormous flame atop Arunachala Mountain in India, and countless pagan cultures lit their fires to bring back the light on the darkest night of the year. At a sacred palm grove in Puerto Rico, our local tribe had gathered at the pyramid and then drummed and danced and sang into the dark night around our beach bonfire. By engaging in such ritual action, we participated in the perennial mythos of our human family.
When Carl Jung visited Taos Pueblo in 1924, he had a conversation with the chief, which he later cited. This is what Ochwiay Biano (Mountain Lake) told Jung: “We are a people who live on the roof of the world; we are the sons of Father Sun, and with our religion we daily help our father to go across the sky. We do this not only for ourselves, but for the whole world. If we were to cease practicing our religion, in ten years the sun would no longer rise. Then it would be night forever.”
The bonfire rages, and even when it gets too hot to stand facing it, I cannot pull my eyes away. The night is as black as a raven and cold enough to freeze time, so I stay focused on this most basic of elements that burns and radiates before me. I am mesmerized by the flames as I sway among the crowd of shadowy faces, like unidentifiable forms from the depths of primeval Cosmic Chaos. The singing, the pounding drums, the devotion that creates this ritual year after year, root me to the frozen ground below the mammoth silhouette of Taos Mountain.
I had entered sacred time. The blazing fire penetrating the black night, like the inferno of a star roaring into the Void, just as it had when the Universe was explosively born... but more accurately, just as it does on every level of existence, from atoms to galaxies, at this very moment. Creation is continuous.
There is linear time (or profane time), i.e., tonight was Christmas Eve 2006. There is cyclical time (“the eternal return”), i.e., every winter solstice, at this spot on the wheel of the year, we connect through ritual to all previous and future winter solstice celebrations. Then there is sacred (or mythical or archetypal) time. Jean Houston noted that ancient Egyptians considered the durative or archetypal realm to be where Isis, the Goddess of Heaven and Earth, dwelled. Through ritualized worship, they could access it and their goddess. It was “the eternal present.”121 Mindfully and good-humoredly embodying archetypal reality, from which all manifestation appeared and continues to appear, according to the Chinese mystic Lao Tzu, was the goal of understanding the Tao (“the Way”). Mircea Eliade, in Patterns in Comparative Religion, states, “For the ‘mythical period, dzugur, must not be thought of as simply past time, but as present and future, and as a state as well as a period.’122 That period is ‘creative,’ in the sense that it was then, in illo tempore[in that time], that the creation and arranging of the Cosmos took place, as well as the revelation of all the archetypal activities by gods, ancestors or culture heroes. In illo tempore, in the mythical period, anything was possible.”123 By entering into sacred time through ritual, we also could experience the boundless possibilities of our being. We could ourselves exercise the creative power of the gods and goddesses.
This concept figured in Tantric philosophy. Anyone who has had a mind-blowing or “religious experience” while making love knows the feeling of exalting in the ecstasy of having broken free from the fetters of time. It was the goal of Tantric practice, whether in lovemaking or in meditation, to experience such bliss on purpose, and more and more often until it became a ‘normal’ state of being. André Van Lysebeth declares, “Maïthuna[Tantric ritual sexual union] reproduces in real time the initial human sexual intercourse, which itself duplicates the ultimate act of creation, where the kosmic feminine principle (Shakti) coupled with its male counterpart (Shiva) creates the universe and engenders it continuously. Maïthuna reproduces concretely, in sacred, therefore real, time, the original creative act belonging not to some non-existent, distant past but to the present moment which, alone exists.” James and I had been catapulted into sacred time throu
gh our lovemaking, and I had slipped into it in meditation. I had experienced it many times before: floating in a sea of stars and sparkling phosphorescence after a sweat lodge, gliding through turquoise water surrounded by dolphins, sitting in Demeter’s temple at Eleusis, and now in the wintry Rocky Mountains on the longest night. Always the experience was one of intense beauty.
Rivulets of melted water escaped from the fringes of the fires, only to refreeze a short distance away. Las luminarias were spewing sparks and black smoke into the night sky, and I imagined my coat being permanently peppered with burn marks from the cinders. I had been wearing a towel over my shoulders to prevent that, but now I noticed it was no longer with me. In fact, I needed to find my son and friends, who were lost to me in the amorphous crowd.
The fires were burning down to reddish-orange embers when we were reunited and headed over the bridge toward our cars. I looked forward to a steaming cup of wassail at home, and to hugging my beloved. For my little stroll through sacred time had renewed feelings of tenderness for my pained painter. And the timeless night in Taos Pueblo filled me with an acute love of this land, the presence of the Kosmic Mountain Maxwaluna, and the magic of living in the Tao of Taos.
REAL VALENTINES
You must love in such a way
that the person you love feels free.
~ Thich Nhat Hanh
It was the week before Valentine’s Day. Snow had covered the mountains and mesas since November, but in the dark of the winter, our lives had not gone into hibernation. Aside from our normal householding schedule, James and I were both putting in long hours in our respective studios. I was quite content to wrap myself up with my books and notes and ideas while looking at the frozen world outside my windows.
James’ art was attracting attention. One gallery was featuring his figurative and abstract art, and five pieces from Venus and Her Lover were hanging in an erotic art show at a local inn. Nothing had sold yet, but we loved the attention. Kenneth Ray Stubbs was inquiring about using our imagery in a Tantric DVD he was making.
Living in a developed country was not cheap. Some months were particularly tight financially, and I resorted to helping a friend clean houses; it was a humbling experience to be contemplating archetypes’ role down through human history and the natural laws of the Universe while cleaning someone else’s toilet. Our financial hardships inspired James to come up with a new business for us. We called it: A Musing – Sensuous Modeling for Serious Artists. In an art town like Taos, we offered something beyond simple nude posing for life drawing classes. Our first respondent was a friend: Jaap Vanderplas, a Dutch photographer who had lived in Taos over 20 years. James and I worked well together, relishing our playful sensuality, and we ended up with an impressive portfolio of erotic photography.
It was a welcome diversion, as the bitter winter had tackled us both with colds and flu, putting a precautionary halt to our lovemaking. So it got my attention when James came home a week before Valentine’s Day to say that his new friendship with Daphne, of which I was aware, had reached a point of getting physical.
“Do you love her?” I asked, referencing my general criterion for sexual relationship. “You want to be lovers?”
“Not in love, no. But feeling free to love,” James said. “We’re moving that direction, honey. Our relationship has been developing so easily. Tonight we kissed. But you know how it is – I really prefer that when we make love, you are present in some capacity,” he stated.
“How can I be there? I hardly know her.”
“I understand. But in time – ya know, as you two become friends – you could be there. You know that’s how we always prefer it to be,” James stressed.
Daphne was tall and lanky, with black hair that she kept tied back. As a member of the Native American Church, she would spend Saturday nights in a tipi doing peyote ceremony, devoting herself to prayers and singing with the other members of the church. We had met socially several times, and I had noted the ease between her and James. So it was not completely out of the blue that James hit me with this. I told him I would need to consider it, and once we went to bed, I proceeded to do so until nearly daylight.
Since menopause, the tripwire for my insomnia was as thin as sewing thread; I could not be at my computer screen too late or drink green tea after 5:00pm, without it keeping me awake at night. Watching the entrance of a new lover qualified me for a sleepless night.
It was followed by another, as I prepared for a meeting with James and Daphne two days later. On those long, silent nights, I had plenty of opportunity to check my feelings. Should I try and rise above them? While detachment is a Buddhist virtue, Tantra recommends to “bring everything to the Path.” Detach enough to get perspective, but then dive into fears, jealousy... and compassion. Was I jealous? Hurt? Maybe. I felt like I had been peddling steadily down a long road, and was now being asked to make a U-turn, leap across treetops, and jump into a boat already in motion down a rushing river.
I let my emotions flow. E-motion = energy in motion. What would this flow reveal?
James was attendant to my voluminous questions and completely supportive of my process, so that I felt prepared to face the two of them over enchiladas and fish tacos. We were all nervous, I suppose, but at least this topic was familiar to James and me. Daphne, on the other hand, sat at the restaurant table, her eyebrows lifting up her face with a valiant smile, an expression she held throughout dinner. I noted the courage she was mustering to sit there. To any outsider, I would be a woman spurned confronting an illicit affair; here in this Mexican restaurant I could “justifiably” have brought my revolver to serve them their just desserts. What a waste of energy that would be: energy that would be much better directed into the task of letting love grow.
I noted the looks between my partner and his prospective lover. “I can see that you are both happy together, and I share in your happiness,” I said sincerely. After making my requests for sexual safety and open communication, I pronounced, “You both have my blessing.”
Goddess of Transformation
There is a way of breathing
That is a shame and a suffocation.
And there is another kind of breath,
A love breath,
Which opens you infinitely.
~ Rumi
Two days later James came home bursting with news. “I have to tell you, Becca,” he began firmly. “Tonight we made love. It just happened before I realized it. It was a slip. But then I stopped myself.”
My face fell. “You’re saying unprotected sex? Before the AIDS test?” He nodded. We knew it had been a long while since her last relationship and then she had been clear, but still...
We talked long into the night, after which I continued to process the news until nearly daybreak. While I felt the sting of broken promises, I also understood riding the runaway horses of passion, and I recognized the courage it took for James to make his confession. But already they had broken the first agreement of polyamorous relationship by indulging in risky behavior.
James continued to request my presence with them. “You and I are primary, Becca. I will do nothing to threaten us. I want us to share in this together.”
I protested that I did not know her well enough, and would need time, but my time already felt so full. “My Taurus,” James said, hugging me. “Of course you need time to plod along.” Damn straight, I needed time. I watched my compulsion to pull out the magnifying glass to scrutinize her faults, of which she would have plenty, being a human being and all. I remembered the pacing of two growling tigers, Dudaka and James, when our friendship swung into polyamory. In Hawai’i, James had felt a betrayal, just as I could now interpret their premature tryst.
Confronted as I was by emotional challenges, I did what I knew would save me: my practices. Following my sadhana of yoga, breathing, affirmations, and prayers, I soon found myself on the floor prostr
ated before my altar in meditation. Dwelling in stillness with eyes closed, I suddenly discerned a glint... a toothy grin... no, not teeth: fangs.
That mouth could belong to only one person: the All-Devouring Mother. “Kali!” I cried in greeting.
As she came into my internal focus, I realized the pounding in my head had a cause. The point of her sharpened lance was gouging me in the forehead.
“Thinking too much, are you?” she questioned me.
“No!” I insisted. “You know I have to think things through.”
“Ah yes, you think that Daphne will be a diversion, taking more time and energy than you are willing to give. You fear being left out, being left alone!”
“Well, Kali, after all, I gave them my blessing. I choose to be left out,” I explained.
Kali jabbed me with the lance. “And are you feeling left out? ‘Poor little girl, left behind’? Your man – what a louse! – is abandoning you. She’s younger than you, she’s competing for your man, she can take him from you!”
“Don’t give me that possession, jealousy bullshit! I don’t believe in it. I never have!” I argued, feeling like I was buttoning up my Venusian robes, cloaking myself in the love I championed.
Venus and Her Lover Page 18
