Who lies in Civilisation’s cradle?
Wild Wisdom Two, Saturday 21st November
“Ancient Greece & Rome”
Written by Clare
On Saturday 21st of November, in a bright room in Dartington, we entered into a world of lemon groves and thyme scented air. The Greek mountains of the story were buzzing with bees and the sound of goat bells clattered in a gentle, harsh calling. In the murmer of the azure blue seas there was a remembering from long ago; these were ancient mysteries that originated on the island of Crete. In around 1490BCE the mysteries moved across to mainland Greece.
What is so enticing about the ancient mysteries of Eleusis is that we don’t really know what went on. We have tantalising records of the preparation that initiates, known as mysti, undertook. But the initiates themselves wrote nothing. All we have are the observations of outsiders, some pieces of art…and a story. Yet even from the edges of a tradition that was enacted three and a half thousand years ago, the story offers us a way in….we followed the tiny crack in the ancient rock of history and there was a thrill that ran, somewhere deep in the channels of blood that course through the subterranean veins of my body…something that I know, yet can’t quite remember, like a dream just on the edge of consciousness.
And the mysteries of ancient Greece were dreamlike; nine days of fasting, consuming intoxicating drinks, dancing, costume, mask, an entrance into the darkness of a cave, the profound and fully embodied entering into a story. And the story is of a woman, a mother and her daughter.
Right here in the ‘cradle of civilisation’ in ancient Greece, at the very core of our modern culture, is a mother with her beloved daughter. How could we have moved so far away from this?
The mother is Demeter, earth and grain mother, and her daughter is the one who is called into the shadows, taken or enticed down into the underworld where she becomes Queen. There are so many layers to this story and we began, as a group, to fold back just a few of the red petals, but like the seeds of the poppy, there were just too many!
We left the thinking behind after lunch and created our own embodiment of the mysteries. On a dark November afternoon, the lights and the candles gradually went out as our ceremony moved on. Finally we sat, six women and one man, in silent darkness. The darkness of a cave. The darkness that cannot have changed so very much in all the thousands of years. Darkness is darkness.
And I was surprised to find a warm softness there. A part of me expected to feel the presence of the underworld, of death like a cold hard slab, but no. If it was death who was present, if it was Persephone, daughter of Demeter, who I met in the darkness, she welcomed me. Her body was warm and she comforted me. I could have stayed like a lover with her, whispering and giggling and feeling in the darkness a luminosity where self and other merge and there is no differentiation.
But there was a need to wake up. Once again the story brought us clues; the deep earthy humour of the Goddess Baubo, music, poetry and sunshine. Like staying in bed all day with my lover, keeping the curtains closed so we can make love. But the sunshine creeps in. The sunshine calls so invitingly, “Come to the beach! It’s a beautiful day!” So together my lover and I rose up, like the barley corn pushing its way up from under the ground called by the sunshine.
This was a day full of sensation and intrigue. The story, which appears so simple, combined with the history and our combined courage to step into imagination in a sacred way created something totally unique. Our experiencing of this myth, like the poppy seed, was multiple; imaginative, factual, emotional, intellectual, embodied and spiritual. It’s not possible to write this down – I can see why the mysti didn’t try! If you weren’t there, you need to come next year!
Clare Viner 07/12/2015
ere man and woman roam these lands as nomadic hunter-gatherers. Guided by a story Sam told, we enter the imaginal world and become a salmon swimming up the River Dart, from the sea at Dartmouth to the source pool, where life begins and ends. Salmon becomes human, and as Grandmother (whose tribe’s winter camp site is located on the land surrounding the River Dart), we feel the darkness of the cave calling us unto our human death, calling us back into the womb of our Mother Earth. I was deeply moved by the mutuality of Grandmother and Grandmother Salmon; the shared but different relationship to home and to life and death, and the continuing cycles of life. This is a story based in the Mesolithic/Middle Stone Age period somewhere between 13,000 and 6,000 BCE, created by Sam through imaginative and meditative methods while drawing upon local archaeological findings including cave art, settlements and burial sites. By meeting local prehistory/herstory through the imagination, I feel a more direct relationship to our past in a way that only the imagination is capable of. What’s more, the cultures we are looking at were oral cultures, so the very act of sitting together with a storyteller provides a tangible relationship to our ancient ancestors as a continuation of this tradition.
