I posted material for Foundation Day over at the Bakcheion, so everything’s now ready for 2020 e.v. (or Year Two according to our temple’s reckoning.)
Straw poll: how many of you would be interested in joining a small, private group on Discord or Slack dedicated to keeping the Bakcheion festival cycle, whether or not you live in the scenic Hudson Valley?
Floyd G. Ballentine, Some Phases of the Cult of the Nymphs
https://www.jstor.org/stable/310497?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents
R. Connor, Seized by the Nymphs: Nympholepsy and Symbolic Expression in Classical Greece
https://forestdoor.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/connor1.pdf
Fátima Díez-Platas, Sex and the city: Silens and Nymphs in Ancient Greek pottery
https://www.academia.edu/10243283/_Sex_and_the_city_Silens_and_Nymphs_in_Ancient_Greek_pottery_
Rudolf Habelt, Kupara, a Sikel Nymph?
http://www.uni-koeln.de/phil-fak/ifa/zpe/downloads/1999/126pdf/126177.pdf
Theodora Suk Fong Jim, Seized by the Nymph
Jennifer Larson, The Corycian Nymphs and the Bee Maidens of the Homeric Hymn to Hermes
https://forestdoor.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/larson1.pdf
Bonnie MacLachlan, Kore as Nymph, not Daughter: Persephone in a Locrian Cave
http://www.stoa.org/diotima/essays/fc04/MacLachlan.html
Hugh Mason, Dancing Nymphs on Lesbos
https://www.academia.edu/11926891/Dancing_Nymphs_on_Lesbos
Hugh Mason, A Nymphaion in Mytilene
https://www.academia.edu/12677247/A_Nymphaion_in_Mytilene._Editing_and_Interpreting_IG_12.2.129
Verity Platt, Sight and the Gods: On the Desire to See Naked Nymphs
Yulia Ustinova, Caves and the Ancient Greek Oracles
https://www.academia.edu/1072768/Caves_and_the_Ancient_Greek_Oracles
Not only do many Hellenic and other polytheists today not honor their Nymphs or local land-spirits on a regular basis but I’ve heard from plenty of folks that they don’t feel them or see them and wouldn’t even begin to know how to. Although I find this a little sad (because Nymphs are so awesome!) and frankly incomprehensible (because they’re such a big part of my spiritual path it’s like trying to imagine a world without music) it’s not really all that surprising to me. Leaving aside the whole issue of how modern man tends to be disconnected from his environment and oblivious to its life-cycles – including far too many pagans and polytheists, if you ask me – the biggest stumbling-block to having an awareness of Nymphs, let alone cultivating a relationship with them, has got to be our preconceived notions about what Nymphs are like.
I’ll be honest – this is something I had to get over as well. Like a lot of people I originally assumed that Nymphs were these lovely, slim-ankled maidens being chased by lusty Satyrs through the woods or darkly seductive ingénues who waited at the bottom of lakes for dim-witted but handsome shepherds to come by so that they could lure them down to a premature watery death. After all, that’s how poets and painters have presented them for centuries. And yes, sometimes that’s even how they’ll reveal themselves to a person – though it isn’t the only or even the most common way that they appear.
Usually it’s much more subtle than that. A rustling of leaves or sudden motion caught out of the corner of your eye; the faint echo of footfalls, whispered voices or sounds that could be distant music; light playing on the surface of the water or a pile of leaves; a strong scent filling your nostrils. Sometimes you’ll have a kinesthetic response: the hair rises on your body, you feel a phantom touch on your arm or cheek or you get a tingling sensation at your scalp or the back of your neck. Sometimes there is nothing more definite than an overwhelming and undeniable sense of presence. You are suddenly aware that you are not alone, that something somewhere nearby is watching you, that it has a personality and that personality is very different from your own.
Of course this is not the only way that they reveal themselves to us. I’ve gotten to the point where I can recognize particular spirits distinct from all the rest; I have communicated with some directly and had visionary experiences of them as well; and they have even shown me forms that resemble our own. But they aren’t human and we should always keep that in mind when dealing with them. They are strange and wild creatures who have their own peculiar morality. In fact, they can be very dangerous at times, even for those whom they like. Their mood changes swiftly and unpredictably – after I have done what I came for I am always quick to leave their dwelling. You cannot domesticate a Nymph: wildness is a fundamental part of their being.
That’s why if you want to know them you’ve got to go to the wild places. You must approach them on their terms. You cannot learn about them in safety, skimming through old books or listening to what other people tell you about them. Such tools can be a fine way to start the journey but they’ll only take you so far. Eventually you have to put all that aside and plunge headlong into the wild – for that is where they are found. Before you can meet them you have to meet the places where they live.
Unfortunately we city-dwellers are often uncomfortable in such wild places. The stillness of the forest is uncanny. We are used to the roar of cars, the cacophony of voices, music and advertizing, the monotonous blur of concrete, glass, and billboards rushing by us. But in the wild everything seems so much quieter, slower. The stillness can be strange at first – and uncomfortable as there is now no background noise to blot out the thoughts racing through your head except for the occasional birdcall or rustling of the leaves. But look a little closer. There is a whole other world beneath the surface.
Look at the trees all around you. No, really look. Don’t just see them as an undifferentiated mass of green and brown – but seek out the particulars. The thousand separate shades of green, the infinite variation of individual leaves and stunning moss patterns, the grass and flowers and mulch that gives sustenance to the forest. Look at the spiders hanging in the branches, the insects crawling over a leaf, the birds singing in the distance: a whole world of which you are not normally aware and yet are still an integral part of. Kneel down. Feel the mud and damp soil beneath your fingers. Really feel it. Yes, it is dirty and gross – but this is the source of life. Pick up a rock and notice its heft in your fingers. Is it rough and jagged or has it been worn smooth? What color is it? Not brown or grey – that’s what your eye sees when it’s not really looking – but what sort of veins and shading does it have, what patterns have the dirt-smudges formed, can you make out the flecks of red and blue that are only visible when you tilt it towards the sun? Now stand up and take a deep breath. What do you smell and taste on the air? The soil, the decomposing leaves, the moss, the dampness. What else? What else?
Spend as long as you can in the wild place, really experiencing everything about it that you are able to. Let the sensation of it wash over you, fill you, awaken the spirit within you. Let the awareness of its numinous power and beauty come to you as it will: in its own time, in its own way. Don’t try to force it. Don’t let your expectations distract you. Be present, be aware, and if you’re not getting it, just give it more time. It’ll happen. Maybe not the way you were thinking it would. Maybe something else, something small and inconsequential stands out for you and not some majestic vision of Mother Nature’s awesomeness … that’s okay. Go with it. See where it leads. See what this wild place has to show you in particular.
And once you are able to recognize that you will have begun developing the faculties that allow you to perceive the Nymphs who are the spirits that animate the place. And once you’re able to see them, well, that’s when things start to get really interesting! But I’ll leave that for another time, and instead close with one of my favorite passages from antiquity, a letter written by the great Stoic philosopher Seneca:
If you have ever come on a dense wood of ancient trees that have risen to an exceptional height, shutting out all sight of the sky with one thick screen of branches upon another, the loftiness of the forest, the seclusion of the spot, your sense of wonderment at finding so deep and unbroken a gloom out of doors will persuade you of the presence of a deity. Any cave in which the rocks have been eroded deep into the mountain resting on it, its hollowing out into a cavern of impressive extent not produced by the labours of men but the result of the processes of nature, will strike into your soul some kind of inkling of the divine. We venerate the source of important streams; places where a mighty river bursts suddenly from hiding are provided with altars; hot springs are objects of worship; the darkness or unfathomable depth of pools has made their waters sacred.
Everything you do and everything you are is a choice. You are free. Choose wisely.
Make mistakes, as many as you can. How else are you going to learn?
This, too, shall pass.
Show respect to all things. Yes, even if they don’t deserve it. Manners aren’t for other people, they are for us.
Question everything. Especially if it comes from an authority.
Educate yourself, or others will.
You will never have it all figured out.
We all go a little crazy sometimes.
Often what is most feared is most needed.
Listen to The Doors. Jim Morrison was a prophet.
Love unguardedly. Hearts are made to be crushed.
You will die a thousand deaths before your time if you do not master your fear.
Find what you are great at and pursue it with a single-minded devotion.
It doesn’t matter if it’s hard and difficult and unpleasant. Do it anyway.
Live simply in order to enjoy greater leisure and pleasure.
No matter how great you are there are ones who are greater still – the Gods, the Spirits, and the Mighty Dead. There are beings greater than you beyond number. The whole world is alive with their presence. Honor them, from highest to lowest and all in between.
Some Gods and Spirits aren’t nice.
Always do what the Fairies tell you.
If your every act is one of reverence and right relationship with the powers you cannot help but live rightly, justly, wisely and prosperously.
Whenever you’re uncertain, divine.
You have a body. What sustains you is physical. Therefore make material offerings to those who have blessed you.
Give beyond what is expected of you. The excess is the choicest portion of the sacrifice.
Worship with joy. You are in the presence of the divine! Be overcome by awe.
At least once a day just stop everything you’re doing and be completely still, present and mindful.
Laugh.
Dance.
Sing.
Scream.
Cry.
Never let another make you feel bad for what you do or do not feel.
Be open. Don’t hold back. It’s okay to look mad and foolish. All the best people do.
Wear masks.
Be pure in mind and body when you carry out sacred service.
Bow your head to no man, but to the divine only.
Always approach the holy crowned.
Adorn your shrines with flowers.
Immerse yourself in prayer and thoughts of your Gods and Spirits. Carry them with you wherever you go.
A gift requires a gift in return.
Remember and honor those who came before you. You would not be who you are without them.
Nothing is perfect – or needs to be.
Test yourself in the flame.
Let spiders live.
You always have time for worship. If you don’t, rearrange your schedule. Do you really want to tell the powers that they are not a priority in your life, that they aren’t worthy of your time and attention?
First master the rites and traditions that have been handed down to you; then only may you improvise.
All that is beautiful is dear to the Gods, so make your worship as beautiful as you can.
Begin every endeavor with a sacrifice.
Worship outdoors as often as you can.
Cities are outdoors too.
Learn everything about the place where you live.
Don’t come to the Gods only in times of need.
Make amends swiftly.
Never let your shrines gather dust through neglect.
Treat strangers as you would treat Hermes.
Do not revile another’s God. There are strange alliances among the powers.
Pray from the heart with honest words. Your Gods know you — there is nothing you can hide from them even if you wanted to.
Read Plutarch and Seneca if you would be wise, pious and happy.
Should is an abyss.
What you do is more important than what you call yourself.
Your past shaped you — it does not define you.
Demonstrate your beliefs through your actions.
Make purchases that reflect a right relationship with the world.
Don’t buy stuff for your stuff.
Create instead of just being a consumer.
Remember that every time you’re looking at a screen you’re missing what’s going on around you.
Pay attention to animals. They know things you don’t.
Plants know things even animals do not.
Mark the passage of the seasons.
It’s more fun on the margins.
You aren’t your labels, your fandoms, or the things you own.
Be selective in the media you consume, for it lives on in you afterwards.
Question everything. Seriously, it cannot be said enough: question everything. Even why you should question everything.
Try new things, even things you don’t think you’re going to like, because experiences are precious.
Never be ashamed.
Don’t bleed before you’re wounded.
Regret is a wasteful emotion.
If you don’t prioritize your happiness, don’t expect others to.
Don’t let others drag you down.
All you can do is suggest. In the end others will live the way they want to.
Accept others as they are. You can’t change them.
Don’t let others change you in ways you don’t want them to.
Know who you have to prove your worth to – and who you don’t.
It’s your mind — expand it however you want.
Push your own boundaries, but accept those of others.
Know when to stop.
Know the risks before you play.
Don’t do anything you aren’t willing to accept the consequences for.
Don’t ever be bored or boring.
Always hunger for more.
Balance the scales.
Feelings are not actions.
You can always walk away.
Be suspicious of those who express themselves through maxims.
Everything dances.
No matter what other Gods and Spirits you worship, honor Dionysos.
The collection of hymns and prayers my wife and I collaborated on is now available. Order your copy today.
Exciting news, folks – Catharsis: a sequel to Gods and Mortals is now available through Amazon and other online retailers. Get your copy today!
One of the best parts of the production was how fucking polytheist it was. And I don’t just mean that they kept the hymns to assorted deities in, which not every production does. But the whole thing began with an invocation of the ancestors of the place, going back generation through generation to the Lenape people; Tiresias was dressed as an houngan and at one point Dionysos shouts “àṣẹ!” and instead of setting it beside the streams of Dirke and Ismenos they called on Hudson and the other local Harlem river. I think these flourishes helped bring the audience more fully into the sacred atmosphere of the play; they were also nice parallels to the ceremonies the Athenians conducted during the Dionysia. All it lacked was a parade of war orphans and giant phalloi, culminating in a bull sacrifice and it would have been perfect.
Here I am in the park, waiting for the Classical Theatre of Harlem’s production of The Bakchai to start. Shortly after I slipped into a state of entheos that did not lift until well after we got home.
No matter how familiar you are with this play there is nothing quite like seeing it performed live. The leads were phenomenal, especially the aftermath of the interrogation scene where a tarted up Pentheus, with breaking voice, begs Dionysos to make him beautiful; they touch foreheads for a pregnant moment and the God responds, “You are.” Fuck, man. I’m tearing up just typing this, many hours later – that’s how good it was.
But don’t take my word for it – here’s my wife’s account, from a letter she wrote to the company. Our household made a sizable donation to these sacred artisans of Dionysos and will definitely be attending future productions, though I think it’ll be tough for them to top this one.
Hail Thor who truly shines in the heavens,
glint of Sunna reflecting off the golden wheels
of your goat-drawn carriage, billowy beard
blowing in the breeze, sparks shooting from
your glowing hot hammer gripped in invincible
iron gloves, strength enhanced by your mighty belt
and cheeks flushed from Óðr’s wine, gulped down
at the start of your journey as you set out to slay
the murky horde of wicked Wights and gnarly Ents
assembled against the impregnable walls
of gleaming Ásgarðr. Ride on, O Strider
ever in defense of all that is good, holy and true,
and know that this household stands with you
and shall never let your shrine be barren of offerings.
Thor who noisily protested when
Loki lie-smith said he needed to put on
Freyja’s cloak and underthings,
color his cheeks and walk and talk
in an affectedly dainty manner
to court a brutish Jötunn or three
– but did it anyway, big enough
to withstand a little humiliation
for the wellbeing of his people.
Hail O God who is worthy to wield Mjölnir
and on that day Þrúðvangr’s Lord proved
the Goddess of Courtesans’ equal too
in the arts of attraction and seduction,
so great are you, Thor, at all you set your mind to.
I call upon the loud-riding Storm God,
the rumbler and stirrer and striker from afar,
Thor who sends the nourishing rain
and winds that shake loose stagnancy
and pollution. You are joyful when you come
home to your wife and many dear children,
quick to laugh and always ready with
a humorous story from your travels,
especially when ale trickles down
your thick red beard, and lovely-eyed
golden Sif is at your side
to wipe it away and kiss the lips
that so often have professed
undying love for her.
Nothing pleases Thor the yeoman’s God
more than plowing Sif’s fields
and scattering seed into the tight furrows,
and many months later reaping
a bounty of swollen fruit and wheat
the color of her lovely curls,
not even walloping ill-tempered þurs
or putting arrogant jarls in their place.
Hail Thor, protector of the shrine,
preserver of the lore and sacred rites,
friend of the priest, and defender of the poet
– for you know how important these things
are to the health, longevity and well-being
of the people and without them how
vulnerable we are to the nothing
that seeks the annihilation of all existence,
a greater threat than ever Ragnarök could be.
I hail the powerful soul of Thor, defender of the
downtrodden and one who sets things to right,
God of the raging storm and the awful destruction
it brings, Lord of lightning strikes and thunder claps,
rowdy, raucous, and reveling son of crafty Óðinn
and the lovely Giantess Fjörgyn;
never, Thor, have you encountered an adversary
in the Nine Realms that you backed down from,
even when whole hosts were arrayed against you.
You can crush mountains with Mjölnir, grasp anything
you please with Járngreipr, and wearing Megingjörð
drag bullish rivers from their bed, changing
their swiftly rushing courses entirely.
When the elements are out of alignment,
and divine order is in danger of unraveling
it is you, Thor, who rushes in to fight
the cause of the corruption, injustice and hate
and through their defeat you hallow all once more,
O Prince of Ásgarðr and delight of your father.
Hail Thor whose name brings terror
to the hearts of the unrighteous and impious,
slayer of the wicked and monstrous,
strong one who drives back chaos and destruction,
wielder of the staff Gríðarvölr which renders
curses, disease, and grievous wounds powerless.
Once, they say, you and your charge Þjálfi
were on a great sea-journey when you came
ashore at Hlésey, where the Gods often feasted
in the great hall of their good friend Jötunish Ægir;
but this day there was no banquet or plentiful
horns of mead to be found, but instead an island
entirely desolate, sorrowful and unmanned.
All the womenfolk had been driven mad from their
homes into the wild places by Óðr who was furious
with them. She-wolves they seemed, and scarcely women
any longer as they danced and ran about screaming
with hair unbound, wearing beast-skins with serpents for torcs,
and nothing on beneath, brandishing iron cudgels and axes
as if they weighed nothing, and eating the raw
and bloody flesh of animals they captured
and with their bare hands tore to pieces.
Þjálfi had not even finished securing your ship
when a throng of them rushed down onto the beach
and began flinging iron, rocks and leafy missiles
ripped straight from the tree at you and servile Þjálfi,
who fled the scene in abject fear. You endured their assault
Thor, and then smote each of the false-bitches in turn
with Gríðarvölr, restoring their stolen sanity to them.
You then walked the length and breadth of Hlésey,
hunting the women down and informing
their trembling husbands that it was safe to come out
of hiding once more, and Þjálfi came too.
To this day your festival is kept among them
loud-roaring and thundering redeemer,
and your memory shall endure among us forever too,
O Thor the mighty, vanquisher of his foes.
I call upon you Thor, the one who rides alone
in your cart drawn by Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr
through lands near and far, visiting the high
and the low alike, testing the hospitality
and other noble virtues of the sons of Askr
and daughters of Embla. You are called
friend of the common man, for oft have you found
that those who have the least are quickest
to give the most. Likewise those who know well
how brief, brutish and uncertain life can be
make the best use of what has been given them;
they know too that simple pleasures are the fillingest,
and being scarce must be enjoyed to the utmost
when and where they are found. And oh, son of Óðinn,
do you graciously reward the generosity of the folk,
sending a sudden rainstorm so their crops will prosper
rather than succumb to drought, and their goats
produce plentiful bleating young as their nets strain
to contain so many fish and somehow there are
more cheeses in their larder than their pails collected milk,
all because they set out for you humble traveler’s stew,
crusty bread and a flagon of homebrew, the best
that they had. Thor, may every house receive you so,
and each treat you better than the one before.
We hail you Sigyn, brave, calm, steadfast
and enduring Goddess who is there
for your husband in his time of greatest travail
and can bring Loki back from the brink
of destructive madness with just a touch
or a soft word, Sigyn we hail you! You who are full
of quiet wisdom and certainty, no matter how bleak
and hopeless things may seem, Sigyn we hail you!
You who unfailingly point the way to the true,
the right, and the holy, Sigyn we hail you!
You who preserve the home, the family, and tradition,
Sigyn we hail you! You who are always there
to offer the lost, the suffering, and the weary
your loving support, grace and gentle guidance,
Sigyn we hail you!
May my words be pleasing to you, O gracious Sigyn,
as once your words were pleasing to Loki’s son Váli
when he returned from playing in the golden groves of Iðunn
with a bruise on his knee, grass and leaves stuck to his clothes,
cheeks pink and damp from tears and blue-grey eyes
full of confusion and hurt. After hugging him tight
you brushed him clean, took out your lunchbox
with ladybugs on it, and sat him down on your lap.
He seemed so small and fragile then, and you would
protect him from all that the Nine Worlds hold if you could,
but some things are beyond even the power of the Gods.
You bid him tell his story and it seemed he had been playing tag
with Þórr’s boys Móði and Magni, Kōmos, the son of Óðr and Freyja,
his older sisters Hnoss and Gersemi, and Váli the giant child
of Óðinn and Rindr who was foreordained to avenge
his fallen brother Baldr (even though Loki had not yet
sharpened the dart of mistletoe.) Without provocation
the burden of Rindr’s arms flew into a fury, pushed little Váli
to the ground and when he staggered to his feet got all of
the other children to give chase, shouting horrible things at him
until they had hounded the boy to the boundary-marker
of his father’s property and into the arms of his mother.
Wise Sigyn, you spoke to your son until you had
broken the fetters of his sorrow and were rewarded
with a chubby-cheeked grin and musical laughter.
You opened your lunchbox full of treasures rivaling
anything a Dvergr has ever crafted, and allowed
your Váli to draw out whatever he pleased. He chose
a diamond-shaped bullroarer gifted you by Óðr
and a little red rubber ball that also came from him.
With these trinkets all his pain, humiliation and rage
were forgot, and he toddled off to play by himself.
Sigyn, likewise I pray, speak the words that cut through anger
and bring us back to our rational senses, and help us not
to be cruel or to needlessly prejudge others.
Freyja taught you well, Sigyn, her ways of allurement
and of gratifying any desire the mind might conceive,
the sorcery of the garden and of the kitchen, the mysteries
of managing the purse and an orderly run household,
and everything that goes into keeping a husband healthy,
happy and satisfied, both in and out of bed. Things that
your mother, or perhaps your aunty, should have guided you through.
But as always your sister was there to fill in the holes, and many a time
has skillful-tongued Loki proclaimed his indebtedness to Njördsdottir
for your schooling, O Goddess of Ladybug Delight,
but in truth you were a very apt pupil, especially when it came
to matters of the boudoir. Truly Loki is a lucky God,
and he knows it too, which perhaps is why he does not go about
siring lines of doughty Heroes, Kings, and Magician-Poets like Óðinn,
Heimdallr, Þórr and Freyr. (Though, in fairness, if he was hung like Freyr
it would be a terrible sin not to put it to good use.) And so I hail you
exquisite example of wifeliness and hometender extraordinaire,
and ask your blessings upon the heads and hearts of each member
of our household and in looking to your fine example
we all shall prosper and get lucky.
I hail you Sigyn, for your heart was strong
and large enough to accept the other wife
of your husband and all their monstrous brood
into your happy home and life, and you shared
in the children’s rearing as if they had come
from your very own womb, no matter how savage
and nerve-fraying they could be. Under your loving
but stern direction they grew large and powerful,
the constant companions of Narvi and Váli
and oh, what mischief the lot of them got up to!
Once the pup Fenris chased Ratatoskr up a tree
and then could not get down again, and another time
you nursed Jörmungandr through a terrible toothache,
and you even talked a teenaged Hela out of her room
when she was angry with Angrboða
for not letting her date a boy from Niðavellir.
The challenge of parceling out Loki’s time and affection
you met with dignity, grace, understanding and good humor,
as well as a great deal of careful communication,
something even Gods cannot escape. What’s more,
you came to love She of the Ironwood as deeply
as you care for your own dear sister Freyja.
And so I ask that your blessings and guidance flow
always into our home and help me to show the same
consideration and kindness to my deeply cherished ones.
O dolorous Sigyn I pray, you who have endured
what no soul should ever have to – the laying to rest
of your parents and your children both.
The latter sorrow has oft been on the lips of poets,
but even the precious names of those who bore you
have disappeared from among mortal men.
The High One may have seen what happened,
Heimdallr may have heard, and the Queen of the Gods,
Frigga too may know, but if so she will speak not a word
of the matter, for it is too covered in grief and bitter tears
to revisit. Instead your story begins
with a child of astounding beauty, hair in tight braids
and clutching a stuffed wolf doll to her tender breast,
staggering into the Vanic lands with her linen dress torn
and stained with soot and blood. So Njörðr found her
near the shores of the great sea, and scooped her up
in his big, strong arms. He stroked her back and whispered
kind things to her as he carried her home
and placed her in the care of his daughter lovely Mardöll,
close to being the girl’s agemate. She made her laugh and shared
her pretty dresses, dolls and other playthings with the girl
while Njörðr armed himself and went out to investigate
what had happened to her parents and if need be
to avenge them. Whatever the Terror of the Deep discovered
he kept it to himself and raised the fosterling
as his own adored and true daughter, naming her Victory Girl
for what she had gone through to join his clan.
These mysteries are yours, Sigyn,
and teach us why family is so dear to you.
The House of Vines 