August 15, 2014October 2, 2019 Mago Work Admin

(Art poem) Speaking to the Virgin by Eileen Haley

Inspired by Yvonne M Lucia’s recent post, I would like to share one of my Guadalupe poems. The original Virgin of Guadalupe is Spanish and has strong colonial and conquest associations: among other things, it was at the Monastery of Guadalupe in Extremadura that Isabella and Ferdinand signed documents authorising the first voyage of Christopher Columbus, and it was to this monastery that in 1496 Columbus brought two indigenous men to be baptised, the first New World converts to Christianity.

This poem celebrates the Virgin’s escape from those associations.

SPEAKING TO THE VIRGIN

Guadalupe, Spain

I looked at the wooden doll

wrapped in its mantle

of satin and gold

and knew it was not you

You had fled long ago

gone west over the horizon

to set up home

in the heart of Mexico

where the old earth goddess

had just been

reduced to rubble

You threw in your lot

with the downtrodden

those conquered in your name

You rode with Hidalgo

for independence and freedom

You rode with Zapata

for land and liberty

You went on strike with César Chavez

in the grape fields of California

for fair wages and dignity

You marched with the people of Atenco

against the plans

for a new Mexico City airport

that would have taken their lands

and the lake

where ducks land on their journeys

back and forth

along their ancestral path

You live

with the poor of the earth

carried close to their hearts

La Generala

prophetess

dreamer

swelling with new life

with the age to come

that will be born when times seem darkest

when the proud will be scattered

in the conceit of their hearts

the mighty put down from their seats

the lowly exalted

the hungry filled with good things

and the rich

sent

empty

away

The image accompanying the poem is a photoshop composition by me and shows a brightly-coloured contemporary Mexican mural of Guadalupe wearing a Zapatista bandana above a faded image of the original Spanish Virgin of Guadalupe. (The Spanish Virgin of Guadalupe is one of the Black Madonnas of Spain; but that would be another story …)

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0 thoughts on “(Art poem) Speaking to the Virgin by Eileen Haley”

donnajosnyder says:

August 15, 2014 at 2:21 PM

Reblogged this on Donna J. Snyder, Poet and commented:
History and politics of Guadalupe

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(Essay 2) Divining the Masculine by Bart Everson

[This essay was originally published in the book, Finding the Masculine in Goddess’ Spiral: Men in Ritual, Community, and Service to the Goddess (2016, Immanion Press)]. These ideas are not very original. They must be amongst the oldest and most primal religious impulses. As a child of my era, however, I was drawn to scientific theories on the subject, in particular Gaia theory as formulated by James Lovelock and Lynn Margulis. (Oberon Zell formulated the same basic theory at the same time, but I was not familiar with his work). In simplest form, Gaia theory proposes a holistic view of the planet, looking at the Earth as a single organism. Naming the theory after the ancient Greek Earth goddess alienated many scientists but captured the popular imagination.
(Essay 4) I Must Call Her Awe/stralia by Leslene della-Madre

I spent my last week in Awe/stralia at Watego Bay in Byron Bay with my daughter. From the autumn chill of Melbourne to the tropical warmth of sun and surf! We were there for R and R, and for me, hopefully some healing from a trauma I had experienced in my adult life with the ocean. While in Hawaii I had been swimming and snorkeling in her crystalline waters and was fairly far from shore looking for sea turtles. Rather suddenly, the wind changed and the swells in the water began to get bigger and stronger. I could see my daughters looking like tiny little dolls on the shore. Fear immediately set in as I found myself no longer feeling safe in the water. And then more fear was generated as my thoughts raced about — could I make it back to them? And then panic. Panic will cause one to drown quicker than the waves. I knew this, and was faced with the fact that my life was in my hands and that I needed to do what I needed to do to stay alive. There is a teaching that says one must want liberation as much as if one is drowning and taking her last breath. I learned the meaning of this teaching that day. I knew I couldn’t resist the swells. I quickly saw that if I just surrendered to their power, I could ride them into shore, because that is where they were heading. Fortunately there were no crosscurrents. And I was wearing fins. So, I rode. It was like riding the waves of giving birth. And death was right there with me. I had a deep unspeakable gratitude in my heart when I could feel the sand beneath my feet and I could see the precious faces of my beautiful little girls, who had no idea of the drama I had just encountered! I was not untouched by the trauma of it, however. My relationship with the ocean changed after that and I had a very difficult time getting back into her waters. It took me a number of years to be able to just go back into the waves — and thinking of snorkeling offshore was not even a possibility. While I eventually went back to Hawaii and did go into deep water to snorkel, it was not going out into the water from shore. I went out on a boat with others into calm waters. While in Watego Bay, I found a deeper courage to go back into the waves to dive and play. I felt like I was coming back to myself — to the woman who loves the ocean and is not afraid to allow her once again to embrace me. As my daughter and I were playing together, a pair of dolphins jumped from the waters near us. They were also playing in the surf. I learned that dolphin is the totem of the Aboriginal Arakwal women of that area. I felt blessed by them, by the ancestors and the spirit of the Aboriginal women of that land. It was a perfect way to say goodbye (for now) to Awe/stralia! My heart is still quite full. I have received feedback that many women feel I brought something new to them, that there is a longing for more. I would love to return, and share with my beautiful new sisters! We came together for a reason, perhaps many reasons. May the unfolding continue! Let us sing and dream together, to bring forth our collective wisdom that we all know is the healing medicine for the planet. Sacred sisterhood. Womb wisdom. Fierce and wise serpent power. Let our powers be unleashed! Thank you, thank you, beautiful women, beautiful land, beautiful ancestors! Read part 1, part 2, and part 3.
(Poem) Sicily by Mary Saracino

The Black Madonna of Tindari, Sicily, by Mary Saracino How was I to know I’d be coming home when first I tasted the salt sea air of your sun-stained shores? Isola Bella, something rattled my DNA, dislodging its memory awakening its forgotten longing. Isola Madre, something birthed voice erasing a long silence; that which had been lost suddenly reclaimed. In Erice, the homeward-seeking doves soar back to Africa each spring released by those who remember how true blood sings for its Mother. In Ragusa Ibla, St. George could not slay the Amazon hunters or their ebony strength. The dragon of memory loomed fiercer than his shining sword. In Tindari, the Dark One reigns still Her benevolent eyes welcome pilgrims of every hue seeking solace, affirmation in Her declaration: “I am black and beautiful.” In Trapani, Siracusa, Custonaci, Enna, Palermo — over hillsides littered with ruins, through valleys, bleeding with stark red poppies across mountains erupting beside turquoise seas swelling we remember our First Womb marked as we are by Her ancient imprint. Sicily’s salty air whispers a mournful dirge, a litany inviolable the eternal archive of names — women and men, young and old, native-born and foreigner living and dead — who see everything, hear always speak unfailingly releasing their long soulful sighs into the waiting watchful wind. [Previously published in: “Sicily,” She Is Everywhere! Volume 3: An anthology of writings in womanist/feminist spirituality, iUniverse March 2012, Mary Saracino and Mary Beth Moser, co-editors. Originally published at newversenews.com on April 30, 2006] https://www.magoism.net/2013/05/meet-mago-contributor-mary-saracino
(Video 2) Cultural Heritage and Ancestral Healing as Art Mediums by Cynthia Tom

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=evg71wYIqNA&feature=youtu.be [Editor’s Note: This is the session 2 of the same title presented on August 10, 2022.] PLACE presents PLACE alumni who share how they use art to explore cultural heritage and ancestral healing. Following her talk for the deYoung/Legion, Cynthia Tom (PLACE Founding Director) shares how her art creations led to her healing and inspired A PLACE OF HER OWN. She introduces 3 PLACE alumni artists: PAZ Zamora Katie Quan and Manon Wada, ( A PLACE OF HER OWN alumni) in conversation about their cultural heritage-inspired artwork and artistic healing experiences with PLACE. Acknowledgements: Yerba Buena Center for the Arts Convening Grant Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco’s Virtual Wednesdays. California Arts Council: “Impact and General Operating” grants San Francisco Arts Commission’s Cultural Equity Initiative Grant Do A Little Foundation AAWAA, Asian American Women Artists Association: PLACE’s fiscal sponsor https://www.magoism.net/2021/07/meet-mago-contributor-cynthia-tom/
(Photo Essay) The Miracle of Becoming by Sara Wright

Photo by Sara Wright We use the word “transformation” very casually in our culture. Humans including feminists have ‘adopted’ the word to describe an inner shift in mental awareness, and of course this can happen, although not usually after a weekend spiritual retreat. The dictionary defines transformation as a dramatic change in form or appearance. In animals, transformation becomes a metamorphosis – a true change in form during that creature’s life cycle. In physics the word denotes an induced or spontaneous change of one element to another by a nuclear process. As a naturalist and ethologist it seems to me that humans may not really know what the word transformation really means. Doesn’t transformation include both mind and body? Perhaps we need to turn to nature to find out! One point becomes abundantly clear. Transformation is fraught with danger and only some creatures (and humans?) are able to survive the shift. What follows is a story of transformation that moved me to tears. When the extraordinary creature emerged from a split translucent capsule I could hardly believe my eyes. Although I have witnessed butterfly transformation many times over the course of my life none have moved me like this butterfly birth did. For more than a week I had been eyeing the lime green capsule with its golden rim and specks imagining I could even see the butterfly inside! Patiently I waited and hoped. Anything could happen. Once about 45 years ago I raised a monarch whose wings were disfigured. S/he could not fly; so I knew what could go wrong… Yesterday morning the capsule was black – too black I thought – I could barely see the outline of the monarch. Black capsules that are not translucent usually contain dead butterflies. No one knows why. The miracle occurred while my back was turned! The next time I looked there was a perfect pale butterfly hanging next to the split capsule. S/he hung on the tree for hours moving deeper under cover of some nearby leaves. Camouflaged as a leaf. I worried about the cool weather. Insects need warmth; butterflies are coldblooded creatures. I took pictures of exquisite markings talking to the butterfly softly. Wishing her well. I was astonished when s/he moved up the twig and clasped my finger. Some inexplicable life force passed between us…Moments later the butterfly resumed her place under a leaf, her shiny black legs moving so deftly for one so young. By mid afternoon the monarch was flexing her beautiful deep orange wings now filled with the fluid that had been stored in her abdomen, and I finally noticed that she was a he! Two black spots told the tale. I picked a bouquet of some of the monarch’s favorite flowers and left it clipped to a branch nearby and placed another bouquet on the ground as the dusky cloak of night closed in. The temperature had dropped so I wasn’t surprised that the butterfly stayed hidden in her bower for the night. The next morning dawned a magnificent blue and gold September day. When I opened the door the butterfly was gone. No wind and mild temperatures will make ‘my’ monarch’s first flight to seek food more pleasurable. This monarch will be the one that makes the perilous 2000 mile flight to central Mexico. If he survives he will spend the winter with many others roosting in mountain trees until early spring when he will begin the journey north, mate with a female who will lay eggs, and then both will die. The next generation continues the flight. Others of their kind will finish the trip repeating the scenario again, some arriving here in western Maine around mid July. Most monarchs live only long enough to mate and lay eggs but this last instar lives about nine months. An extraordinary story. ________________________________________________________________________ This summer has been an amazing one because I have seen more monarch caterpillars than I ever have seen in my entire life, although I live in an area surrounded by fragrant milkweed. I started seeing monarchs here at the beginning of August. Some days I counted two or three caterpillars on one leaf. Some were less than an inch, others larger. Every morning I examined the milkweed and found more! I was thrilled yet baffled. What was going on here? Most folks know that monarchs are in steep decline – 80 percent are gone. I visited our local land trust whose pollinator garden attracts a multitude of monarchs. I spoke to the woman who runs the land trust. She told me people were seeing them everywhere, so I wasn’t alone. I also have a friend who has some milkweed in his garden and he was finding caterpillars daily – up to 40 in one day. I had less, but enough, so I thought, until in mid – August mine began to disappear. At first I assumed chrysalids were forming. Then I discovered that caterpillars of all ages were being cut in two and left for dead on the leaves they had been eating. Next came some black insect I was unable to identify because after sucking the life out of the chrysalis or capsule that the caterpillar spun to transform; only a black oozing blob remained. This destructive predator pattern eventually divested almost all of the caterpillars on my milkweed. Chrysalids too. Researching Monarch predators in some depth I learned there were just too many, and it seemed that all of them lived here. Even the tiny caterpillars on my butterfly weed only lasted a day before vanishing. I re-visited the land trust and saw many caterpillars, some chrysalids and many adult monarchs, but also learned that some of their capsules weren’t hatching. It was hard to draw any conclusion from the crowds that floated over the masses of Mexican sunflowers. The magnificent abundance of pollinators in such a small area was not the norm for most. I didn’t know how inflated the monarch population might be as a …
(Interview) with Glenys Livingstone by Michelle Claire White: Seasonal Ritual in Southern Hemisphere

This interview was done for the Australian Pagan Awareness Network’s magazine The Small Tapestry, Winter (S.H.) 2014. Glenys Livingstone is a Goddesswoman who facilitates seasonal rituals at her home in the Blue Mountans at Bru-Na-BigTree in Springwood. Her book entitled PaGaian Cosmology: Reinventing earth based Goddess Religions is the fruit of her Ph.D. thesis completed at the University of Western Sydney: it offers a unique perspective of a naturalistic pagan that fuses the indigenous traditions of Europe with scientific theory, feminism and a deep poetic relationship with place. Together she and her partner Taffy Seaborne have created the Mooncourt as a sacred space for sharing sacred ceremony and exploring the triple Goddess as a metaphor for cosmic creativity. She is published author, blogger, workshop facilitator and active member of both the Pagan and Goddess Spirituality communities here in Australia.
(Short Story) Women’s Magic by Kaalii Cargill

Older than the oldest story, a dream rode on the back of the wind, seeking a dreamer. Born in another land – in another time – the dream was in no hurry. It sought a dreamer who carried a particular mix of grief and longing, vulnerability and courage. Millennia passed. The dream travelled from the Old World to the New, carrying an echo of magic and mystery. # In a city in the New World, a modern city with skyscrapers and suburbs, parks and jogging tracks, a man lay sleeping. Jonathon Wiley, a self-declared agnostic, was not expecting dispensation or grace. Life had dealt with him harshly, and he took solace where he could. Sleep, he had found, was the greatest balm of all. The Moon rose over the rooftops of the city, and the dream floated gently down into Jonathon’s sleep. Jonathon stirred, throwing off the bedclothes. He called aloud for Sandra, and she disappeared around yet another corner . . . . . . He found himself walking in a long, winding tunnel. It was so cold his breath hovered in puffs of cloud, and his testes retracted into the warmth of his body. Someone was playing music sweet enough to charm wild beasts, coax tress and rocks to dance, stop the flow of rivers. Jonathon looked in wonder as a man appeared, playing a lyre. Behind him came a woman, dark and beautiful, achingly like his Sandra. The music faltered. The man turned, reaching for the woman. Jonathon watched in horror as the woman began to fade, like an old photograph too long in the light. She stretched her hands towards the man, but a stronger force pulled her away, back to the place between the worlds. With a cry, the man threw himself after her. The lyre sang a single, mournful note as it fell. Still caught in the dream, Jonathon wept. He cried for the man’s loss – and for his own – and for the music that had plucked at his heart with exquisite, unbearable longing. Most of all, he wept because the woman’s face had been Sandra’s, fine-boned like an angel’s. The dream faded, and Jonathon stirred uneasily in his sleep, arms searching for something. His hands closed on emptiness. A chant echoed across his garden. “Everything She touches changes. She changes everything She touches.” The chanting reached into the treetops, disturbing the leafy play of possums, interrupting the dreamless sleep of doves. “Everything She touches changes. She changes everything She touches.” Women’s voices, strong and clear, filled the night, stealing into the quiet, well-appointed houses on Jonathon’s street. Carried on the breeze, the chanting blew in through Jonathon’s window, pulling him all the way back from the in-between place where he was following Sandra’s long, black hair and gamine smile. He did not want to wake; awake, Sandra was dead. He opened his eyes. It was still dark, although moonlight played across his face like warm fingers. Jonathon stood and moved to the window, unsure whether the voices were coming from outside, or were an echo of his dream. There below, in the garden across the fence, black-robed figures walked slowly through the trees. Jonathon blinked and rubbed his eyes. The Moon shone full and bright on the black hoods covering the heads of the women below. Jonathon knew they were women because of their voices. He had no idea who they were, or who lived in the house nestled at the back of the huge garden next door. He used to be curious about neighbours and other things, but that had been when Sandra was there. With a heavy sigh, Jonathon thought that Sandra would probably have befriended whoever lived in the old house and been down there howling at the Moon, or whatever the women were doing in the garden. He opened the balcony door and stepped out into the night. Below him, the black-robed women entered a cleared space between the trees, forming a circle around a single candle in the centre. They faced outwards, towards the shadows of the trees. Jonathon shivered, a prickling on his skin as if her were being watched. He stepped back inside, and reached for a blanket; it suddenly seemed important to cover his nakedness. Below, the chanting stopped, leaving a resonance in the air. The night waited. Jonathon, compelled by something he couldn’t quite name, walked downstairs and out the back door. Heat pulsed through his body, and he felt a stirring of arousal, the first in a long time. His head spun as if he had been drinking red wine all night, but he hadn’t touched alcohol since . . . . . . “Slow down, Jon. It’s so wet!” Sandra’s voice was tight, a residue of their talk over dinner; a special dinner for their anniversary – expensive food, too much wine, and the inevitable conversation about children. “Do you want to drive?” asked Jonathon through clenched teeth. “I’m just asking you to be careful,” said Sandra in the reasonable way she spoke to toddlers, old people, and recalcitrant men. “I’m always careful,” said Jonathon, as the car ahead began to slide across the road. Jonathon braked. With a stomach-rolling lurch, their car skidded sideways, slipping and sliding on the wet road. Hands locked on the steering wheel, Jonathon tried to manage the skid. Just when he thought he had it under control, the car jumped sideways and snaked towards a light pole. Sandra screamed. Jonathon’s senses returned to a strange silence. For a moment he thought he was waking from a night of drinking and partying, but then he remembered. In the passenger seat, Sandra was very still. As always, the flashback left Jonathon sweating and shaking. He forced himself to breathe and to open his eyes. He found himself half-way across the back yard clad only in a blanket. “Bloody sleep walking now!” he muttered as he turned back towards the house. Then the chanting started again. “Everything …
(Dual-language essay 1 German) „Planetares Bewusstsein“ – was ist das? Nachruf auf Rosalie Bertell von Claudia von Werlhof

The English language version of this essay is scheduled to be published tomorrow. Rosalie Bertell ist tot. Sie starb im Alter von 83 Jahren an einem Krebsleiden am 14.6.2012 friedlich im Ordenshaus der „Grauen Nonnen vom Heiligen Herzen“ in Pennsylvania, USA, denen sie fast ihr ganzes Leben lang angehört hatte. Ihr Ende kam ein halbes Jahr nach Erscheinen ihres Buches in deutscher Sprache. Ich bin sehr froh darüber, dass sie es noch erleben konnte. Es hat ihr so viel daran gelegen. Solange es möglich war, stand ich in permanentem Kontakt zu Rosalie Bertell. Zuletzt diskutierten wir vor allem die Katastrophe von Fukushima, die auch aus ihrer Sicht merkwürdig verlaufen war. Denn nach ihren Berechnungen hatte sich das Erdbeben gerade nicht in einer tektonisch dafür infrage kommenden Spalte im Pazifik ereignet, wie immer behauptet wurde, sondern in einer Gegend, die in diesem Sinne völlig neutral war. Und sie hatte große Sorgen wegen der langfristigen Auswirkungen, war dies doch jahrzehntelang ihr Thema gewesen, für dessen Behandlung sie 1986 den Alternativen Nobelpreis erhalten hatte (Keine akute Gefahr? Die radioaktive Verseuchung der Erde, 1987). Allerdings hatte sie die ungeheuren Ausmaße der neuen Katastrophe noch nicht erkannt (cf. www.pbme-online.org, 6th Information-Letter: Fukushima and We, June 2012. No hay versión espanola). Eine Frage, die sie nicht mehr beantworten konnte, drehte sich um das von ihr mit Aufmerksamkeit verfolgte Phänomen des Abtauens in Teilen der Antarktis, dem Südpol. Denn da der Nordpol, die Arktis, nach ihren Recherchen so rapide abtaut(e), weil er seit Mitte der 70er Jahre seitens der Sowjetunion wie den USA mit elektromagnetischen ELF-Wellen beschickt wird, wie in ihrem Buch nachzulesen ist, musste für ein ähnliches Phänomen am Südpol ein anderer Grund vorliegen. Denn eins war für sie klar: nicht einfach das CO2 kann für den Klimawandel bzw. die Erwärmung bestimmter Gebiete, wie eben der Arktis, verantwortlich gemacht werden, wie wir es seit Al Gore´s Zeit seiner Präsidentschaftskandidatur in den USA überall auf der Welt von der Politik und der Wissenschaft, ja sogar den sog. Alternativ- und Ökologiebewegungen hören. Das CO2 sammelt sich nämlich in den Luftschichten der Troposphäre, während die Erwärmung in der viel höher gelegenen Ionosphäre stattfindet. Und dort arbeiten die militärischen Anlagen, die mit elektromagnetischen Wellen die Ionosphäre untersuchen, mit ihr durch Aufheizung experimentieren und dabei Naturkatastrophen auslösen können – wie wir es seit Jahrzehnten wissen (s. der Versuch der UNO, mit der ENMOD Konvention von bereits 1977 die militärische Anwendung solcher Technologien zu verbieten). Vielleicht ist ja im Falle der Antarktis der Grund kein ober-, sondern unterirdischer: nicht die künstliche Erwärmung der Luft, sondern die des Meerwassers der Ozeane… Hier hörte unser Austausch auf. Es war Anfang Juni. Was hätte sie wohl zu den anderen Katastrophen gesagt, die seitdem andauernd stattfinden, großen Erdbeben überall auf der Welt, Stürmen wie „Sandy“ kurz vor den US-Wahlen und Vulkanausbrüchen wie im November in Neuseeland? Wie hätte sie gearbeitet, um herauszufinden, was echte und was vielleicht keine echten Naturkatastrophen waren? Denn eins ist nach ihrem Buch klar: Heute kann niemand mehr davon ausgehen, dass die vermehrt stattfindenden und zunehmend großen Natur-Katastrophen einfach alle natürlichen Ursprungs sind…
(Tribute 3) My Loving Father (7/31/1935-10/10/2020) by Helen Hye-Sook Hwang, Ph.D.

Bomun Sanseong (Mountain stronghold), photo by Helen Hye-Sook Hwang Death does not take away the dead from the living. The death of a beloved causes a pain of separation for the living, triggering the ontological wound from being born into this (patriarchally inflicted) world. Our mourning for the death of our beloveds is real because we are part of the dead. Love transforms everything. Mourning is a gift of grace from the deceased. The dead embraces the living in the way that the living can’t do. My deceased father works miracles for his beloveds. He is finally free to show his love in a tangible manner. He is solid in his love for all. And he has made himself a guardian for his beloveds. I see and revere the legacy of a Korean Magoist male identity in him. I can tell my story. I flew to S. Korea to visit my mother second time this year because I wanted to support her when she was deeply grieving for my father. My belated visit earlier this year, due to the Covid pandemic, to my father’s grave made me realize that I needed to show my love for my mother before it was too late to do so. My grieving for my deceased father yielded to the sensitivity that I felt that my mother needed love and care. She was affected the most by his death. And the sensitivity that I had was his care for her to be implemented by me, I see now. Love flows in reciprocity. My mother and I had a lovely time together, while we both are grieving for him. It was a cosmic womb time for both of us (my mother and me), made possible by the love of my deceased father whom we love dearly. It was very special that I spent time with my mother alone for 3 weeks in her apartment, in fact for the first time in our adult lives. We both were deeply touched from our time together. As the purpose of my trip was to spend time with her, I did not make any other appointments but decided on focusing on our time together. Under the jet lag, I struggled a bit to be attentive for the first two weeks. Then, the third last week was amazing. Magic happened. It was a time, which felt like I was in her womb. Or we both were in the Womb of the Creatrix, Mago! It was a womb time for both of us. She wanted to take care of me (she used to say that she could not feed me well or dress well as much as she wished to when I was small) so I accepted that. If something made her happy and if she wanted to do something, I did not interrupt her. I was well fed (to the degree that I kept apologizing for her services in the beginning). We cooked together and talked and talked. We watched TV together and I listened to her stories of making new friends with neighboring women. She allowed me to go and carry on my writing task daily. She minimized her social activities to be with me (she usually does that). My brothers were genuinely good to my mother and me. They took us to their homes and entertained us. When the three of us, her children, were with her in my younger brother’s vacation house, my mother was so thrilled like a little girl. It was her time with her three children alone after my father transited two years ago. She did not stop laughing and smiling. In fact, throughout my three-week’s stay with her, her excitement was felt in her voice. It was clear that she felt loved and appreciated by her three children! And we went to my father’s grave. He received a 2 years anniversary ceremony from my family two months ago in October. Whenever my mother went to his grave, her grief became overwhelming. She wailed so much so that I could not release my own grief (see my tribute 2 to my father). Thus, I had not broached my wish to visit his grave to anyone until I had a chance to tell my youngest brother who happened to treat us in his home toward the end of my visit. I desperately needed one of my brothers to take us to the graveyard because no public transportation was available to this huge mountain cemetery park. It was a cold day when my youngest brother took us to his grave. My heart was getting clogged with tears. This time, to my surprise, my mother came to the grave but did not wish to stay longer because it was too cold, she said. Deep sorrow did not take up her heart this time! My conflict melted away. That allowed me to cry loudly as I wished. No one else was there. I told my brother to allow me to cry out alone. And he agreed. I had a good cry out alone. I wanted to stay longer but left the site to join my mother. It was important that I did not trigger her deep sorrow. My youngest brother gently hugged me and we walked to the car. I could not believe that my father was not there when I visited Korea. It is conventional that one mourns for the loss of a parent for three years for Koreans in old days. I comforted myself that I still have one more year to grieve for him, while appreciating his life to us and the world. One thing my mother and I refrained from talking about this time was my father/her spouse. I had been concerned in April when I visited her that she was grieving too much. So this time, I was cautious not to trigger her deep grief. Her health would be at stake, if she continued to be in such an intensive state of emotion. So my father was a pink elephant in the house that we pretended that we did not see, so to speak. That was …

(Special Post 2) Why Goddess Feminism, Activism, or Spirituality? A Collective Writing

[Editor’s Note: This was first proposed in The Mago Circle, Facebook Group, on March 6, 2014. We have our voices together below and publish them in sequels. It is an ongoing project and we encourage our reader to join us! Submit yours today to Helen Hwang (magoism@gmail.com). Or visit and contact someone in Return to Mago’s Partner Organizations.] Harriet Ann Ellenberger I got involved with women’s liberation in the early 1970s, so involved that it became my life for many years. During those beginnings of what is now called “the second wave of feminism,” everything was new to us and everything was mushed together — the political, the economic, the intellectual, the emotional, the spiritual. I liked that a lot; it felt as if all the parts of myself were coming together. During that time, I learned something crucial the imagery and concepts of patriarchal religion justify and are embedded in the material structures of oppression. I don’t know which came first, institutionalized oppression (of everyone; I’m not speaking here only of women) or the religious expression of that oppression. All I’m certain of is that patriarchal religion permeates, for example, the Oxford English Dictionary, which I use all the time, in conjunction with Websters’ First New Intergalactic Wickedary of the English Language, conjured by Mary Daly in cahoots with Jane Caputi.
(Special post) The Goddess Inanna: Her Allies and Opponents by Hearth Moon Rising

Inanna’s Descent to the Underworld is one of the most fascinating myths ever told. Not just because it is profound and enlightening, although it is certainly that. It’s an exciting journey that ignites the imagination, and female characters are at the hub of the action. This is a tale of power: power that is demanded, power that is won, power that is appropriated, and power that cannot be escaped. The story follows the fertility goddess Inanna, who brought civilization to Mesopotamia, as she seeks to expand her realm by venturing into the world below. Inanna’s experiences in the great below, her escape, and the wild events that unfold as a result of her caper are the focus of the tale.
(Special Post 1) "The Oldest Civilization" and its Agendas by Mago Circle Members

[Editor’s Note: The following discussion took place in response to an article listed blow by the members of The Mago Cirlce, Facebook group of Goddessians/Magoists from May 6 to May 10, 2016. Readers are recommended to read the original article linked below that has invoked the converation.] “The Danube Civilization: Oldest in the World” in The Ancient Ones upon the ruins of our ancestors, published April 3, 2016.

(Essay) Conceiving, Imagining the New at Samhain by Glenys Livingstone Ph.D.

It is the Season of Samhain/Deep Autumn in the Southern Hemisphere at this time. In the PaGaian version of Samhain/Deep Autumn ceremony participants journey to the “Luminous World Egg” … a term taken from Starhawk in her book The Spiral Dance[i], where she also names that place as the “Shining Isle”, which is of course, the Seed of conception, a metaphor for the origins of all and/or the female egg: it is the place for rebirth. Artist: Bundeluk, Blue Mountains, Australia. The “luminous world egg” is a numinous place within, the MotherStar of conception: that is, a place of unfolding/becoming. The journey to this numinous place within requires first a journey back, through some of each one’s transformations, however each may wish to name those transformations at this time. The transformations for each and every being are infinite in their number, for there is “nothing we have not been” as has been told by Celts and others of Old, and also by Western science in the evolutionary story (a story told so well by evolutionary biologist Elisabet Sahtouris, particularly in her video Journey of a Silica Atom.) Ceremonial participants may choose selves from biological, present historical self, or may choose selves from the mythic with whom they feel connection; from any lineage – biological or otherwise. Selves may also be chosen from Gaia’s evolutionary story – earlier creatures, winged or scaled ones … with whom one wishes to identify at this time. Each participant is praised for their “becoming” for each self they share. When all have completed these journeys/stories of transformation, the circle is lauded dramatically by the celebrant for their courage to transform; and she likens them all to Gaia Herself who has made such transitions for eons. The celebrant awards each with a gingerbread snake, “Gaian totems of life renewed”[ii]. gingerbread snakes Participants sit and consume these gingerbread snakes in three parts: (i) as all the “old shapes” of self that were named; and (ii) remembering the ancestors, those whose lives have been harvested, whose lives have fed our own, remembering that we too are the ancestors, that we will be consumed; and (iii) remembering and consuming the stories of our world that they desire to change, the stories that fire their wrath or sympathy: in the consuming, absorbing them (as we do), each may transform them by thoughts and actions – “in our own bodyminds”. When all that is consumed “wasting no part”, it is said that “we are then free to radiate whatever we conceive”, to “exclaim the strongest natural fibre known” – our creative selves, “into such art, such architecture, as can house a world made sacred” by our building[iii]. This “natural fibre” is a reference to the spider’s thread from within her own body, with which she weaves her web, her home; and Spider has frequently been felt in indigenous cultures around the globe as Weaver and Creator of the Cosmos. Spider the Creatrix, North America, C. 1300 C.E., Hallie Iglehart Austen, The Heart of the Goddess, p.13 In the ceremony, participants linked with a thread that they weave around the circle, may sail together for a new world “across the vast sunless sea between endings and beginnings, across the Womb of magic and transformation, to the “Not-Yet” who beckons”[iv]: to the Luminous World Egg whereupon the new may be conceived and dreamed up. Samhain/Deep Autumn ceremony is an excellent place for co-creating ourselves, for imaginingthe More that we may become, and wish to become. This is where creation and co-creation happens … in the Womb of Space[v], in which we are immersed – at all times: and Samhain is a good season for feeling it. References: Livingstone, Glenys. PaGaian Cosmology: Re-inventing Earth-based Goddess Religion. NE: iUniverse, 2005 Sahtouris, Elisabet. Earthdance: Living Systems in Evolution. Lincoln NE:iUniversity Press, 2000. Starhawk, The Spiral Dance: A Rebirth of the Ancient Religion of the Great Goddess. NY: Harper and Row, 1999. Swimme, Brian. The Earth’s Imagination.DVD series 1998. NOTES: [i]p.210 [ii]a version of this Samhain script is offered in Chapter 7 PaGaian Cosmology [iii]These quoted phrases are from Robin Morgan, “The Network of the Imaginary Mother”, in Lady of the Beasts, p.84. This poem is a core inspiration of the ceremony. [iv]“Not-Yet” is a term used by Brian Swimme, The Earth’s Imagination, video 8 “The Surprise of Cosmogenesis”. [v]note that creation does not happen at the point of some god’s index finger, as imagined in the Sistine Chapel – what a takeover that is!
(Poetry & Photo Essay) Pongal by Susan Hawthorne

I am a secularist rather than a ritualist, but I can’t help but be drawn into the celebrations that people make when they honour the passing of the seasons. Even as a child I felt the disconnect between Christmas and the hot dusty days of summer. When Christians invaded and colonised Australia they brought their holidays but did not consider changing the dates to match the seasons. I was in India recently, invited as a speaker at the Hindu Lit For Life Festival in Chennai where I had lived ten years ago. The last day of the festival was the first day of Pongal. A friend, feminist economist Devaki Jain, who had grown up in Chennai eighty years earlier invited me to join her in a car ride to see Pongal celebrations in the streets. This is a Tamil festival dating back at least a thousand years, a sun festival, welcoming the next six months of the sun’s journey, also a harvest festival. During this time many women produce beautiful drawings, known as kolam. In my book Cow I wrote a poem about kolam which I think says more than I can explain here. what she says about kolam where they are drawn and when is all important early morning is auspicious it sets the shape of the day the hard ground is cleaned points of white grain sprinkled she works quickly she knows her design for the day runs the powdered grain from point to point it is a mandala a yantra a sign so the forces of the universe align themselves with her intentions Back to Pongal. The festival goes for four days. On the first day, which is called Bhogi, people are on the streets with the fruits of harvest, piles of tumeric and stacks of sugar cane tied in bunches. My friend, Devaki, bought flowers to take back to her room in the hotel. The second day, called Thai Pongal, I was invited to a harvest lunch at the house of my friend Mangai who is a playwright, theatre director and human rights activist. The word ‘pongal’ means ‘boiling over’ or’ overflow’ and I saw this in the cooking of the sweetened rice dish into which each of the twelve people present poured some water and milk as it almost overflowed the pot. This sweet rice dish was added to the collection of other dishes on the table. I cannot tell you what they were, but the meal was delicious. After lunch everyone relaxed, someone sang, we talked and caught up on news. The third day, is called Maatu Pongal, and cattle are at the centre of celebrations on that day. I don’t know if this line up of cattle had anything to do with the day’s celebration but there they were tied up alongside a very busy main road. These were not cows and I did not see any cows with decorated horns and flowers on their heads. on that day as I have on other occasions. On the fourth day, Kaanum Pongal, things begin to wind down. One of my co-speakers at the festival said she would be visiting family members on that day. The kolams are drawn again, sugar cane is consumed and people go back to their daily lives. What I liked about being in Tamil Nadu during the Pongal festival is that it felt absolutely right. The time of the year, the connection with harvest, so I did not feel the discomfort I so often feel in the midst of the out-of-season commercialised holidays as they are celebrated in Australia. Susan Hawthorne’s book Cow is available worldwide from distributors in USA, Canada, UK, from all the usual online retailers or from Spinifex Press. http://www.spinifexpress.com.au/Bookstore/book/id=215/ © Susan Hawthorne, 2019 (Meet Mago Contributor) Susan Hawthorne.
(Photography & Poetry) Thoughts of Spring by Deanne Quarrie

Spring At the highest point on the tree, you stretch, reaching for the sun. Your pink petals elegant in their grace, you stand alone. Bravest of all, for leaves have yet to come to offer shade Branches bare except for furry buds that will soon follow in imitation of your daring first move. Intrepid flower of Spring, I feel like you in my yearning for the Sun!
(Mago Almanac Excerpt 3) Introducing the Magoist Calendar by Helen Hye-Sook Hwang

Mago Almanac: 13 Month 28 Day Calendar (Book A) Free PDF available at Mago Bookstore. MAPPING THE MAGOIST CALENDAR According to the Budoji, the Magoist Calendar was fully implemented and advocated during the period of Old Joseon (ca. 2333 BCE-ca. 232 BCE) whose civilization is known as Budo (Emblem City). Indeed, the Magoist Calendar is referred to as the Budo Calendar in the Budoji. Budo was founded to succeed Sinsi and reignited Sinsi’s innovations including the numerological and musicological thealogy of the Nine Mago Creatrix. The Budoji expounds on the Magoist Calendar as follows: The Way of Heaven circles to generate Jongsi (a cyclic period, an ending and a beginning). Jongsi circles to generate another Jongsi of four Jongsi. One cycle of jongsi is called Soryeok (Little Calendar). Jongsi of Jongsi is called Jungryeok (Medium Calendar). Jongsi of four Jongsis is called Daeryeok (Large Calendar). A cycle of Little Calendar is called Sa (year). One Sa has thirteen Gi (months). One Gi has twenty-eight Il (days). Twenty-eight Il are divided by four Yo (weeks). One Yo has seven Il. A cycle of one Yo is called Bok (completion of a week). One Sa (year) has fifty-two Yobok. That makes 364 Il. This is of Seongsu (Natural Number) 1, 4, 7. Each Sa includes a Dan of the big Sa. A Dan is equal to one day. That adds up to 365 days. At the half point after the third Sa, there is a Pan of the big Sak (the year of the great dark moon). A pan comes at a half point of Sa. This is of Beopsu (Lawful Number) 2, 5, 8. A Pan is equal to a day. Therefore, the fourth Sa has 366 days. At the half point after the tenth Sa, there is a Gu of the big Hoe (Eve of the first day of the month). Gu is the root of time. Three hundred Gu makes one Myo. With Myo, we can sense Gu. A lapse of 9,633 Myo-Gak-Bun-Si makes one day. This is of Chesu (Physical Number), 3, 6, 9. By and by, the encircling time charts Medium Calendar and Large Calendar to evince the principle of numerology.[12] KEY TERMS Calendric Cycles Jongsi (終是 Ending and Beginning): Cyclic periods Soryeok (小曆 Little Calendar): One year Jungryeok (中曆 Medium Calendar): Two years Daeryeok (大曆 Large Calendar): Four years Names of Year, Month, Day, Week Sa (祀 Rituals, year): One year refers to the time that takes to complete the cycle of rituals. Gi (期 Periods, month): One month refers to the period of the moon and menstruation cycle. Il (日Sun, day): One day refers to the sun’s movement due to Earth’s rotation. Yo (曜 Resplendence of seven celestial bodies, Sun, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn, week): Each weekday is dedicated to seven celestial bodies. Bok or Yobok (曜服 Duties of the Celestial Bodies, completion of a week): One week refers to the veneration of the seven celestial bodies. Names of Monthly Transition Days Hoe (晦 Eve of the first day of the month, 28th) Sak (朔 First day of the month, 1st, the dark moon) Names of Intercalation Days Dan (旦 Morning): Leap day for New Year Pan (昄 Big): Leap day for every fourth year Names of Time Units Gu (晷 sun’s shadow): Time measure, 1/300 Myo Myo (眇 minuscule): Time measure, a total of 300 Gu Myo-Gak-Bun-Si (眇刻分時 minuscule, possibly 15-minutes, minute, hour): Time measure, 9,633 Myo-Gak-Bun-Si is equal to a day Names of Three Types of Numbers in Nine Numerology Seongsu (性數Natural Number): 1, 4, 7 in the digital root Beopsu (法數 Lawful Number): 2, 5, 8 in the digital root Chesu (體數 Physical Number): 3, 6, 9 in the digital root THREE SUB-CALENDARS The Way of Heaven circles to generate Jongsi (a period, an ending and a beginning). Jongsi circles to generate another Jongsi of four Jongsi. One cycle of jongsi is called Soryeok (Little Calendar). Jongsi of Jongsi is called Jungryeok (Medium Calendar). Jongsi of four Jongsis is called Daeryeok (Large Calendar). The universe is infinite without beginning and ending. Everything runs the course of self-equilibration in relation to everything else. The Way of Heaven or the Way of the Creatrix circles and makes possible the infinite time/space to be measured and calculated. As the Way of Heaven circles, we are able to perceive Our Universe in finite measures of time/space. Time becomes measurable, as space is stabilized. Seasons and days-nights are demarcated in cyclic patterns, as the Earth makes the three cyclic movements of rotation, revolution, and precession. Calendar, born out of the inter-cosmic time, synchronizes human culture with the song/dance of the universe. The term Jongsi, which means an ending and a beginning, is equivalent to “a cyclic period” that is marked by the beginning and the end. Time (a day, a month, and a year) circles, as space (the Earth, the Moon, and the Sun) spirals. The Magoist Calendar has three sub-calendars: The period of one yearly cycle is called Little Calendar, whereas the period of two yearly cycles is called Medium Calendar and the period of four yearly cycles, Large Calendar. To be continued. (Meet Mago Contributor, Helen Hye-Sook Hwang) Notes [12] Budoji, Chapter 23. See Bak Jesang, the Budoji, Bak Geum scrib., Eunsu Kim, trans. (Seoul: Gana Chulpansa, 1986).
Lammas – the Sacred Consuming by Glenys Livingstone Ph.D.

Lammas, the first seasonal transition after Summer Solstice, may be summarised as the Season that marks and celebrates the Sacred Consuming, the Harvest of Life. Many indigenous cultures recognised the grain itself as Mother … Corn Mother being one of those images – She who feeds the community, the world, with Her own body: the Corn, the grain, the food, the bread, is Her body. She the Corn Mother, or any other grain Mother, was/is the original sacrifice … no need for extraordinary heroics: it is the nature of Her being. She is sacrificed, consumed, to make the people whole with Her body (as the word “sacrifice” means “to make whole”). She gives Herself in Her fullness to feed the people …. the original Communion. In cultures that preceded agriculture or were perhaps pastoral – hunted or bred animals for food – this cross-quarter day may not have been celebrated, or perhaps it may have been marked in some other way. Yet even in our times when many are not in relationship with the harvest of food directly, we may still be in relationship with our place: Sun and Earth and Moon still do their dance wherever you are, and are indeed the Ground of one’s being here … a good reason to pay attention and homage, and maybe as a result, and in the process, get the essence of one’s life in order. One does not need to go anywhere to make this pilgrimage … simply Place one’s self. The seasonal transition of Lammas may offer that in particular, being a “moment of grace” – as Thomas Berry has named the seasonal transitions, when the dark part of the day begins to grow longer, as the cloak of darkness slowly envelopes the days again: it is timely to reflect on the Dark Cosmos in Whom we are, from Whom we arise and to Whom we return – and upon that moment when like Corn Mother we give ourselves over. This reflection is good, will serve a person and all – to live fully, as well as simply to be who we are: this dark realm of manifesting is the core of who we are. And what difference might such reflection make to our world – personal and collective – to live in this relationship with where we are, and thus who we are. We all are the grain that is harvested and all are Her harvest … perhaps one may use a different metaphor: the truth that may be reflected upon at this seasonal moment after the peaking of Sun’s light at Summer Solstice and the wind down into Autumn, is that everything passes, all fades away … even our Sun shall pass. All is consumed. So What are we part of? (I write it with a capital because surely it is a sacred entity) And how might we participate creatively? We are Food – whether we like it or not … Lammas is a good time to get with the Creative plot, though many find it the most difficult, or focus on more exoteric celebration. May we be interesting food[i]. We are holy Communion, like Corn Mother. Meet Mago Contributor Glenys Livingstone NOTES: [i] This is an expression of cosmologist Brian Swimme in Canticle to the Cosmos DVD series.
(Video) An Autumn Equinox Ceremony by Glenys Livingstone Ph.D.

Autumn Equinox/Mabon Northern Hemisphere – September 21-23 Southern Hemisphere – March 21-23 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lRJNY1LSvIs&t=1175s …oOo… The purpose of this video is for ceremony, and I suggest pausing the video where it suits you, to add your own processing, embellishments and/or your own drum, percussion and voice wherever you please. I have made short spaces in the video where it could be paused. The script for this Autumn Equinox/Mabon ceremony is offered in Chapter 11 of my book A Poiesis of the Creative Cosmos: Celebrating Her within PaGaian Sacred Ceremony, with all acknowledgements and references there. In particular I mention here, credit for the story of Demeter and Persephone as told by Charlene Spretnak in her book Lost Goddesses of Early Greece. For more full participation in the ceremony, you could have one or more stalks of wheat or native grain tied with a red thread/ribbon, a garden pot with soil, a small garden trowel, a flower bulb (daffodil type), food and drink, that may represent your “harvest” – ready for eating and drinking. The elements of Water, Fire, Earth and Air on the altar in this video are placed in directions that are appropriate to my region in the Southern Hemisphere, and East Coast Australia: you may place yours differently, and transliterate when I mention the direction (which I do minimally). The images used are a collage of footage and photos from the 2024 Autumn Equinox ceremony at my place in Wakka Wakka country, South East Queensland Australia, and from previous Autumn Equinox ceremonies I facilitated over the decades in MoonCourt, Goddess ceremonial space in NSW Australia, Darug and Gundungurra country. My partner Robert (Taffy) Seaborne who has participated in all the Seasonal ceremonies since Samhain 2000, adds his voice to this video. Image credits: Demeter and Persephone (500 B.C.E. Greece). Hallie Iglehart Austen, The Heart of the Goddess, p.72. Art of Demeter and Persephone on MoonCourt wall: Cernak Herself Music credit: “Gentle Sorrow” by Sky: which he has previously allowed me to use in my work. This piece of music is also used in the Autumn Equinox meditation on my PaGaian Cosmology Meditations published 2015.

(Essay 2 Part 1) Why Do I Love Korean Historical Dramas? by Anna Tzanova

Part 1 Fans, journalists, critics, and academia in multiple fields have studied this world phenomenon; have written blogs, articles, books; and presented in conferences, dissecting, and making predictions. Still, the magic and mystery of its success persists to be as thrilling as ever. This is the way I see it: DELIGHTING THE SENSES
(Mago Almanac Basics 1) What is the Magoist Calendar? by Helen Hye-Sook Hwang

[Author’s Note: I have created 13 basics of Mago Almanac, which are included in Mago Almanac Planner for Personal Journey: 13 Month 28 Day Calendar (Volume 6), Year 6 or 5920 MAGOMA ERA (Equivalent to 2023 CE). These 13 basics constitute the backbone of Magoist Cetaceanism as well.] It is a 13 month 28 day luni-menstrual-solar calendar of Old Magoist Korea. Insofar as one year marks about 365.25 days, a time taken for the earth to revolve around the sun, it is a solar calendar. The fact that both the moon and the female menstruation cycle mark 28 days, which makes 13 months or 364 days for one year. This makes approximately 1.25 a surplus. Thus, we have days outside the calendar grid. Each year has one extra day on the day before the New Year’s day. The New Year of Year 1 or 5915 Magoma Era was set on the new moon date before Winter Solstice in 2018 by the Gregorian Calendar. With one extra day, the year makes 365 days. Given that the actual period of the Earth’s revolution is approximately 365.25 days, we have the second extra day every fourth year. Setting aside the extra days, we have 364 days for one year. 364 days divided by 28 days is 13. That is how we have 13 months in a year. The Magoist Calendar championing the matricentric worldview is the very indication that our Mother Earth is stabilized in her own voyages. https://www.magobooks.com/update-on-mago-books/mago-almanac-13-month-28-day-calendar-book-a/ https://www.magoism.net/2013/07/meet-mago-contributor-helen-hwang/
(Essay 1) How Did I Fall In Love with Korean Historical Drama? by Anna Tzanova, M.A.

Go to online class, Korean Historical Dramas. “To become a kairomancer¹, you need to learn to trust your feelings as you walk the roads of this world, to develop your personal science of shivers, to recognize in your gut and your skin and in free-floating impressions that you know far more than you hold on the surface of consciousness. You need to take care of your poetic health, reading what rhymes in a day or a season. You want to expect the unexpected, to make friends with surprises, and never miss that special moment.” ~ Robert Moss² After a year and a half of work without a day off; driving 100-150 miles every other day; writing past midnight every night; at the end of July 2011, overwhelmed by fatigue, I finally decided to take a weekend off. Little did I know, that time off would last over seven months, during which I would not only change my job, but also acquire a new passion.