#the theoi are all around you if you stop and listen

[nothoughtsgayboy]

I hear Hermes in the noise of a train when it stops in front of my platform.

I hear Apollo in the loud bass line in a song.

I hear Poseidon in the snorting of horses as they go past a car.

I hear Dionysus in the laughter coming from the bars.

I hear Ares in the noises of pride parades and protests.

[dionysianfreak]

hi lovely ^__^ love your blog and dionysus altar. i definitely feel a strong pull to dionysus but im not really sure how to reach out and talk to him (im not super great with visualizing things via meditation) any tips would be appreciated !! 🍷🍇

hello sunshine ! 🌻 thank you so much, I really appreciate your kind words. I'm glad that you feel drawn to Dionysos, He's such a wonderful Deity to start a relationship with.

the simplest way to make contact is to simply begin worship or devoting time towards familiarizing yourself with Him. this looks different for many people, so you could:

build your own shrine/altar, physical or digital. i like to think of shrines as building a new room in your home for the Deity to exist in. this is because shrines are sacred spaces between you and Them, just like the living room is sacred between members of a household. it is where you come together for important events or simply just to be together

listen to the world around you. in the woods, if possible simply because I personally feel very in tune with Him in nature. even sitting in your yard would be good. the point is the become aware of the world. watch people go by. what colors are the cars ? how many different bird songs do you hear ? i believe Dionysos is the Bliss of awareness, so be aware of your slice of the world.

divination is ol' reliable. my personal favorite are tarot, shuffling music, and bibliomancy:

tarot is straightforward but takes a lot of practice. to this day I still have to reference my card meanings and it's been 4 years since I started using tarot.

with bibliomancy, I simply sit with whatever book I want and I'll close my eyes and shuffle though the pages gently until my hand stops (usually from me getting distracted) or I stop it myself. the first paragraph I lay eyes on is the one I read.

finally, for shufflemancy I prefer to close my eyes and randomly generate a number on Google. I use that number as the amount of times I hit shuffle, and the song that appears is the answer. i encourage you to make your own rituals for divination, but these are simple starting points

meditation is an option mainly because it isn't about visualization. meditation is about being present and tuning out the external in favor or the internal. it takes many months/years, but you can slowly train yourself to calm your inner voice enough to allow it to speak for itself. I use meditation to simply feel the Theoi, feel my room, and feel the universe. to be present in the moment I am in, as it's the only moment that truly exists then

this is all I can think of for now, but please feel free to add on if anyone reading has some more <3

for you movedd, all you need to do in order to worship is dedicate time, mental or physical. communication is nice, but I find the Gods reward us, without communication, in ways we would never have asked for if we could speak

[therkalexander]

The Good Counselor: Chapter 9

Book Three in the Hades and Persephone series. Seventy years have passed since Elysion was created, and Persephone's efforts to conceive a child with Hades have been in vain. But a secret rite on Samothrace might bend the Fates and give her all that they have dreamed of, or pave a path of untold suffering.

Chapter 9

He knew better than to speak with them before the first full moon of winter. He had only to recall his first visit to remind himself why. Even if a message from Olympus meant for Hades were urgent, he would always beg it off for at least a week.

Hermes sat in Charon’s boat, tapping his foot on the bracing, smoothing the golden feathers of his winged sandals, and trying to avoid eye contact with the dark cloaked shade of an old woman who sat opposite him.

“My husband sacrificed a ram to you,” she said suddenly.

Hermes started, then remembered that she hadn’t yet drunk from the Lethe. Though a shade, she wasn’t yet part of Asphodel. He could hear her. She was scowling at him. “What, to me?”

“He wanted to sell sheep across the water, to the Thracians. I told him not to go into business, but no… did Stavros listen to me? No!”

“What happened?”

“You don’t know?!”

“Uh…”

“The fool, I knew it! I told Stavros you wouldn’t listen to his prayers! ‘I know sheep, not trade, Agathe, but trust the gods , because I gave Hermes a whole ram , Agathe!’ Foolish pious man he was…”

“That’s enough,” Charon hissed.

The shade cowered and fell silent, but pursed her lips and glowered at Hermes until the boat scraped against the opposite shore.

“Welcome home,” Charon said to her and pointed his oar beyond the ghostly reeds at the poplar shaded stone pathway. “The Trivium is that way. Go to the spring beside it and wait. You are to be judged by Rhadamanthys.”

The woman gathered up her skirts and plodded along the path, disappearing from view. Charon pushed off and shook his head. Hermes shrugged. “What?”

“With all your infamous wiles and trickery,” the Boatman said, “could you have at least lied to her?”

“And tell her what?!”

“Nothing comes to you? There was a bad star, a storm of the ages, or the evil eye struck, or any one of the many Olympian excuses. Or even that yes , you’d listened, but no, there was nothing that could have been done.”

“There are too many offerings… how could I have known their circumstances?”

“ You guide the wayward dead back here. Speak to them and find out. Or lie vaguely, if you prefer. It comes to you easily enough.”

Hermes scowled and slouched back, crossing his legs. The palace gates came into view at the end of a short path bordered with tall stalks of asphodel. Charon stilled his boat and Hermes debated whether or not to have the last word.

“What is your purpose here, Psychopompos?”

“Your King summoned me today. And since I was on the way, I also bear a message from our Queen to yours.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s a good thing that Hera wants to befriend her. Good for everyone. Persephone is the only child of Zeus she’s ever been kind to, so can you please, please do your part to not ruin it?”

The Boatman didn’t reply.

“Not for me, but for her.” Hermes leapt into the air, thankful to be on the other side of the Styx. Ever since the fateful day he had appeared before Hades and Persephone at the command of Zeus to return her to Demeter, he had carefully abided by Persephone’s edict that he not cross the Styx except by Charon’s boat. It was ploddingly slow, made worse by the shades that often made the journey alongside him, and worse still by the unpredictability of Charon’s temperament— he never knew whether Charon would be gratingly dour, or spend the entire trip needling him.

The air was dank and chill, but he could feel the spray from the falls beside the palace on his face and it was refreshing after the stifling stillness of the Styx. He raced upward, torchlight guiding him to the throne room. He could hear Persephone’s voice inside.

“…on the full moon exactly between the first of Spring and the Solstice.”

“The seeds have already burst and reached into the soil by that season. Petals have fallen and the fruits have begun to pull on the branch. The weave of this is strange—”

Hecate whipped around as Hermes alighted on the balcony. He stumbled back.

“Oh it’s… you… It’s almost the— I suppose it’s the last quarter moon, isn’t it?”

Persephone made her way back to her throne and sat down, folding her hands in her lap as Hecate shuffled closer to the Messenger, toying with him.

She extended a bony finger. “The long-toothed wolf makes the pup yelp, eh?”

“There are old gods above, too. But they’re ageless, and, well, you are too, but… I normally see you when you’re…”

“When I look to have more pounce than prowl?”

“Well, yes.”

“Cross the still waters more, whelp, and the boatman’s call might lead you to a wiser world. But if the withered wolf makes your tail tuck away, I mark that the pawns of Olympus have no heart for the splendor and shades of Chthonia.”

Persephone sat up. “What brings you here, Hermes?”

Hecate slid into the shadows, the crows feet around her eyes deepening as Hermes picked at a fingernail. He bowed to one knee and held a scroll aloft. “A letter. From the Queen of Heaven.”

Persephone stood and extended her hand. Hermes stepped onto the dias and handed her the papyrus, the seal marked with the eye of a peacock feather. She broke it and started unrolling the scroll, then stopped. Hermes stood waiting. “My husband summoned you, no? He’s below, in the courtyard.”

Hermes shifted. “Oh. Yes.”

No wayward gossip for you, Persephone thought. When Hermes was out of sight she walked to the desk and unfurled the missive.

Hecate hobbled closer. “Queen of Heaven, says the nipper at heels. A crown of twigs that lays claim to the forest of the cosmos…”

“Likely not self applied.”

“We can hope that the crow but wears the peacock’s feathers. What says the consort of the sky god?”

Persephone scanned the words. They weren’t in Greek, or Theoi, but in the hieroglyphs of far off Aegyptus. She wrinkled her brow. What reason did Hera have to encrypt a letter? Persephone had only learned that language a quarter century ago, and had yet to master the spoken tongue.

My dear sister Queen,

I hope this finds you well. Your absence has produced a dreadful series of storms that has blanketed Thessaly in a lovely frost, but lost several ships near Crete, or so Poseidon tells me.

No matter. I look forward to your return and what we spoke of before your departure. Every passing day with my husband and his infernal sons convinces me that your ways below the earth should be reflected above. I don’t want to speak of this on Olympus. There are too many eyes and ears here. Perhaps in your realm, if you would be so kind. I know you have much faith in your people.

I cannot leave now. There are matters I need to see through. And you are often busy in the Spring, but perhaps Summer might be a better season for us to visit Elysion together.

Please write soon.

All regards,

H.

“The serpent asks the sparrow to nest on the ground,” Hecate rasped.

“Why do you say that?”

“She knows well that the Pact of the Pomegranate binds you to the fields when the sun soars highest, yet asks you to walk with her into these sunless halls while the fruits grow above.”

“I’m sure it’s completely innocent. When I spoke of the Agreement with her and Amphitrite, it seemed she hardly knew anything about it.”

Hecate thinned her lips. “The serpent smiling through a cloak of blue feathers is still a serpent.”

“I don’t trust her either, but she is trying to befriend me, and the last thing we need is to make an enemy of her. Besides,” Persephone said, reaching for a stylus. “If she is sincere, we could affect meaningful change in the world above. Wouldn’t you prefer that to mortal women being treated as little more than chattel, or your followers being stoned or exiled?”

Hecate clenched her jaw.

“She is clearly scared and alone.” Persephone held up the scroll.

“Serpent or worm, wolf or lapdog— be certain you know which beast you see. The Queen wore a thousand masks before you first saw your own reflection.”

“I’ll be cautious. But I’m not going to raise a wall between her and me.” She rolled the scroll until Hera’s words disappeared. She whittled the end of her papyrus reed to a sharp point and dipped it in the ink.

“What words will you send to the mountaintop?”

“The truth. That I’ve never returned to Chthonia in the spring or summer, in accordance with the Pomegranate Agreement, and I don’t ever intend to do so.”

***

“Hold,” Aidoneus said in the dream tribesman’s language. He stepped back and dug the pommel of his sword into his palm to stretch his tendons and relax his grip. As he clenched and unclenched his fingers around it, Aidon watched the deep wound on his forearm knit back together then disappear entirely.

Icelos Phobetor, chieftain of the Oneiroi, waited. His shape drifted from shimmer to shadow as he lowered his dagger and spear.

Aidon wiped the sweat off his brow. “You may enter, Psychopompos.”

Hermes dropped to a knee knelt at the entrance to the courtyard. When he stood, he looked up at Aidon, but his eyes were drawn to Icelos. Twice as tall as him, the shifting mass kept a roughly human figure, massive weapons suspended within hazy fists, cloudy muscles rippling. The color drained from Hermes’s face. “What… who…”

“He doesn’t speak Theoi. Don’t bother,” Aidoneus said, replacing his helm.

“What are you doing?”

“Practicing.”

“What for?!”

Aidoneus glowered at him through the eye slits. “Chthonia stands between your world as its former masters. Should the Titans ever escape Tartarus, I need to be ready. Stay where you are, Hermes.” He looked up at Icelos and spoke in the hollow tongue of the dreamworld. “Last time. Advance.”

Hermes winced, first at the unfamiliar words, then the clash of bronze. “It’s been forty thousand years, Aidoneus—”

“And if you want another forty thousand,” he said, grasping the spear to pull Icelos toward him and thrusting harmlessly into his immaterial form with a riposte, “I cannot afford to rest on my laurels.”

Icelos jerked his spear back and Aidoneus dodged aside. The heavy spearhead slid by him, a hair's width from his shoulder, and struck the cobblestones with a clang. His helm vanished and swallowed the rest of his armored form, and he silently rolled backwards. Icelos lunged and hacked at the ground around him with his knife, hitting nothing but stone. Hades waited. He trod silently, then leapt forward. Arm cocked, he reappeared and cleaved Icelos’s spear in half with a hard blow, then stood. “That’s enough for today. Thank you for your time, friend.”

Icelos silently bowed and vanished, taking the broken spear with him.

He inspected the nicked edge of his sword, then sheathed it, leaning the scabbard against the wall. He’d hone it later. Aidon removed his helm and sent it away through the ether. Hermes was shifting from foot to foot, agitated since the first clash of bronze. He was always on edge whenever Aidon wore his armor. They’d taken away his wife for half of each year, and each year passed quietly. Did the Messenger still fear that he would make war on Olympus?

Let them worry on that , Aidoneus thought, so they don’t think they can take anything else. Still, he couldn’t tolerate Hermes’s fidgeting. His armor melted and rippled into the more familiar shape of his black tunic and himation as they walked toward the courtyard gate.

“Your wife sent me to see you here. I was willing to wait in the throne room.”

“Given that you read her missives earlier this year, I don’t blame her for dismissing you. I have a task for you,” he said. “Come with me.”

Aidoneus walked quickly toward the grotto and the pool beyond. “Wait outside.”

Aidoneus knew Hermes wouldn’t move an inch into the room until he was under the water. The Messenger had seen enough for one lifetime when he’d barged in on him and Persephone.

Aidon removed his sandals, his himation and tunic, then his loincloth, and left them in a crisply folded pile on the divan. He pulled his hair free of the torc and dove head first into the water. He swam to the bottom, coming to rest cross legged. The rush, the darkness, the utter silence of the water was welcoming. A respite. Aidoneus opened his eyes with only black stillness to greet him. It was warmer at the bottom and he let the heat seep into his flesh and bones. He’d begun sparring with Icelos early in the morning, and should have gone most of the day. He hadn’t expected Hermes so soon, and his request of the Messenger would not be an easy one. Aidoneus knew that just one misplaced word or distracted thought would beget a torrent of gossip among the gods, and cause him and Persephone, and likely Demeter, endless problems. He rolled his neck, then slowly surfaced, his shoulders breaking the dark water. With a flick of his wrist, he lit the room, the torches illuminating the sapphire and diamond inlaid ceiling above. “You may enter.”

Hermes poked his head in the door and scanned the dim room, empty but for Aidoneus chest deep in dark water. He waited for Hermes to take stock of the room, then spoke.

“Who on Olympus would have a silver lyre?”

Hermes raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“It is a gift for a mortal.” The boy’s eyes widened and Aidon could see the wheels turning in his head. “It is not so grand a favor, Hermes. I allowed a mortal to use my own helm once.”

“Yes, but the Stygian nymphs were the ones who actually handed it to Perseus.”

Hades rolled his eyes, despite himself. “Of course they did. What living mortal in their right mind would cross the Styx, enter this palace, and meet face to face with the Lord of the Underworld to ask of him a favor?” Aidon slowed his tread under the water until only his head bobbed above the surface. Warm water crept up his neck, soothing him. “It’s beside the point. And before you ask, my reasons for this are my own.”

“I didn’t ask. I know you better than that.”

“You created the first lyre, no?”

“I did. But I traded it almost as soon as I made it.”

“For what?”

“A herd of cattle.”

Aidoneus stared at him, water dripping down his scalp.

“It was a joke. It’s a long story.”

“There must be more than one silver lyre on Olympus. Which of the Muses would have one? Calliope? Erato?”

“They do, but not the kind you’re looking for. The only silver lyre is Apollo’s.”

He exhaled and disappeared under the surface for a long moment then came back up. “Of all the gods to which you could have given it…”

“He doesn’t use that particular one often, but he does treasure it above all others. If I told you what Euterpe had to do just so she could touch—”

“I don’t want to know,” he said. “Turn, would you?”

Hermes complied, facing the wall. “Who is the lyre for?”

Aidoneus hoisted himself up out of the water and shook out his hair, then stood and wrapped his himation around his waist. “A hymnist named Orpheus, who lives on Samo—”

“Him?!” Hermes spun back around. “The one you said has been putting the gold scrolls in the mouths of the dead?”

“The same,” he answered, throwing the long end of the dark cloth loosely over his shoulder, careless of how it lay. It wouldn’t be on for long. Persephone was meeting him upstairs after this business was over.

“And here I’d guessed you’d ask Zeus for his life for that. Not grant him a gift!” Hermes rolled his tongue on the inside of his cheek. “Wait; isn’t he Apollo’s son ?”

“He is.”

Hermes laughed. “My lord, forgive me, but I thought you had an actual task for me. ‘Excuse me, Apollo, I need to borrow that magical lyre of yours and give it to your musically and poetically gifted son who composes hymns about you . You can have it back in thirty years or so when he’s dead.’ That is what you want?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure you can’t tell me wh—”

“No,” he said firmly. “All I need is discretion. Especially if you are going to Apollo. I don’t want him to know that it was at my behest.”

“He takes no issue with you.”

“You told me yourself that he is still… resentful… of how Aphrodite publicly humiliated him on Persephone’s behalf. It’s doubtful he would forgive that any time soon.”

Hermes nodded. “If anything he detests Aphrodite for it, not Persephone. Aphrodite and I— well, he has no quarrel with me, you know, and she and I… are…”

Aidon closed his eyes and massaged his temples with his fingertips. His voice dipped in register. “Is that why Ares has been making an absolute mess of Argolis for the past month?”

Hermes winced. “Possibly?”

“Your affair with her has created a season of headaches for us down here. It’s not just soldiers we’ve received. The city was ransacked. Women, Hermes. Children .”

“Take it up with Ares. I didn’t tell him to start a war.”

He sat down on the divan. It was always someone else’s fault with the Olympians. Any time he had asked after the causes of mortal suffering he’d been met with a chain of pointing fingers. It wasn’t even worth it to lecture the boy.

“It won’t be difficult, I promise. Apollo is my friend.”

“Just make sure.”

The Messenger paused for a moment and tilted his head, suspicious. “You’ve never, and I mean never engaged in intrigue, my lord. Why this?”

He tilted his head up and stared Hermes in the eye. “It has nothing to do with Olympus. I swear that to you on the Styx, Hermes. It concerns our own matters in Chthonia, only. And you’ll know the answer soon enough, if our efforts are successful.”

“Our?”

Damnation! Aidon could have kicked himself. The crack in the levy was already there. Best repair it before Hermes made any suppositions. “I want my wife’s name kept out of this, Psychopompos.”

Hermes stared at him, and Aidon knew that he was trying to divine the reason. The Trickster was wise with emotions. He could see around the slightest bluff, the quickest lie. Hermes relaxed. “Think nothing of it, Aidoneus. I’ll do it.”

“You have my gratitude.”

“Any messages for Zeus?”

“No. Likewise, I take it?”

Hermes shook his head.

“You may go. Charon will be along shortly.”

“Aidon… since I’m doing you this favor, is there any way you could reverse the decree and I could just… come and go the way I used to?”

“That decision is for the Queen alone,” Aidoneus said, smiling dryly.

Hermes opened his mouth to say something, then deflated. He bowed quickly and disappeared through the doorway.

“He will be as true as any whelp to a good master. ”

Aidoneus turned to see Hecate, standing on the surface of the pool, her aged reflection perfectly mirroring her in the still water.

“The pup’s yapping is not the sole storm in my mind. You are not only swimming against the river, you try to force it from its banks. These are not your ways. Or mine.”

“Have our ways given my wife a child?”

Hecate slowly walked toward the deck, the water undisturbed, then padded soundlessly across the limestone. “The words of the Fates—”

“Contradict themselves. You tell me that. They told me that Persephone and I would be as fruitful as the land of the dead, and they told herwe would have three children. So it is up to us, then. Just as it was our ordained actions that created Elysion.”

“The river forks ahead, Aidon. It spreads before the sea beyond. And too many tributaries flow into a whirlpool. Lives will be churned. Swallowed. I see agony. Suffering.”

“If I do not go to Samothrace, then we suffer the fate of never knowing if this was our one chance. I’m not about to let it slip through our fingers.”

“And so you sail with your queen. What of the other ships that sail alongside you?”

“It’s a fertility rite. Suppose the mortals have a poor harvest, as they did after our last efforts… Persephone and I can set it to rights before the first chill of winter. We would have months to do so.”

Hecate’s face fell. “The passing parts of seasons concern me little, Aidoneus. It is winters counted together as mere moments. It is the ripple that builds until it sends all ships to the deep.”

“I have faith in ananke, Hecate. I’m not abandoning what you taught me, or you, or what I believe. And the hymnist himself follows our ways. I feel, in my soul, that this is right. More so than anything we’ve tried before.”

She nodded, but her lips pursed as she looked up at him. “If this is your course, and if you sail with clear eyes and strong heart, who am I to stop you?”

* * * * * *

Sorry it was late today! So that's it! Thank you so much for reading the free preview of The Good Counselor. I’ll keep you up to date on the release, and any new developments with the show that will be based off my books, Pawns of Olympus.

[reaching-for-roses]

Rennaisance Fair with the Theoi

So yesterday I went to the rennaisance fair with my bf and we had a great time!

Before we went I made my usual pre-travel offering to Hermes of incense and pocket change. I prayed for him to look after us during our travels and invited him to join us in the festivities. I asked him if he would extend the invitation to any of the other theoi who would like to join.

So on the way there, my bf and I prayed that Zeus would keep the thunderstorms at bay, and Apollo would keep the day from being too awfully hot. We talked about what each deity would enjoy there and these were our conclusions:

In our experience Hermes just loves any kind of adventure. It's also a huge marketplace so it's basically in his wheelhouse anyway. He'd be high fiving all the kids dressed as rogues or thieves and looking after the competitions.

Papa Zeus would be making sure everything was in order, that proper xenia was being followed and everyone was safe and having a good time.

Dionysus would love the theatre of it. All those people dressed up and putting on a show. There is also plenty of drinking going on.

Hephaestus would like to see all the craftspeople at work. So many tents filled with awesome stuff that's made by hand. Including, of course, swords and other weaponry.

Ares would enjoy watching the jousts and sword fights. He'd be laughing at the knights in shining armor and all those unbloodied weapons. He'd be giving some kid advice on how to properly hold his sword and shield.

Athena would also like the competitions, and there's tents with books of Medieval history I think she'd get pretty excited about. The birds of prey show (with beautiful owls) would probably be a favorite of hers.

Persephone and Hera would most likely find all the hub-bub surrounding The Queen amusing.

Aphrodite and Persephone would probably think the fairies were adorable in their glittery makeup and flower crowns. And I think Aphrodite would want to smell all the handmade soaps and lotions.

I think Hestia would be happy to witness the camaraderie between friends and the togetherness of people out on a fun day with their family.

Apollo would be playing along with the musicians, encouraging people to drop coins in their cup.

Artemis would be carefully watching the archers, whispering tips in their ears. "Aim a little lower, my sweet. You won't hit the target the way you're doing it now."

When we came to Demeter, Poseidon and Hades we started to struggle a bit coming up with associations. We weren't sure what Demeter would like because neither of us have any experience with her. Perhaps she'd take pleasure in the pretty forest surroundings and the castle gardens, or the food court with all the yummy food.

The only thing I could think of for Poseidon is that he might like to see the people dressed as pirates singing sea shantys??

As for Hades, I wasn't sure what exactly he'd enjoy about the festivities. Maybe the tents filled with shiny crystals? Or the skulls and bones and animal furs used in various items? Maybe the necromancers dressed in full black robes with skull tipped staves.

Feel free to add your ideas, I'd love to hear them!

We had a lot of fun. On the way there we saw lots of vultures (Ares?) and a turtle/tortoise? Which sadly had been run over and was roadkill. We took it as a sign of Hermes' and Hades' presence.

We saw some shows, listened to musicians and comedians, watched the jousting and sword fighting, learned about birds of prey, admired craftsmanship, ate delicious food, bought souvenirs, played a game of avoid the fairies at all costs (because they WILL fuck with you), got our exercise in, threw some throwing stars (which my bf was pretty good at, but I suuuuucked at), and perhaps my favorite thing of the day.. tried archery for the first time.

I absolutely fell in love with it! At first I just couldn't get the hang of it, aiming way too high. I kept accidentally almost dropping the arrows. But then I swear I actually had a moment with Artemis. It was like I suddenly knew I needed to take a breath, trust my instincts (don't spend forever aiming and don't anxiously grip too tight) and let it go. So I just picked up the bow, nocked the arrow, let it fly and it went straight through the bullseye. I got a surge of confidence from that, and the next couple of shots were better.

I really have a newfound respect for Artemis after that experience. I can't imagine shooting while moving or hitting a moving target. But I really did develop an interest for it, and I think I will invest in some equipment and set up some targets in the field behind my house. I can dedicate my practice time to Artemis.

Oddly enough, on the way back home we saw a live turtle making his way slowly across the road so my bf quickly pulled over, motioned for traffic to stop or go around, and ran over to coach him to safety. He made it across without injury!

Pictured above are the gorgeous crystals we bought: smoky quartz, amethyst, clear quartz, and pyrite. I'm going to use them as the start of a small shrine for Hades and Persephone.

So anyways, comment with other ideas on what the gods would be doing at the renn fest, or if you have any archery tips for me!

[moodboardinthecloud]

We Are In The Underworld And We Haven’t Figured It Out Yet

https://medium.com/@schoolofmyth/we-are-in-the-underworld-and-we-havent-figured-it-out-yet-5d48d2c988aa 

As both a mythologist and wilderness rites-of-passage guide I am frequently asked to comment on climate change, collapsing stories, and what on earth to say to our kids about the future. I am no kind of pundit, so choose my words sparingly and carefully. What follows is a few thoughts.

***

The real horn being blown at this moment is one some of us simply cannot hear. Oh, we see — the endless television clips of crashing icebergs, emaciated polar bears, and a hand-wringing David Attenborough — but I don’t think we necessarily hear.

Climate change isn’t a case to be made, it’s a sound to be heard.

It’s really hearing something that brings the consequence with it — “I hear you.” We know that sensation, when it happens the whole world deepens. If we really heard what is happening around us it’s possible some of it may stop. From a mythic perspective, seeing is often a form of identifying, but hearing is the locating of a much more personal message. Hearing creates growing, uncomfortable discernment. Things get accountable.

I worry I have been looking but not hearing.

When I hear, I detect what is being disclosed specifically to me at this moment of shudderation and loss. What is being called forth? Whatever it is, I won’t likely appreciate it.

We remember that the greatest seers, the great storytellers, the greatest visionaries are so often blind. Listening is the thing.

In ancient Greece, if you needed wisdom greater than human you went to the market square of Pharae in Achaea and created libation for Hermes, god of communication, messages, storytelling. There stood a statue of the bearded god. After burning incense, lighting the oil lamp, and leaving coin on the right of the deity, you whispered your question in its ear. Once complete, you swiftly turned and left the sacred area with your hands over your ears. Once out, you removed your hands, and the very first words you heard were Hermes speaking back to you. You curated these insights into your heart, pondered and then acted on them.

You didn’t see Hermes, you heard Hermes. You listened.

It’s said that in ancient Greece the deaf were shunned through their supposed lack of capacity to hear the gods. That was considered dangerous.

Isn’t it interesting that the enquirer to Hermes kept their ears blocked till they were out of the market square, so as not to be assailed by idle, above-world chatter and think it divine? I wonder if we may be asking the question to Hermes but removing our hands too early.

As a storyteller I have noticed when an audience is profoundly absorbing the import of a story, they close their eyes to do so. It deepens the encounter. Anyway, onto my main thought:

I think we are in the Underworld and haven’t figured it out yet. Both inside and outside us.

The strange thing about the Underworld is that it can look an awful lot like this one. It’s not situated in those esoteric graphs and spiritual maps we study, it’s situated as a lived experience.

I recently saw a mist suddenly descend on my garden, it just rolled in out of nowhere. Everything changed, just like that. Very quickly all appeared different: no shrubs, no apple trees, it was a foreign landscape. The dead felt usefully closer, the silence deeper. In just a moment, the Underworld seemed present, as an atmosphere rather than concept, a tangible, seasonal shift not a distant idea.

This world can be Otherworld, Underworld, heavenly, hellish and all points in between. It can still be Arcadia, Camelot, Eden almost. That’s why it’s confusing. We still get to go on holiday, drink wine, watch beautiful sunsets. We still pay insurance and kids still go to college. But there is something happening. An unravelling. A collapsing, both tacit and immense in scale.

We are frightened and we do not know what will happen next.

And into that fraught zone drifts quite naturally the Underworld. This is not the dayworld, this is the nightworld we are entering. It’s not a mistake or aberration, it is fitting with the times.

But we are still using dayworld words. This is why so little works.

When we move into Underworld time, mythically the first thing to go is often the lights. This is a shadowed or even pitch-black zone of encounter. Nothing is how it seems on the surface of things. We have to get good with our ears. So to repeat, our eyes alert us to the wider situation, but it’s our ears that alert us to the personal, the particular, the micro in the macro. This tends to be when the heart is alerted.

And there’s just more of the Underworld about. Its tactile, tangible attributes. We have Penthos (Grief),Curae (Anxiety) and Phobus (Fear), those gatekeepers of the place roving ever more readily amongst us. Either chronic or acute, acknowledged or not, they are present at our table. So what happens when the underneath, the chthonic, the shadowed material starts to become more and more visible in our lives?

We start to fess up.

The Underworld is a place where we admit our red right hand. We give up the apotropaic.

An apotropaic act is when you ritually ward off evil. When you claim innocence unduly you are attempting a similar, unseemly act. Keeping your hands clean. So we could entertain our own hypocrisies for a while. That would be suitably sobering. When we start to remove the scaffold of smoke and mirrors propping up our lives, what is left? That is part of an Underworld etiquette.

I also have to say something deeply unfashionable: it is not relentless self-absorption that makes us realise our interior mess is directly mirrored outside ourselves. That’s not vanity, that’s attention. It’s not hubris, it’s horrifying clarity. If you don’t attend to your soul’s vitality with intent, then suppressed it’ll run you ragged. They are not above catastrophe to get your attention.

Soul seems more dangerous to talk about than sex, violence, death or money these days.

As many nerve endings as there are in a body, are the messages attempting to issue forth between place, animal and person in regards to climate change. I think we should forget the rest and attend to ours. Staggering spiritual repair is called for. It is not just those bad white men in power that did this. We all did.

I believe something will crawl back out of the Underworld. It will. It always does. But it may not be us.

The Underworld chews up soundbites, gnaws on the feeble marrow of platitude, pummels certainty or sweeping predictions into the greasy darkness of the cave to gobble later.

The Underworld speaks out of both sides of its mouth.

So being that’s where I think we are, I suggest we should develop a little etiquette. Hold a little paradox, to speak out of both sides of our mouths.

In the Underworld, even a spirit takes on more than one form.

In Roman such spirits were called — di manes, or in Greek — theoi cthonioi. One being can have several bodies, all communicating things a little different. The one fixed position erupts into the polyphonic many. A stuck position, a one sided position, is child’s play where we’re headed.

So with those standpoints vivid in mind, I’m going to ask us to hold two, seemingly contrary positions at the same time. That we could deepen into both.

1. Stop Saying That The Earth Is Doomed

You may be doomed, I may be doomed, the earth not so much.

And anyway, do you have any idea how offensive that is to the gods? To any amount of offended magics? Especially to your children? To the perpetual and ongoing miraculous? In the Underworld, such grand protestations reveal a lack of subtlety. Even hubris.

And who are we, with our unique divinatory access, that we seem to have information withheld from everything else in all time and space. And now, now we are suddenly cleaving to the “facts” of the matter? Facts don’t have the story. They have no grease to the wheel, they are often moribund, awkward clumps of information that can actually conceal truth, not promote it.

I’m not even asking for hope or despair, I’m suggesting responsiveness to wonder. To entertain possibility. And to deepen.

Cut out the titillation of extinction unless we are really are prepared to be appropriately stupefied with loss. To stop trafficking in it just to mainline a little temporary deep feeling into our veins as we post the latest Ted Talk on social media. It doesn’t mean it’s not true, doesn’t mean that rivers, deserts and ice floes don’t daily communicate their flogged and exhausted missive, but there’s an odd twisted eroticism, a Western Thanatos that always comes with excessive privilege. And let’s be clear, most of us reading this are excessively privileged. I think some of us are getting off on this. That it-all-will-end assists some poignancy to a life deprived of useful hardships. Not ever knowing appropriate sacrifice is not a victory, it’s a sedative.

But when we prematurely claim doom we have walked out of the movie fifteen minutes early, and we posit dominion over the miraculous. We could weave our grief to something more powerful than that. Possibility.

Let the buck stop with you. Where is your self-esteem if you claim the world is doomed with you still kicking in it? How can that be? What are you, chopped liver? Is that really your last word on that matter? I’m not suggesting a Hercules complex land on your shoulders, but if ever you longed for a call to action this is the moment. And, at the very same time:

2. Approaching The Truth That Things End

Dancing on the very same spear tip, we accept our very human response to things ending. We don’t like it. We loathe it. The good stuff at least. Though it is a historical inevitability, a biological place-holder, could we start to explore the thought that earth may appropriately proceed without us? Without our frantically curated shape? Could our footprints become pollen that swirl up for a moment and then are gone? I’m not suggesting we are anything but pulverised with sorrow with the realisation, and our part in its hastening, but I persist.

I’m offering no spiritual platitudes, no lofty overview, but for once we stop our wrestle with god and feel deeply into the wreckage of appropriate endings.

That even, or especially such catastrophic loss requires the most exquisite display for the love we did not know how deeply we loved till we knew it was leaving.

I think even to operate for a second in the Underworld without being annihilated we have to operate from both wonder and grief, at absolutely the same time. One does not cancel the other out, it is the very tension of the love-tangle that makes us, possibly, a true human being.

Notice I said approaching, not accepting the truth that things end. That’s to swift a move, too fraudulent, too counterfeit, too plastic. Approaching is devastation enough.

This terrible, noble counterweight is what we are getting taught. But it doesn’t end there.

There in that very contrariness something gets forged: something that is neither-this-nor-that, a deepening, the blue feather in the magpie’s tale, the Hermian move to excruciating brilliance through the torment of paradox, the leap of dark consciousness that we, in the name of culture, are being asked to make. The thunderbolt that simultaneously destroys and creates.

These are grand turns of phrase I’m using but I don’t apologise. You’ve been in love once or twice, you know what I’m banging on about.

I once heard that to become a sovereign of Ireland you had to attach a chariot to two wild horses. One would lurch one way, one the other. You revealed your spiritual maturity and general readiness for the task by so harnessing the tension of both that a third way forward revealed itself. The holy strain of both impulses created the royal road to Tara. A road that a culture could process down. I’m talking about something like that. That’s Underworld character.

And such sovereigns were not defined by what they ransacked, what they conquered, but how they regulated their desire, how they attended to the woes and ambitions of their steeds for a third way to reveal itself. Under great pressure and with immense skill.

The nightworld is where we are. I say it. I say it till we may hear it.

And in that darkness, we remember what we love the most.

That itself is the candle.

Copyright Martin Shaw 2019

Martin Shaw is a writer, mythologist and teacher. Having led the Oral Tradition and Living Myth courses at Stanford University, Dr Shaw leads the Westcountry school of myth in the UK. An award winning author, recent books include The Night Wages, Wolf Milk, Courting the Dawn:Poems of Lorca, and a conversation and essay on Ai WeiWei, Myth in Real Time.

www.drmartinshaw.com

www.cistamystica.com

www.schoolofmyth.com