The Gleewoman's Notes
Time 2021-10-26 18:06:30Web Name: The Gleewoman's Notes
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keywords: description:What follows is the full introduction to a brand new book of mine called Our Lady of the Dark Country, a collection of my short stories, poems and a novella about powerful women, about the deep feminine, about Earth's magic. I am deeply happy to set it before you in this slow, dark, nourishing root of the year like an egg set in a quiet pool, for you to take in deep as starlight in this winter season. Something is shifting deep below the surface of things; the ancient ways of snake and woman are rising. This is a women-made book. My friend and the amazing designer at Heyday, Ashley Ingram, laid the book out for me as a freelance project. The artwork of Catherine Sieck and Nomi McLeod is featured within. And the cover painting is by none other than Rima Staines, a wild madonna-sibyl that she painted for our collaboration on the latest Dark Mountain volume.
This book is an opening and a rooting. May it serve you well.
*For US orders-- buy a copyhere, or at any online bookseller, or request through your local shop! *
*For UK orders-- buy a copy from the Hedgespoken shop here! *
Introduction to Our Lady of the Dark Country
Women of America, of Europe,women of my blood and mothers of my ancestors, women of all the lands of thisEarth: the words in this book are needles. Thread them where they need to go:through your body, through your life, into the ground as roots. They have comefrom a true place in me, from the place where forgotten stories have beenburied, and I give them to you in these pages gladly.
We have come to an epistemiccrossroads, a crisis of the real. I will not be able to win an argument withan archaeologist, an academic, a business man, or possibly even an old friend,by trying to state facts about the indigenous feminine traditions of Europe,about the Neolithic, about the work of Marija Gimbutas, about war, about peace,about menstruation, about sexuality, about freedom, about truth, about theheart, about the reality of magic, because facts have become a slippery thingand it seems that these days what matters is who fears what, and who gainswhat, and not What Is True. A fact is not What Is True. A fact is only an arrowthat points toward who has the power and what story they want to tell.
A dozen times a week,sometimes a day, I want to write angry essays, immaculate in articulation andbombproof in argument, essays that are swords, cutting through two thousandyears of tyrannical, imperialistic, misogynistic, life-denying narrativestheones that are presently calling climate change a pagan notion, the ones thatallow big oil and big gun lobbies to persist even in the face of the deadliestpublic mass shootings in history and a planet on the brink of devastating environmentalchaos, the ones that enable the exploitation of just about everything andeverybody remotely exploitable and objectifiablebut if I write angry essayslike I am beginning to do here I will be dismissed by many as an angryfeminist. Hysterical. Its just her womb talking.
Well, actually, it is, andIm proud to say it. Im bleeding today. My womb is shedding like a snake. Itis windy outside and just started to rain, loud and sweet on the roof. It isdusk. Theres a cake of quince, saffron and almond flour baking in the oven,and wood pigeons roosting in the bay trees, and I am indeed an angry womanwriting but it is time, women of my blood, women of America, women of this Earth,that we were not ashamed. That we no longer believed anybody who told us ourbodies and the wisdom of our bodies was not true. It is time we were proud and notembarrassed to say I am bleeding today. It used to be that a woman bleedingwas sought for what she knew, for what she thought, because she was closest tosomething bigger. A moon, a tide. It is time we started at the verysnake-center of our bodies and saw again the birthright of our strength, ourpower, and of a knowing that is older and vaster by far than thelife-destroying cultural story we are currently living in.
You dont have to know allthe details about what happened, and who did what, and whythe series of BronzeAge invasions from the Russian steppe, the rise of the Roman Empire and afanatical Christian state, the Inquisition and witch burning times, the colonizationof the New World and onwardand how all of it is still embedded in thelegacies we enact today, to feel what is beneath, in the dark country of ourbodies, out of sight. All you have to do is begin at the center of yourself andlisten. Earths language and the language of the living world will speakdirectly to you there, and tell you What Is True, from that wellspring whichhas long been associated with the womb (if you have a female body), and thecenter of yourself and your lifeforce (if you have a male body).
I want to pause here andmake it clear that this book, though deeply feminine, is not only for women butfor men too, and everyone between, around, above, below and sideways from thosegender designations. I want to make sure you know I am not disparaging the malegender here as such, but only an aggressive manifestation of itcalled patriarchy.There is little good in hate, and especially something so silly as the hate ofan entire gender. Over-simplification, as my good husband often says, is rarelyuseful. And I have been blessed in my life with strong, caring examples ofmasculinity. I am married to a wonderful, respectful man. I was raised by awonderful father, with a wonderful brother, kind and protective uncles, twoloving grandfathers, and am now blessed to have a generous and good-heartedfather-in-law and two brothers-in-law I am proud to call my family. Some of mymost cherished teachers have been men, and some of my loveliest friends.
The violent objectificationinherent in extreme patriarchy affects men as much as it does women.Differently, but terribly too. As I heard Lyla June Johnston (the Diné and Tsétsêhéstâhesepoet, musician and activist) say in an interview last spring, the witch huntsdamaged the men of Europe as much as the women. The witch hunts broke them too,for there is no faster way to destroy a mans spirit (besides enslaving him orsending him to the trenches of a senseless war) than to take away and kill thewomen he lovesmother, wife, daughter, sisterand leave him with the horrificbelief that it was his fault, that he didnt do enough, that he could have donemore. That he failed them. So while this book may appeal more to those whoidentify as women, it is not only for women. I write these words for all, incelebration of what the feminine might look like untrammeled and in balancewith the masculinein the past, in the present, and in the future.
I believe we are walkingaround with the witch trials still burning in our blood, and it is time to turnand look. There are lies still branded in our culture and the story of what itmeans to be a woman in the West, put there by the ancestral memory of breastripper and hot rod and iron maiden and shackle and pyre, put there by forcedmarriage and forced silence, corset and shame. No manner of rhetoric would saveyou if the men of the Inquisition wanted you dead, even when you confessed to amythology made entirely by them. Satan and the Devil do not belong to witchesor to women, but to the life-denying story that says: to be born of a womansbody is to be soiled. This is our original sin, they say. You must spend yourwhole life atoning, paving your path to elsewhere, away from Earth. To be awoman who practiced the old indigenous ways of Europe, who knew her power andthe power of earthfast stone and holy spring, bird and knot and hare and womb,a woman who was a priest in her own right, a doctor, a seerthis was to be adirect threat to male Christian power. Some women were carried to trial inbaskets, so their feet wouldnt touch the ground, because the men feared thatthey would get power from the Earth that way.
But the worst part of it allis that the Inquisition worked so well it not only killed hundreds of thousandsof women, but actually erased the truth of the witch and her (or his)indigenous roots from the old land of Europe. Erased them right out of thefield of history. It is only very recently that this narrative is beingamended. The story of the witch replaced the reality of the witch and we areleft in its ashes still, alternately scoffing at the notion that a witch wasever a real person, or caricaturing her as a terrible old woman with warts whodeserved to be killed by a young hero because she put babies in her oven andate them.
Imagine if we spoke of theHolocaust with a snickerwell, I mean, Jewish people werent real, it was just a mistaken hysteria, and thats over now, dontbe silly. And then we dressed up like them for Halloween to scare each other,and to laugh. Dont be fantastical,witches were never real anyway, and if you want to talk about it, about womensoldest knowing and a time when we were not objects under the hands of morepowerful men, well, thats some weird goddess shit, go ahead, suit yourself, butyou will immediately be written off and shoved into a womens studies departmentor the occult shelf. Meanwhile the rest will go on calling the real thingHistory and not mens studies, starting with the earliest so-called real civilization,Mesopotamia, and the old Epic of Gilgamesh in which a man clearcuts a forestand builds a city, or the Enuma Elish, in which the newer gods kill the oldergods, including the dragon-creatrix Tiamat, using her body to make the world. This is how you do it, this is how you builda civilization, see? they tell us. But if you read between the lines andinto the more marginalized texts (the ones called Womens Studies, forexample) you might begin to suspect that to be built upon the carcass of dragonmight be a metaphor for the overhaul of an older mythology by a violent,patriarchal onethe conquest of a peaceable, fecund, matrilineal agrarianculture that had been flourishing for the previous five thousand years or sowithout trouble or resource depletion.
Dont get me wrong. I spenda lot of time in the bookstore in the Womens Studies section. I make a beelinestraight for the mythology shelf and the science fiction and fantasy wing. Deeplyintelligent, important things are being written and published and placed inthese sections, and I feel most at home among them. Here be dragons. But I think theres something inherently troublingabout the way this genrefication of both fiction and historical studies createsa hierarchy that looks a whole lot like the hierarchies of the Roman Empire,the Christian state, the US government, the workplace, and in many cases thehome, whatever we say about feminism.
The eminent Lithuanian archaeologistMarija Gimbutas provides a fascinating, and to me very frustrating, case study.After enjoying great esteem among her male colleagues for many years of work onBronze Age Proto-Indo-European culture in the 1950s and 60s, she began topoint out that there were an awful lot of female-shaped figurines in theancient substratum of sites across southern, eastern, and central Europe longbefore said Indo-Europeans arrived. She went on to suggest, based on decades ofstudy not only of ancient Neolithic cultures but also the folklore of easternEurope, that they might have had religious value, possibly as representativesof goddesses in a matrilineal clan culture. She noticed what she thought weremany small temples and a remarkable lack of weaponry or ornate burial moundswith kings in them, having dug most of the sites herself and read the reportsfor the rest in one of the eleven languages she was fluent in and her malecolleagues were not. As if this wasnt apparently bad enough (using the wordgoddess and matriarchy seems to immediately make the academic community uncomfortable)women who werent academics got excited about her work in the 1970s becausethey felt she was uncovering at last a feminine heritage that was empowering, anew narrative that honored womens bodies, womens ways, and returned to them amillennia-long tradition of goddess worship across the ancient western world.
As far as many of Gimbutascolleagues were concerned, this was the equivalent of digging her own scholarlygrave and burying her academic reputation alive, although her work was no lessthorough, thoughtful, or well-researched than before. But she had begun toadopt a more interdisciplinary approach, weaving in her knowledge of folkloreand linguistics to interpret the figurines she was uncovering, and probably abit of imagination and intuition too. A more feminine way, maybe, but still foundedupon thirty years of study and thought.
Id be curious to know ifthe reaction would have been the same had she noted a remarkable number of malefigurines, and suggested the worship of predominantly male gods. I have littledoubt that there would have been no academic outcry. But a goddess is a verydifferent thing than a god. Today, her work is much beloved among feminists andgoddess followers, but generally dismissed by the academic community, and whilewe can laugh it off as a big loss to them, I think its actually quitechilling. An essay by a man whod clearly not read all of Gimbutas work andcertainly hadnt thought very much about it is the only one included in the bestcontemporary volume on Old European culture. In his piece he dismisses all of Gimbutasconclusions with a writerly sneer and says not much of anything else besidesthat they might have been sex objects, pornographic in some way, maybe dolls ormaybe just female bodies but, come onpeopleyou can feel his sarcasm between the lineslets not be ridiculous here, lets not be fanciful, sacred? Religious?Wide-hipped female figurines with possible snake heads, how could they besacred or religiously important in any significant way? Lets not get worked upabout this, thats just what the women want them to be and they cant be rightbecause, well
And here we come at last tothe terrible crux of the problem, and my diatribe. They cannot be goddesseswith central significance to the cultures they were found buried withinbecausebecause
Its subconscious at thispoint, deeply so. You can see the trend. Why should we be so outrageouslyembarrassed when a woman suggests matrilineal goddess-worship that we wont evenconsider it a real possibility?
Because it upsets the entirenarrative of academia, of progress, of what we think we mean when we saycivilization.
Because it takes us straightback to the woman beneath the apple tree speaking to the snake in the garden. Whatevershe knew, whatever the snake was telling her, theyve been trying to silencefor at least the last two thousand years. And weve been trying to silence herin ourselves.
But I think something ischanging now. I see it in the news, and it I feel it in the air, and in thecenter of myself, and in the ground.
Women and men of heart,Earths snakes are speaking. It is time we listen for the truth they tell usthrough the centers of ourselves. Women and men of heart, we make a spiralaround this planet. It is time to tell the old stories that have damaged usdifferently. To go beneath what weve been told and into the dark country, intothe Earth, where the other side of those stories is hidden, the truth that wascarried all along in the roots of the trees despite thousands of years of war.
In this book I offer storiesof that place, from the dark country that was never truly conquered orsecondary, no matter what they told us. The place that was always thebeginning, the center, the root. The place the snakes and dragons went whenthey had been called monster, and evil, and finally just a fantasy, one toomany times.
The rain is falling hardernow. The bishop pines roar with wind. Soon the owls will be calling. The housesmells of quince and almond cake.
Come in. There are doorways,very near, that the dragons will walk through if we listen, and thread, andhave the courage to stand up in our bodies and call them home.
SYLVIA V. LINSTEADT
The Bishop Pinewood
55 comments: Labels:feminism,goddess,Old Europe,Our Lady of the Dark Country,Rima Staines,the divine feminine Thursday, November 2, 2017 The Autumnhouse
A field vole(c) Barrie H. Kelly
Vole, who lives at the root of an old fallen pine, knows the way in.
Her doorway is humble and easy to miss, but if you leave marigolds, or the last gold leaves of the buckeye, or the first acorn, at the root of a snag, she will most likely appear, plump with the last of summer's seeds, black-eyed, and kind. She will show you that the doorway is just here, through the hole in the rootplace of the tree which she uses regularly but which is also suddenly a smooth-carved, rounded door made of pine, with a bronze knob made of the bronze of ancient women who long ago tempered it among the embers of your blood, and now Vole is a plump, kind-eyed woman in a great tawny-furred shawl, opening that door for you, holding out a hand of welcome, gesturing you through.
Inside, you are in a root, hollowed and smoothed and snug, a house that smells of ancient resins and fresh humus, nuts roasting, woodsmoke. There are windows, odd and random, glimpses of the afternoon's long gold light, the slantwise shade of rich sky blue, a buckeye heavy with shining nuts. The fire is new in the round-bellied hearth. Hazelnuts roast on top, and an earthenware bowl within, bubbling scents of corn and bean and sage and a hundred savory roots, a thousand. Only a Vole-woman knows how many. In the center of the round root room is a cushion woven thick of green and brown and yellow wool, and beside it a table made of a polished branch where all manner of wooden birds are perched. The woman settles back onto that cushion, taking a thin, sharp knife and a bit of wood from her belt. She begins to whittle and carve, singing high whistled vole songs that are almost too strange for your ears to follow.
Varied thrush are coming, coming, coming through the night. Varied thrush are winging, winging, winging with the light. She chants as she carves. Pleiades are rising, varied thrush are flying, Scorpion has gone, Scorpion has gone.As she carves and sings, the root is no longer a snug house but a deep rush of sky and star and feathers. It is the inside of a thrush-breast, speckled as night, pulsing with a compass magnet and a map so old the stars sing to it like the singing vole. There the earth calls south, south. The stars have changed to gloaming. There is a place the thrush knows and flies toward, right into the window of the autumn house, guided by a thousand thousand ancestors. For the briefest moment the thrush flies right into your handsa big songbird, orange and bluegray in painted swathes, with a song of two tones in one note that opens you up sidelong and brings the acorns swelling everywhere in the trees, and every ghost in your blood released to feast at last among them, welcomed home.
The Enclosed Garden, by Meinrad Craighead
Vole-woman stops singing. The house is only a root again, warm and safe. The hazelnuts have roasted. She places the wooden thrush she's carved in a window that peeks out onto a different forest where the stags are wild-antlered, big-chested, weaving after the long-necked and prancing does. Then she hands you a nut, hot and crisp and oily, the papery husk of it flaking into your hands. As you eat it, there is a sound around you like the rustle of falling leavesbuckeye, bigleaf maple, curls of madrone bark, old pine needles. It's a skin, vaguely shaped like you but also like a snake. Vole-woman scoops it up in a deft hand and throws it into the fire as you eat more nuts and listen to the thrushes as they arrive, singing autumn in to roost.5 comments: Labels:autumn,buckeye,hazelnut,magic,samhain,The Autumnhouse,The Winterhouse,varied thrush,vole Older PostsHomeSubscribe to:Posts (Atom)The Gleewoman's Notes
Welcome to the weblog of writer, artist and naturalist Sylvia Victor Linsteadt, author of Tatterdemalion (Unbound, 2017), The Lost Worlds of the Bay Area (Heyday, 2017), The Wonderments of the East Bay (Heyday, 2014), and creatrix of all stories associated with Wild Talewort. For Sylvia's official website and a full listing of her work, classes and events, follow the link below!
A Note About the Name: "Gleeman" is the Old English word for a minstrel or a bard, the wandering, wild-hemmed sort who ambled from town to town with stories and songs in his pockets to share in exchange for bed and food and wine. The "glee" part of the word originally meant entertainment and mirth inspired by music, connected to the Old Norse gly for joy, which had its feet in the words for shining, smooth and radiant. I've taken some liberties with the word, feminizing it in a way that makes sense to me. So here you will find my notes and musings about words, tales, old myths, plants, animals, stones, skies, languages, human cultures, new dreams, handcraftsall the stuff of old minstrel tales and how we might re-story our relationship to this fraught and beautiful world through old ways and old magics.
Sylvia's Offical Website
My Debut Novel!
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Archive 2018(1) January(1)Our Lady of the Dark Country 2017(9) November(1) October(2) July(1) June(1) May(1) March(1) February(1) January(1) 2016(16) December(2) November(1) October(2) September(1) July(2) June(2) May(1) April(2) February(2) January(1) 2015(17) December(1) November(1) September(1) July(2) June(2) May(2) April(2) March(3) February(3) 2014(34) December(1) November(3) October(1) September(2) August(7) July(2) June(4) May(4) April(4) March(2) February(1) January(3) 2013(45) December(2) November(3) October(4) September(2) August(5) July(5) June(6) May(4) April(3) March(5) February(2) January(4) 2012(40) December(4) November(4) October(6) September(4) August(4) July(5) June(7) May(6)Pick A Word...A Feral PalmistryA Green LanguageAbbotts Lagoonacornacorn woodpeckeracupunctureadventurealamedaAlamere FallsAlan GarneralderalmanacalpineAmbataliaamerican badgerancestryAndesanemonesangiospermsangora rabbitsanimal processinganimal trackinganimismanthropoceneanthropogenic landscapesantiquesantlerApothecarys CabinetarchaeologyarchetypesArctic Circleartartist conkAsia SuleraspenAthenaAudubonautumnBaba Yagabald eaglebardbare feetbasketsbavarian cough syrupbay areaBay Area Puma Projectbay laurelBeatrice and the Mail Truckbee hivesBelgum SanitariumBellBeltaneBeneath Ceaseless SkiesBetsy Whytebewicks wrenBig Surbishop pineblack bearblack sageblack walnutblack walnut dyeblackberriesbloodblueblueberrybobcatboneBook of FacesbootsBritish ColumbiabroomstickBrothers Grimmbrugmansia sanguineabrush rabbitbuckeyebuckskinbushtitCaliforniacapitalismCarpathiansCatherine SieckCatherynne ValentecatskinceramicsCernunnosChagfordchalk downschapelchawanchildhoodchildrens fantasyChileno ValleyChimney Rockchipmunkchocolatecitiesclayclimate changecloudscoastcoast live oakCoast Miwokcobwebby thistlecolumbineComox ValleyCoopers hawkcoreposiscottontailcough syrupcoyotecreation mythcreative inspirationcrowberrycrowdfundingcupsCyclopean WalldahliaDark Mountain ProjectDartmoorDavid AbramDeathless Pressdeerdeer mousedeermouseDeerstone FeltsDelphiDemeterdesertDesolation WildernessdevotionDionysusdire wolfdismembermentdoedoranDouglas firDouglas irisDr. Martin ShawdragonsdrakainadreamsDreamtimedriftwooddroughtDruiddyee.e. cummingsearthearth constellationecoprintecopsychologyeggsEgyptelderelderberryelkElk LinesElktimeemberEnglandEtsyeucalyptusevening primrosefairy talesFairylandfamilyfantasyfarallon islandsfeatherfeltfelted capefeminismfibershedfiddlerfieldfigfirefire ecologyflea marketflower essenceflowersfoodfoolforget-me-notFort BraggfurGary SnyderGathering Timegive-awaygleewomangoddessgold rushgolden hillsgoldenrodgoldfinchgooseberrygranitegratitudeGray Fox Epistlesgray squirrelgreat blue heronGreecegreengrieving the landGriffith ParkGrizzly Bearhand-madehandsHands Hearthhappinessharbor sealharesharmonicahawthornHawthorn the rabbithazelnutheaddresshearthearthherbalismheronHighland CattleHis Dark MaterialshomeHoney Grovehoneybeehopehorsebackhot springshuckleberryHuckleberry Botanic PreserveHungarianHupaIndian Warriorindigoinfinity scarfInvernessIsisjack rabbitJay GriffithsJeanie TomanekjesterJohn BauerJon YoungjongleurJuliette de Bairacli LevyjuniperKai FjellKefaloniaKehoe BeachkelpkestrelkeyholeskilnKith KinkiwiknittingkombuKraniLa Brea Tar Pitslambslemon blossomletter-projectLeveret LetterslifeLimantourLoren EiseleyLos Angeleslunarlupinemadronemagicmagic cornersmagical realismMaltamanzanitaMarija GimbutasMarin Headlandsmariposa lilyMary GoodMary OlivermatrilinealmeadowmeditationMendocinomicrocosmsminstrelmintmist-peoplemolesmorningmorning walksMorningstorymossMother HoldeMother Tonguemountain lionmountainsMoveable FeastMt. TamMt. VisionMuddy HollowMuir BeachmushroommythMyth TimemythsNao Simsnarrativenatural dyenatureNeolithicnettlenettle sodaNew YearNorth Beachnorthern elephant sealNotes from the Wild FolkoakOccidentaloceanoghamoilOld Europeold godsOne Willow Apothecariesorange blossomorangesOrder of the MachineOrpheusOsirisospreyOur Lady of NettlesOur Lady of the Dark CountryoverculturePaleolithicPalomarinpatchworkPatchwork Coat of MusesPaul ShepardpeachPhilip Pullmanpinyon mousepleistocenepoetryPoint ReyespollenpoppiespotterypriestesspropolispuppetsPythiaquailRabiaRachel BlodgettRachel Economyrainred cedarred poppiesredwoodsRegenerative Design InstitutereindeerreishiresinRilkeRima Stainesriver otterRobert BringhurstRobinson JeffersRomerooftoprosehipsrosesrowanrucksackRumirunesaber-toothed catsacred dancesagesalalsalmonberrySalt Spring Islandsalvesamhainsand-duneSanta BarbaraSanta Monica mountainsseaweedseed-beatingSerpentSerpentineshamanismshearingSibley VolcanoSibylSierra Nevadassilk wormsSiltSit SpotSitka sprucesnakesnowsoap-rootSoliphiliasolsticesongbirdSonglinesSookespiderspinningspringstagStanding Rockstarssteamer trunksteelstoryStrathcona Regional Parkstriped skunksubscribesummersummer flowerssummer solsticesummertimesunsunflowertanoakTatterdemaliontea carttea ceremonyteaselTemescalTerri WindlingtextileThe AutumnhouseThe Book of Symbolsthe divine femininethe everydaythe Handless Maidenthe Juniper WayThe Seed MarketThe WinterhousethimbleberryThimbleberry FeltworksthistlethistlesthrushtidetimetinctureTinderbundleTom HironsTomales BayTomales PointtonicTove JanssonTownsends Big-Eared Battrackingtrackstraintravelerstree dahliaTrisha Thompson Adamstrollstule elkTuvan throat singingumbrellaUnboundUnlearn and RewildUrsula Le GuinusneaVallettaVancouver Islandvaried thrushVasilisavegetablesVegetation Deityvelvetvolewabi-sabiWaleswalking pathswanderersWeftWest Kennet Long Barrowwestern fence lizardwestern tussock mothwhaleswild rosewild storiesWild Tales by MailWild Talewortwild textwildcraftWildword WorkshopsWiltshirewindwinterWise Childwitchgrasswomanwonderwoodratwoolwordsworkshopswreathwrentitwriters lifewriting deskyarrowyerba buena
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