Mother of All

The question I had at Christmas last year was who told Joseph what was about to happen in his life? I wondered if Mary had that duty, and imagined an interesting conversation following. I did not remember this story. I asked the question out loud among friends, and friend Susan said an archangel had told Joseph. Perhaps the question found life in this picture, taken at Matthaei Botanical Gardens earlier in December. Several seed pods lay on a brick wall. This one looked like the Madonna to me. This morning when I sought and found the picture, the question was why do I always see Mary in a vulnerable and soft aspect? Her eyes downcast, usually closed, head tilted to the side? This photo looks as though she's clutching her cloak to her breast. Her left foot is tucked behind, her aspect protective. She is exposed, and folds her body in to contain the seeds. My religious upbringing did not include the Virgin Mary, although now I wonder if the Catholic church had a brilliant notion, and if, perhaps I would feel differently now if I'd been raised with a woman in my religious world view. The Madonna is worshiped, but Mary is not depicted as strong, celebratory, steely, powerful. She knew while she carried her child that her life would be devoted to raising a son, teaching him, protecting him, only to give him back to her God. What strength she had; endurance, devotion we may or may not comprehend. She believed, whether she ever questioned, we cannot know. Today I will see Mary in my mind and heart as the all mother. Mother of all mothers, like the Saami depiction of she who gave birth to everything. Powerful, sparkling with love and steady resolve, arm raised overhead circling all beings, all life. Fierce and loving. The mother of all. I can celebrate her life with spirit and love.

Past Life or Eerie Serendipity?

There is a chapter in my new book, CODA that begins the story of a woman named Lyydia. She is the shaman of her village near the Arctic Circle long ago. As I wrote I saw Lyydia as clearly as if I stood next to her.

For a brief time years back, in a flurry of activity, I made figures. 14 inch tall women. One of these figures was a fur-wrapped shaman. I'd never done this art before or since. She now lives next to a warrior figure in the home of a good friend.

In the 90s, I painted a trio of paintings with the primary figure an old woman with long, unruly gray hair. These three paintings went to live in the homes of three good friends.

No similarity dawned on me until one afternoon at Higher Ground with The Sweetgrass Writers. The night before I had been reading a book from the university library about Saami Shaman drums. I am a nut for Saami drums. I turned to page 89, and there was a shaman drum pointer. I felt odd and dizzy, and I got up, opened the one place the brooch could be, and there it was. Made in Finland. It's undoubtedly newer than the 11th century and was probably my great-grandmother's pin.

I brought the book and the brooch to our writers' meeting next day, and was telling the story, when the owner of the coffeehouse asked if she could show the book and the brooch to a friend who was seated at a table across the room.

We settled in at our table, glancing over at the further table as Vanna explained the story, and the woman held the brooch and closed her eyes. There was a whispered discussion. Vanna said, "No, really, she'll want to know. I know she will."

I said, "please tell us."

The woman, Aileen, came over, gave the brooch back, sat and told what she had seen from the brooch.

An old woman, with long knotted gray hair, wearing a fur, and leggings on a frozen terrain spotted with rocks and spindly pine trees. She is alone. She is the shaman of her tribe, but she (here Aileen grabbed her throat) cannot tell all she knows. Something prevents her.

One of our writers whispered, "Lyydia." Aileen smiled and said "is your name Lyydia?" I said, "no, it's Linda."

She said, "But the woman I saw was you. I recognized you."