Reblogged from  Magoism, the Way of S/HE 

 

(Essay) Don’t Take It Lying Down: Reproductive Autonomy and the Goddess by Dr Kaalii Cargill

June 2, 2014 

 

 

 

Once upon a time, when “God was a woman”[i], anywhere from 35000 years ago until about 3500 years ago in some parts of the world, the life-giving power of the Goddess was deeply respected. Consistent with this, women were respected as the life-givers, and the functions of pregnancy, birth, and nurturing were valued as reflections of the Great Mother, the mother of all. The rhythms and cycles of Nature were honoured in ceremonies and rituals, in daily practices that reflected a reverence for the feminine principle.  

 

The world in which we now live has little of this reverence, and we have forgotten many ancient ways of knowing. We have forgotten that women in some parts of the world did once know how to manage fertility in a simple, uncomplicated internal way, with little need to use any outside devices or programs. If these were needed, there is considerable evidence that simple, safe birth control was also available in the form of vaginal sponges, herbs and abortifacient drugs.[ii]

This is a very different story from modern biological science, which tells us that women were at the mercy of Nature during their childbearing years until the advent of the contraceptive Pill.

This other story tells of women’s mysteries destroyed by church and state authorities and various individuals, all of whom were jealous and/or fearful of women’s life-giving power. In this story (herstory rather than history), there are social, religious and cultural factors that have deeply affected the way we think about ourselves, our bodies, and the relationship between psyche and matter. These factors have profoundly impacted on fertility management, resulting in the loss of true reproductive autonomy.

There are women who practice mindbody birth control[iii], a way of managing conception through a process of internal regulation, without using drugs, synthetic hormones, or physical devices, and without abstaining at any time during the fertility cycle. This method involves an internal mindbody process that is in the tradition of ancient women’s mysteries; it is a reclaiming of deep inner wisdom and power and offers true reproductive autonomy. It is a practical experience of what can happen when the ancient mysteries of the Goddess are rediscovered by modern women.

The mindbody approach to birth control returns choice and control in a simple, accessible form and is a safe, inexpensive, empowering alternative for women across the world. The only problem is that it is an idea so foreign to us these days that most modern women cannot even imagine doing it.

Why is something like mindbody birth control so foreign to us? Why is it so frightening? Did women once know about this? What happened to change things? What has been forgotten and lost?

When we begin to ask these questions, we begin to see through the assumptions and cultural mythologies that have determined our life choices. Taking a close look at these influences is beginning of being able to choose rather than be controlled by factors that are usually invisible and taken for granted. Despite centuries of conditioning, many of us can sense that things are not what they seem, that the so-called experts don’t always know best. One of the things that supports this sort of intuitive knowing is the relationship women have with our bodies via sexuality, menstruation, pregnancy, childbirth, and hands on parenting.

The practice of mindbody birth control is something that some women around the world have spontaneously developed, sometimes teaching it to others, and sometimes just doing it. My own experience has been that women are interested in the possibility, but they are very uncertain about trying it for themselves. True reproductive autonomy does not fit our current social, religious, and political beliefs. Even women who consciously challenge these beliefs in some areas of their lives find the idea of taking charge of birth control in this way very daunting. What if it doesn’t work?

We become bluffed by the shame and fear associated with unwanted pregnancy rather than claiming our right to true power, choice and control. In order to engage mindbody birth control, we have to come to terms with our cultural and personal beliefs about women and power, and we must confront our conditioned lack of confidence in our relationship with deep feminine wisdom. How each of us approaches this relationship will impact on the Earth, the original matter . . . mater . . . mother of us all.

[This is an edited excerpt from DON’T TAKE IT LYING DOWN: LIFE ACCORDING TO THE GODDESS (2013) in which I explore these issues through history, mythology, anthropology, psychology, and biology, and through the “soul stories” of the women who have shared their experiences with me.  http://kaalii.wix.com/soulstory]

[i]  M Stone, 1978, When God Was a Woman, New York, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.

[ii] G Davis, 1974, Interception of Pregnancy: Post-conceptive Fertility Control, Sydney, Australia, Angus & Robertson, p. 220. BG Walker, 1983, The Women’s Encyclopaedia of Myths and Secrets, New York, Harper & Row, p. 104.

[iii]  HK Cargill, 1999, A Phenomenological Investigation of a Psychobiological Method of Birth Control, Doctoral thesis held at Monash University, Clayton, Victoria, Australia. Interviews with Australian women practising mindbody birth control.

M Jackson & T Teague, 1978, Mental Birth Control, Oakland, CA., Lawton-Teague Publications.

J Parvati, 1978, Hygieia: A Woman’s Herbal, Monroe, UT, Freestone Innerprizes.

A Rosenblum, 1976, The Natural Birth Control Book, Philadelphia, PA, Aquarian Research Foundation.

M Sjoo & B Mor, 1987, The Great Cosmic Mother: Rediscoverinq the Religion of the Earth, San Francisco, Harper & Row.

 

Loss of Soul: Identity and The Stories We Tell by Kaalii Cargill 

Reblogged from Feminism and Religion

By Guest Contributor on May 22, 2014 • ( 10 )

The effects on the world of the loss of the Feminine, the loss of Soul, are incalculable. Instinctive knowledge of the holy unity of things, reverence for the interconnection of all aspects of life, trust in the power of the imagination and the faculty of the intuition — all this as a way of relating to life through participation rather than through dominance and control, has almost been lost. We can see the effects of this loss of soul everywhere today, not only in the devastation and pollution of vast swathes of the earth, but in the unhappy, impoverished and hopeless existence that people endure in the hideous and ever-expanding suburbs of our cities, in the increase of diseases like cancer, diabetes and mental illness — particularly depression. The old are neglected and even ill-treated in a culture more interested in achieving targets than caring for people. The young are offered nothing to aspire to beyond the material goals promoted by the media.
- Anne Baring, 2013. Awakening to the Feminine. Archive Publishing. Extract from Chapter 10 in “The Dream of the Cosmos: a Quest for the Soul.”

I want to discuss a specific part of that hugely important statement by Anne Baring:

The young are offered nothing to aspire to beyond the material goals promoted by the media.
I have read some of the current crop of novels that have been developed into movies appealing to young people: The Twilight Saga, The Mortal Instruments, The Hunger Games, Divergent. What is being promoted in these stories? Is it reverence for the interconnection of all aspects of life? Trust in the power of the imagination? Trust in the faculty of the intuition?

Mostly what is being promoted in those stories is the ethos of “kill or be killed”, survival of the fittest, and the bleak challenges of a post apocalyptic world or a fantasy world of inter-species warfare. And the central characters are often aged around 16 or 17.

Do the authors think beyond writing the next best seller or selling movie rights? Do they even consider the messages they are promoting to this generation of teenagers?

It is not surprising that parents, teachers, and therapists are reporting an increase in debilitating anxiety among teenagers. As well as the increasing complexity of real life stress, there is also the “hypothetical stress” of teenagers measuring themselves against Katniss Everdine (Hunger Games) or Tris (Divergent): If I were in that situation would I survive? Would I have the courage, stamina, will to kill or be killed?
And weaving its seductive way through the stories is the theme of starcrossed lovers. The Twilight Saga took that to absurd lengths, but it is there in all the popular fiction and movies, linking first love to fundamental issues of survival (kill or be killed). What are we thinking when we serve this up as daily fare to our teenagers (and ourselves)?

Our teenage years are a time of identity formation, taking on values and behaviours from others and trying them on to find what fits and what doesn’t. This is a life-long process, but teenagers are particularly receptive to this process of identity formation.

Where are the messages of reverence for the interconnectedness of aspects of life? For trust in the power of the imagination and the faculty of intuition?

One example is James Cameron’s 2009 movie Avatar, an action-adventure story that goes some way towards incorporating this with self-discovery in the context of imperialism and deep ecology. A pity that the main characters weren’t 16 or 17 years old.

Another example is a Young Adult fantasy trilogy by Laini Taylor. The first book is called Daughter of Smoke and Bone. It has starcrossed lovers and sections of “kill or be killed”, but it also asks the reader to consider the complexity of love and hate and to invest in an overarching theme of interconnectedness. Unfortunately this is all too rare in the most popular examples of the genre.

So this is a plea for more care with the stories we are telling ourselves and our precious young. A plea for stories that grip the imagination and also promote “reverence for the interconnection of all aspects of life, trust in the power of the imagination and the faculty of the intuition”, stories that invite young people to dream of relating to life through participation and relatedness rather than win or lose, pass or fail, kill or be killed.

Dr. Kaalii Cargill is a ‘physician of the soul’, living and working in Melbourne, Australia. In the 1980s she co-developed Soul Centred Psychotherapy, a therapeutic modality based on a profound respect for the feminine principle. www.kairoscentre.com. Kaalii’s engagement with ritual has spanned 25 years and includes participating in regular women’s circles and seasonal rituals, teaching therapeutic ritual, running initiation rituals, and sponsoring the development of ongoing ‘Moon groups’. Her work draws from the ancient mystery traditions of Sumer, Greece, and Egypt as well as the Reclaiming tradition. Kaalii writes fiction and non-fiction that asks, “What if . . .?” The themes of her writing emerge from the Goddess movement and political activism, with a focus on dismantling and resisting structures of power and domination and actively honouring and defending the Earth and the feminine principle. Her short stories have been published in international magazines, and she has 5 books available on Amazon. http://kaalii.wix.com/soulstory

Daughters of Time - the beginning . . .

For man without woman there is no heaven in the sky or on earth. Without woman there would be no sun, no moon, no agriculture, and no fire.  Arab Proverb

Prologue

The city of Urim (Ur), Ancient Sumer. c 2000BCE.

The last days were upon them, and still the child had not come. The great city of Urim would fall, and the way of Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth, would be lost. 

“All things must pass,” whispered the river. 

Nin-lil-la, High Priestess of Urim, stood naked at the river’s edge, alone but for tourmaline-feathered ducks and tawny lions. The stars faded. A crescent Moon sailed gently from the horizon like a boat of dreams. 

It was here that Nin-lil-la came to wash away her fears and savour the stillness. When the lions began their raucous welcome to the Sun, Urim would come to life, and Nin-lil-la would belong once again to the Temple. 

Graceful, unhurried, Nin-lil-la immersed herself in the sweet water. Her long, black hair moved like eels with the current. 

When the lions turned to face the East, she left the river, wiped the moisture from her skin, and wrapped a square of white linen around herself in the pleats and folds appropriate for a High Priestess. She twisted and coiled her damp hair and secured it with a length of reed. Skin tingling, she began the walk back to the Temple just as the lions began their celebration of the Sun’s release from the Underworld.  

Nin-lil-la, High Priestess of the Temple of Nanna in Urim, climbed the steps of her Palace. She paused to look back over the Buranun, glistening now in the first light of day. The great river ran like a ribbon of gold from the North to the Pars Sea that lapped at Urim’s Western Harbour. She frowned as she saw, yet again, the vision that had been haunting her: where now there was water, bringing life and riches to the city, one day there would be sand, dry and lifeless. How the great Sea could disappear was not something she could explain, but she knew beyond doubt that her vision was sent by the Great Ones and was, therefore, true. One day Urim would stand alone in the desert, all splendour faded. 

With the vision came the face of a girl with eyes like a gazelle and courage enough to walk through Time. Had she even been born yet, this girl-child who haunted Nin-lil-la’s dreams? Would she come in time?

To sleep, perchance to dream . . .

Dreaming is the oldest form of storytelling. Have you ever wondered who is writing all those stories in the dreamscape? 

Characters find themselves in impossible situations filled with danger and desire, they struggle to achieve their goals, there are contradictions and stress points, and everything serves the story . . .   

Dreams are a perilous land where anything can happen to anyone at any time. As Tolkien wrote about the land of Faerie: we can experience the "satisfaction of primordial human desires" or "the realisation, independent of the conceiving mind, of imagined wonder."^[i]

Like the land of Faerie, a dream exists in a landscape with an integrity of its own. A door opens into another reality, desire is evoked, emotions are stirred, and the personal, everyday sense of self encounters something other than normal, waking reality. A perfect start for writing fiction! And dreams also come with a cast of characters.

How can you access the creative genius of dreams in waking life?

You can use the following exercise^[ii] to lead you to the place where stories live. You can use it to find a starting point for a story, to shift writer’s block, to listen to the inner muse . . .

1) Begin with a dream motif, one element of the dream that catches your attention.  

2) Draw a small circle in the middle of a large piece of paper and write a word that describes the dream motif in the circle.

3) Allow any associations that you have to that word, anything that comes to mind (no censoring). Write each association at the end of a line you draw out from the central circle like spokes.

4) When you have finished--or have at least 8 associative words--write one, long sentence using all the associative words but not the first central word. Connect the words using linking words (be, am, is, are, was, were, because, while etc.) to form a sentence.

5) On a new piece of paper, represent each word of the sentence as a picture. The pictures can be very simple--stick figures or line drawings. They do not need to represent the words for anyone else, just you. Draw the pictures in the same sequence as the words.

6) Cover all the previous work except the pictures.

7) Get up, stretch, make a hot drink, do something else for a few minutes.

8) Return to the pictures and imagine you are seeing them for the first time (like an archaeologist reading an ancient language). Forget the previous steps of the process and let the pictures suggest the story. Write it down.

9) Keep writing . . .

---

[i] JRR Tolkien (1965), “On Fairy-Stories.” In Tree and Leaf, pp. 3-73. Houghton-Mifflin Company, Trade & Reference Division. p.13-14.

[ii] The original idea from which I developed this dream work exercise came from: J Houston (1998), The Passion of Isis and Osiris: A Union of Two Souls. Random House.

 

In the beginning . . .

“Once, long, long ago, at the beginning of time, Sky and Earth were one."

The storyteller paused to look at the young ones gathered in the circle to hear the Old Tales. The crone smiled her toothless smile and nodded to herself, remembering the first time she had heard the stories told. A lifetime had passed, but the words never changed . . . 

 

"Sky and Earth moved together in the Void. There they would have remained for all time, but for the Chance that lives in Chaos. From Chaos comes the night, from the boundless empty space comes the power of Nature."

Wide-eyed, the children listened.

“From Chance came a spark that gave rise to a wind that blew between Sky and Earth, driving them apart." The old woman's arms rose in a graceful arc, as they had when she had danced in the Temple as a novice.

Then, her hands came together, leading her body into a crouch, impossibly supple for old bones. "Curling into a sphere, Earth formed the solid matter on which we stand."

Again, the graceful arcing movement.  "Spreading wide, Sky arched into the vault of the Heavens above"

The children followed the storyteller's dance, entranced by her magic.

"The space between they filled with their children."

"That's us!" whispered the children.

The storyteller held up her finger for quiet, but she smiled at the young ones. They  moved closer. This was the part for which they had been waiting, the story of their own becoming.

"As their children came forth, Sky and Earth bestowed gifts on them. To Men they gave strong bodies, for digging the soil, and holding their loved ones. To women they gave strong hearts, for they are the life-givers."

"Why?" asked the young ones. "Why are Women the life-givers?"

"Why does new life come forth from the Earth?" asked the storyteller. "Why do we honour the Earth as our Mother?'

"Because Her hills are like breasts!" called a bright-eyed child.

"Because She feeds us!" called another.

"Because She was there at the beginning and will be there at the end," said a third.

The crone nodded. "All of that is true."

The children smiled at their own cleverness.

"Listen now, and I will tell you the true reason that women are the life-givers."

The children waited.

"Earth and Sky might have continued to bring forth Men and Women, as many as were needed. Why did they give the life-giving power to Women?"

The children considered her question with blank faces, frowns, bitten lips. Finally, the old woman spoke again.

"It happened like this. The first Man and Woman came forth into a garden between two rivers. In this place was food and water enough for them to live forever. They swam in clear pools, slept in the Sun, and supped on ripe fruits. All was well."

"What happened?" asked a girl sitting at the edge of the circle.

"Time passed," said the storyteller. "Earth and Sky began to grow sleepy. No more did they dance as they had when they were young. No more did they bring forth children." Her voice conveyed the sadness of the change.

"What happened?" asked the girl again.

"A great and wise power came to the Woman in the form of a serpent."  The storyteller's hands moved in front of her in gentle undulations, leaving tracks in the air like the curving pathways of the snakes by the river.

"Did the serpent bite her?" asked the girl.

"No! The serpent spoke to the Woman and told her the secrets of bringing forth life from within her body."

"But, why didn't the serpent speak to the Man?' asked a boy sitting near the storyteller.

  

"Because Men cannot hear serpents speak," said the old woman, as if that explained everything.

Ode to the Goddess

I am the Queen of Sheba,
more beautiful than all the rest. 

I am the night-hag,
more haggard then your worst fears. 

 

Don’t try to hold me still.
Things change.
                     Time moves.  

 

The coins on my hip girdle ring
- like bells -
as I move between the worlds.

Listen for me . . .

Say My Name . . .

With the Great Barrier Reef at risk of damage by mining operations, I have been thinking about how much  we have already lost . . . 

I wrote the following story about the loss of the sacred in the everyday. It appeared in The Abacot Journal in 2007.

Say My Name

Like a soft, orange sari, the first light of the sun slipped over the horizon, a promise of clear skies and warm breezes.

An old man stood on a bridge spanning the River Hooghly, his gnarled hands clasping the rail. Dressed only in a ragged longhi, he sniffed the air and squinted at the City of Palaces. The first breath of morning carried the smell of the city: incense and frangipani, cow dung and the rancid odour of clarified butter. Yet soon the air would fill with fumes from the thousands of cars, motorbikes and buses thronging the streets of Kolkata.

A sound of flute music rode the breeze. The old man turned his head to listen. A single tear rolled down his papery cheek. When the music stopped, he shuffled off the bridge.

Making his way slowly through the traffic, slipping easily between people and cows, he passed by the market. Palm-leafed roofs covered the stalls. Baskets overflowed with red carrots, mangoes, gourds, white radish, pumpkin, and greens. The old man no longer expected gifts of fruit or vegetables; nor did the stallholders offer any. In the old days, they would have welcomed the chance to give food to a sadhu, but that was before. Now the children had forgotten that sadhus were holy men; they called them “beggars”, and tossed pebbles and insults at the saffron robes. They forgot the names of the Gods.

In the streets beyond the market, workers hurried to their jobs, mothers shepherded their children to school. That, at least, was the same as it had always been.

The old man walked past the India Coffee House, where intelligentsia and nostalgia rubbed shoulders. The patrons laughed and threw scraps to the dogs, making them snarl and snap like wolves. Children watched from the footpath, eyes big with hunger. Ignoring dogs and children, the old man entered lanes that meandered between high walls topped with sharp teeth of broken glass. A crow flapped noisily, chased from a rubbish pile by rats.

Near the river, the old man saw a child sitting on the front step of her house, playing with a scraggly, ginger kitten. The girl’s hair gleamed in the morning light, reminding him of black-haired maidens, and long, lapis-lazuli nights of delight. He shook his head sadly. No more goat-girls for him. No more girls at all.

He walked all day, and into the night. When his legs buckled under him, he slept beneath a Banyan, sheltered by the sacred tree. He rose before the dogs, and continued his pilgrimage. The sun set and rose again before he saw the domes of the Kali temple glowing pink in the morning light. For a moment, he imagined rainbow-clad devotees pushing in through the gateways. He could almost hear them, chanting and laughing. He hurried towards the gate, hoping to find someone who remembered his name. It had been so long since he had heard it spoken, in song or prayer.

He entered through the eastern gate, feet barely touching the ground. The temple was deserted, but for dogs and monkeys. He wondered if they, too, were waiting for the devotees who no longer came. He walked slowly through the ruins, lured by the cool green of a giant Banyan. Older than the oldest story, the tree sheltered the temple beneath its spreading branches. Long, pink aerial roots moved gently in the breeze. The old man lowered himself to the ground next to a discarded bundle of rags.

“What are you doing here, old man?” asked the bundle of rags, in a voice like pebbles in a dry riverbed.

“Resting,” said the old man, turning his back on the beggar-woman.

“Not here, you old fool,” said the beggar-woman. “Here. On Earth. Here.”  

The old man went very still. The beggar-woman’s voice had softened, like water flowing, cool and sweet, from the mountains. He wanted to turn back and look at her, but his longing had played tricks on him before. He closed his eyes and sighed.

The beggar woman moved to sit before him. He opened his eyes to see a beautiful face, golden skin, just like…

“Parvati?“   

“Who do you think it is? Of course it’s me!” The rags fell away to reveal the Goddess in all her glory: luminous eyes, black hair cascading around her voluptuous body, henna-painted nails…

The old man began to cry.

“I know. I know,” said Parvati, voice soft as swanskin. She stroked his face. “They have  forgotten us.”

“I thought I was the last,” said the old man. “I thought you had gone.”

“You were the last,” said Parvati. “I missed you. We all missed you. I came back to find you.”

“Say my name,” said the old man. “Let me hear it again.”

Parvati laughed. “Which name shall I say? There are so many! Adbhutah? Danavendra? Gyaneshwar? Sudarshana?”

And the old man remembered what it was to be a God. He straightened his back and took a deep breath.

“Say my name,” he said, eyes twinkling.

“Krishna,” she said, and handed him a flute.

He played a note, pure and light. The stallholders at the market stopped counting their money, and gave food to the poor. A gentle breeze lifted the spirits of the workers. Mothers walked with swaying hips and a secret smile on their lips. The child on the doorstep left her kitten to dance, moving to a rhythm as old as time. Even the dogs pricked their ears and stopped fighting over scraps.

“Come,” said Parvati. “The others are waiting.”

The God and Goddess left together, dissolving in the old way, like mist in the morning sun.