bunnyjadwiga

For the past few months, my 'devotional reading' book has been Oya: In Praise of the Goddess, by Judith Gleason, a book I've had on my shelves for a while. I just finished it. It's a strange little book, combining anthropological research, religious meditation, sociological commentary, and mythology. The author combines discussion of Oya-typologies from Africa with analysis of the Orisha Oya, both from the inside, as it is clear that she is both an initiate of Orisha-religion and a initiate of some small priestesshoods in some cities of Africa, so she is writing from the inside. While this can be unsatisfying, it is easy to contrast this approach of anthropology/theaology from the inside with the 19th century descriptive, foolish ethnology, such as that of the author of the Ethnolographic Survey's pamphlet on Zuni fetishes, who was initiated into a Zuni priesthood as part of his study. The modern reader can tell he was clearly initiated into the priesthood for members of the tribe who were none too bright. He wasn't capable of looking at the varieties of the mythology he was told as layers of the myth, just as Christians have layers of myth and layers of story about their religion-- what we tell children is different from what we discuss among each other, and still more different from what theologians discuss between themselves. But it's hard to write at all these levels at once.

While I'm not as inclined to Oya as I am to Demeter, goddess of agriculture, carer for the dead who taught men to farm in the midst of her sorrow, or Freya, whose tears become amber, who some say created the runes... I can identify sometimes with Oya, her feet planted solid in the middle of the marketplace, dictating to the marketwomen, or hidden in the jungle in the shape of the bison, or unrolling her mat to dally with one who strikes her fancy. Because Oya means 'she tore'; she is the tearing wind of the whirlwind (Susie and I used to talk about being inside the whirlwind of the souls of our respective loves, quietly ignoring that in order to get inside that maelstrom, we needed to match speeds with the whirlwinds that were ourselves), she is the carrier of fire, the carrier of inspiration. She is always outspoken, powerful. Archetypically, modern women neopagans often identify with her as the organizer, the carrier of her own destiny. But she retreats into the jungle and must be hunted, too.

This has symbolism for me now because I have been shouting in the marketplace for years, speaking my truth. I have begun to learn to pick my battles. My loves love to see me as restless, ranting, loud, out-there; but also as a tree of strength, as Bear-the-keeper-of-knowledge, gatherer-who-provides. Out of control, like Oya or the ancient Egyptian Sekhmet, my anger can destroy. Lion-headed Sekhmet is a goddess of medicine and healing, as well as the terrible goddess who had to be fooled with blood-colored beer lest she exterminate all people in her war-anger. But it is said she may be part of Hathor, divine midwife. Oya is part of a cult of masqueraders, whose worshipers construct monstrous cloth-covered costumes and dance in them as their gods. But Oya, according to Gleason is less a dancer or a cult costume than an enabler of the male gods' appearances. Her masquerade is as the buffalo woman, the archetypal woman/mother-as-prey/food.

What do I learn from Oya? The power of silence and of secrets. The power of masquerade. That sometimes power comes from not-doing, not doing. That we are all complicated, and that however terrifying the wind or the flood may be, some good will come of it.