The Ancient Mothers

Ancestors

On November 11th of 2023 five intrepid women in five locations across the globe hosted silent suppers for their ancestors. While the instructions suggested a formal dining setting, honoring each invited guest with food offerings meaningful to them, I decided to use a simpler format not only because of the research and labor involved but also because I suspected it might be a bit more than my poor husband could fathom. He hasn’t yet balked at my strange, new claims to relationships with the dead—and I would like to keep it that way! So I settled, gratefully, on a more casual affair—a tea party around a card table in my study.

For me, the occasion offered the perfect opportunity to gain more wisdom regarding each of the strands of the braided path I’m following. Perdita Finn, facilitator of a course the five of us were all participants in at the time, prompted us to dig deeper and deeper until we discovered our true heart’s desire—and then express it. In my case what seemed to be called for was the crafting of an incantational poem invoking the several paths whose breadcrumbs I had been following lately, and in some cases for decades. Each path, in its own way, was leading me both backward—to the roots of remembrance of a more magical Way—and, at the same time prodding me to apply this knowledge in ways that push me forward toward a fulfilling and thriving future. My plan was (and is) to seek ancestral help with each of these paths.

Here is the entire invocation: 

I am the One Who Remembers the Way

I am the one who stays close to nature,
Never as happy as when in the sun,
Mourns each tree cut by the keen of a chainsaw–
Digs in the dirt to stay sane

I am  the one who follows my heart strings,
Tracking the scent, knows which way to go,
Quelling all doubts, walks through the doorway–
Is welcomed with wide open arms.

I am the one who attunes to plant magic,
Scours the ground and the ditches for herbs.
Infusions and tinctures cramp space in my cupboards–
Conspiring with nature to heal

I am  the one who descends to the darkness,
Using discernment, senses, not sees,
Seeking connection, returns to the womb space–
Restored by the velvety silence.

I am  the one who is guided by ancestors,
Asks them for help with the trials of life,
Knows their response when I see it or feel it–
Am held in their language of love  

I am the one who knows how to listen,
The other-than-human speak language I sense,
Like herbalists, dreamers, and poets, am certain
The body’s a rosetta stone.

I am the one who is waiting to serve you,
Creating a space to delight your worn soul,
Nourishes you with victuals and tisanes–
Plies you with food for your spirit

By the time this was written I had already chosen several ancestral beings to work with on various of my life’s problems, some of which resolved miraculously. Yet I wanted more. In truth I was seeking a kind of apprenticeship. It seemed to me that ancestors who had become accomplished in a magical “Way” during their lives on Earth could, in theory, help me to expand and hone this ability in myself. In short, I wanted to manifest my heart’s desire—to sow the seeds of this ancient Way once again. If I could germinate them before contemporary culture’s final collapse (if there is to be one) perhaps they’d find a way to flourish in the next.

First, I’d need to learn a great deal more about each precious seed I hoped to propagate—for this, I needed the help of knowledgeable ancestors. Then, I’d need to find fertile soil to receive their teachings—a person or persons from the next generation who would agree not only to receive the wisdom but facilitate continued learning and passing of the sacred seeds through the generations until the soil became fertile enough for the seeds to thrive and nourish a new culture. We’d need the ancestors, I knew, to assist with this as well.

What I had in mind were women, but not just any women. For a project like this I needed the the ancient mothers. I had no idea how to find them but I saw, in this notion of a tea party for the ancestors, the perfect opportunity for them to find me!

I set up my card table, with freshly made mini scones, napkins, a full teapot, and two matching mugs. At my own place I had laid a napkin under a scone, and set a mugful of tea. Another mug was placed in the center of the table, near a stack of napkins. As I stood back to view my simple set up, I realized that if anyone—my husband, let’s say— had walked into the room at that moment, it would appear that I stood alone in a darkened, empty room. But that was far, far, from the experience I was having. I was already aware of the presence of many beings.

Sitting down in my place at the table, I began by reciting my invocation out loud. Following that, I expressed an invitation to any mothers and grandmothers—perhaps from the ancient past but not necessarily—who, by dint of their mastery in one or more of these Ways, felt called to assist me in their pursuit.

Almost immediately after summoning them I saw, in my mind’s eye, a slight woman peering at me through long, light-to-medium brown hair, tangled with plant detritus. Somehow I knew that she hid behind her hair because she found other people to be a bit “too much.” She was dressed in a kind of brown, primitive sack-cloth which reached to about mid-shin, revealing dirt-covered bare feet. Yet I knew she was highly gifted in the Way and eager to work with me. As I thanked her I put a scone on a napkin from the stack, setting it at the table’s edge. Then I poured a little tea into the common mug. Since she was the first to respond—almost rushing to my assistance—I named her Mother Rush and wrote my observations of her in my journal (as I continued to do throughout the proceedings).

Next to show up was a wild-eyed woman with long, dark brown hair. It was clear to me that she had been misunderstood at some basic level, resulting in her strikingly fearful and somewhat crazed appearance. Yet for all of her wildness I could see in her eyes the gravity of wisdom, vying with a twinkling sense of humor, for the opportunity to share with me. In deep gratitude for having found each other I welcomed her, naming her Mother Wild, placing another scone on a napkin and adding more tea to the common mug as well.

Now a Scottish woman appeared—a once-blond, kindly, grandmotherly, type who reminded me so much of a friend’s mother that I gave her the same surname—Mother McCoy. She exuded comfort and sympathy while at the same time seeming a little bemused at finding herself on the receiving end; she was apparently accustomed to being the nurturer, not the nurtured. In wonder I extended my offering and thanks, which she was kind enough to accept demurely.

She was followed by a merry, roly-poly woman dressed in a long, full skirt of some dark fabric. Above the skirt she wore a white blouse embroidered, in the Slavic style, with black and red thread. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, exposing muscular arms, rosy and plump, her hair wrapped in a light-colored scarf. Her hands and arms had been in the soil and, behind her, I caught a glimpse of a sturdy fence surrounding a hearty garden, which represented her pride-and-joy as well as her Way. Her delight in meeting me revealed her love of all people. Naming her Mother Babushka, I thanked her, and made my offering.

Now a very different energy presented itself, its presence towering over me at a great height. But this androgynous being wasn’t human at all. After a moment’s recollection of other encounters, I recognized the presence as angelic, the representative, in fact, of all ancestors who work with humans—the Ancestor Angel! If you’ve never been in the presence of an angel, let me assure you that they are not what you might expect. The best way I can explain them is as energy fields that coalesce around discrete semi-static configurations of beings—i.e. an angel manifests for each family unit, each team of colleagues, each forest, river, farmyard, neighborhood, and city. It’s hard to describe their overwhelming presence when encountered. Their powerful bearing, albeit loving, feels—for me at least—life-threatening. It pushes me past sensations I am capable of assimilating, causing me to intuitively confront my own mortality in the realization that my life—my “fate”—is determined by beings, forces, and events much greater than me. In response to this encounter, I bowed my head in awe and made my meager offering, hoping it did not insult. Quite to the contrary, I was immediately filled with the sense of this angel’s pure delight. Whew!

After a bit, a woman, dressed scantily in animal hide, came into view. Positioned on all-fours near the edge of a clearing, she was focused intently on the pathway emerging from the forest. One moment she inspected and sniffed the ground. The next moment, seeming to become aware of my presence, she shushed me with the palm of her hand, continuing to listen and sniff the air as if using all her senses to “hear” what the land was telling her. Watching her, I caught my breath. At last I had found the one who could guide me—the one for whom I so desperately longed when engaged in my own meager attempts to interpret sensations received from the land! I named her Mother Animal and added my offering to her, feeling amazed at my good fortune.

Next came Lucretia—a healer from medieval Italy who I had already been working with as part of my healing team. Her fame as a healer had spread far and wide, ultimately leading to her being tracked down by The Inquisition and put to death. Though the distant hillside she roamed was too far away to distinguish facial features, I was able to make a few observations, the most striking of which being that it appeared she had fashioned herself a pair of pants—the better for herb-gathering treks in rugged terrain. She wore a cloth around her hair, and a knapsack on her back (stuffed full, presumably, with herbs). Wielding a staff, she moved nimbly up and down the steep slopes. Since I’d sought and received her help on my healing team for some time now, I was greatly moved by her choice to initiate a deeper relationship with me. Thanking her graciously, I served her my offering.

Now a black-haired woman appeared, standing still as a statue, at a fork in a well-trod pathway through a dark wood. Outfitted much like Little Red Riding Hood with red cape and basket, she stood still and silent in the crook where the paths diverged. Gazing downward but seeing nothing, her focus was entirely inward—awaiting guidance. She did not stir or make eye contact and I did not intrude. Naming her Mother Red Cape I unobtrusively thanked her and made my offering.

By this time I had at least one ancestral mother or grandmother for each stanza and had arrived at the realization that if I had written fifty stanzas there would be fifty ancient mothers ready to assist me. The benevolence of the ancestors is, I have been assured, endless. In a state of heightened wonder, I invited them to join me in partaking of a scone, all the while sharing my deepest gratitude for their willingness to engage with me.

It was growing late yet I had one more request to make of them. Taking a little time to organize my notes, I paired each stanza with the ancestor who I sensed to be most appropriate. Due to an oversight, the first stanza showed up twice in the version of the poem I was using that night. Because those two stanzas were separated by others, I didn’t notice it until I began making pairings. But due to the fact that there are references to two somewhat differing Ways in this stanza—a general respect for the natural world and the specific activity of gardening—it was appropriate, I thought, to assign two ancestors to it.

My remaining request was for each of the ancient mothers who had presented themselves to offer any words of wisdom they might have for me. Only this time, I would approach each mother one stanza at a time.

As I mentioned, the first stanza calls forth my love for both nature and gardening—each of which I find to be mysteriously, magically healing.

Stanza 1: NATURE AND GARDENING

I am the one who stays close to nature,
Never as happy as when in the sun,
Mourns each tree cut by the keen of a chainsaw–
Digs in the dirt to stay sane.

For this stanza I first selected Mother Wild, thanking her for her presence and then asking for any wisdom she cared to share. Her advice was short and simple: “Talk to the trees.” Since I had recently been immersing myself with accounts and books about plant magic, including taking my first faltering steps to connect, I let her know that it filled me with happiness to be encouraged in this vein. And now I knew who to bring my questions to!

Secondly, I welcomed and addressed Mother Babushka. While I didn’t get a verbal transmission, I translated my felt experience of her response like this: “Do not worry. It is all taken care of.” Although I have repeatedly run across similar injunctions throughout my training, my body remains very resistant to accepting this message. That is to say that as much as I would love to stop worrying, I just can’t quite get there. But I can see how—from the beyond-human point of view of an ancestor—we must appear to be incredibly anxious creatures. I know I am! Hopefully, as I work cooperatively with the creative energy of the ancestors—Mother Babushka in particular—some of their serenity will rub off on me.

The second stanza calls in the plant magic that I aspire to. What do I mean by plant magic? As the stanza describes, I’ve a bit of experience as the (very) local herbalist. But what the stanza really alludes to is my desire for direct plant-to-human communication. THIS is what I mean by “plant magic.”

Stanza #2: PLANT MAGIC

I am the one who attunes to plant magic,
Scours the ground and the ditches for herbs.
Infusions and tinctures cramp space in my cupboards–
Conspiring with nature to heal

To this I assigned Mother Lucretia, the accomplished green witch of her time and region. Together, I like to think of us “sticking it in the eye” of The Inquisition as she defiantly goes on practicing and teaching plant magic from The Beyond. The advice she offered was, “Take your time. Make working with plant magic a ritual, a meditation. Go slow and deep.” Well, I’m going slow, all right! My feet could only barely be said to be “on the track.” I thanked her for the comfort I felt in her words adjuring me to be patient. I can only hope and pray that her tutelage will lead me to the burgeoning wealth of knowledge this path has to offer.

Stanza three, I’ve named Way-Finding. For some, that might be an odd kind of Way—the Way of Way-Finding. However, we have all pursued it. All forms of divination—from tarot cards and dream interpretation, to praying for answers or noticing providential coincidences—are way-finding. Sometimes it’s just a little nudge from someplace deep inside us. Often, in my case, it’s following the ancestors’ guidance to the bread crumbs they’ve laid out for me.

Stanza 3: WAY-FINDING

I am the one who follows my heart strings,
Tracking the scent, knows which way to go,
Quelling all doubts, walks through the doorway–
Is welcomed with opening arms.

Mother Red Cape of the Fork in the Path seemed the obvious choice to ask for wisdom in connection with this stanza. She rose to the occasion by offering me this advice: “Spend time at an actual fork in the path. There is magic there." “What a delightfully insightful suggestion!” I marveled to her. I will strive to remember this the next time I have a big decision to make. As I, myself, so often say, “There is magic in the places between.”

Stanza 4 is about encountering deep wisdom in the darkness. Rather than the “ascent” that so many seek, my profound desire is to “descend.” Lower. Deeper. Darker. In the places which render our usual five senses useless we must develop other ways to sense that which meets us. There is boundless magic there!

Stanza 4: MEDITATION/UNDERWORLD

I am the one who descends to the darkness,
Using discernment, senses, not sees,
Seeking connection, returns to the womb space–
Restored by the velvety silence.

I no longer remember my reasons for pairing this stanza with Mother Rush. Certainly any encounter with an ancestors could be described as a meeting in a dark underworld, and since she was the first to show up, she was an obvious candidate for representing it. When consulted, though, her words absolutely affirmed my pairing: “If the cells of a baby are regenerative, imagine how regenerative the womb is. Go there for healing of all kinds.” My response was the goosebumps I felt all over my body. Oh, Mother Rush—thank you for your great willingness to accompany me to this deeply intimate place.

Ah, the 5th stanza—The Ancestor Angel. Of all the Ways I have been following of late, The Way of the Ancestors is arguably foundational in that it underlies all other Ways, many of which I discovered only by dint of the breadcrumbs laid on the path for me by the ancestors themselves.

Stanza 5: ANCESTORS

I am the one who is guided by ancestors,
Asks them for help with the trials of life,
Knows their response when I see it or feel it–
Am held in their language of love 

The Ancestor Angel’s identity was co-incident with her appearance, so I knew exactly which stanza applied. When asked, the wisdom transmitted to me harkened back to my earlier experience: “Your observation about not really being alone in the room while setting up your tea table was astute. You are never actually alone. We are always available to you.” Those who speak with and for the ancestors have often told me this. It’s a hard truth for a contemporary human like me to fathom, cut off as we are from the unseen world. I hope to become more and more assured of this truth by the consistency of the ancestors’ loving assistance as my engagement with them deepens. I am absolutely humbled that the Ancestor Angel chose to show up for me in my first, tentative attempt to seek the assistance of the ancient mothers.

In stanza 6, I speak of language. “The Language of the Land” has been my obsession of late. A couple of summers ago, camping on the edge of a clearing, I was able to feel the land speak to me more expansively, than ever before—not with words but through sensation. It’s one thing to learn the language of the birds, of the plants, of the weather, etc. These are all languages of the land and I hope to learn each of them in time. But when Gaia speaks as a whole, inviting you to plant yourself in Her soil, it’s an exponentially more profound experience.

Stanza 6: LANGUAGE

I am the one who knows how to listen,
The other-than-human speak language I sense,
Herbalists, dreamers, and poets are certain–
The body’s a rosetta stone.

Having watched Mother Animal as she “listened” to the land using all of her senses I knew she was right for this stanza. I so hope that she can teach me more about this language. Her response to my query was, “Learning the language is like building up muscles. The more you practice, the better it comes through—stronger and clearer.” In other words, “Don’t give up! It gets easier!” I’m sure my relief was palpable. Currently my skill related to this language is extremely primitive. As I laughingly wrote in my journal, “In trying to use my body to interpret the meanings I encounter, the only ones I really understand are ‘feels good’ and ‘feels bad!’” In other words, I have a LONG ways to go!

The last stanza is the hardest to explain. Perhaps this will help. I once owned a tea house and cafe. It was meant as a kind of balm to the battering and bruising our souls receive in this world. I love to serve food to those who are hungry for it—not necessarily the kind of food you would put in your mouth, but the kind that points the way, reassures, shakes things up, heals. In some magical instances nourishment can be both physical and metaphysical.

Stanza 7: SERVICE

I am the one who is waiting to serve you,
Creating a space to delight your worn soul,
Nourishes you with victuals and tisanes–
Plies you with food for your spirit

Whenever I learn a new and remarkable thing I immediately seek a way to pass it on—an urge that I like to think comes from a place of service. Just as I love to delight people with good food and drink, I also want to stimulate the places in them that seek wisdom, that engage their curiosity. I imagined Mother McCoy as an excellent cook with a motherly touch that could feed the soul. In her response she was the most effusive: “Nourish everyone’s soul. Not just the ones on your side of the veil. Talk to them (on the other side) about their heart. Ask, ‘How is your heart?’ Say, ‘I do this for the heart (or for your heart).’ Tell them to rest their heart when they are with you. Take their guard down—free their hearts.” I was amazed by this contribution. Me? Mothering the ancestors? It was beyond anything I could possibly have imagined on my own. While I have contemplated this advice from time to time since it was given, I have not yet acted upon it, nor come across any circumstances where it might seem called for. It remains an enigma whose time has not yet come.

While the ritual took quite some time, in the end I experienced a tinge of dismay about barely having had a chance to break the surface in getting to know each of the mothers and grandmothers who had graced me with their presence. Despite my impatience, I knew (dare I call it “rationally?”) that what had just happened was only the beginning of something potentially much bigger. Simply by virtue of showing up, each of these ancestors had signaled their willingness to develop a relationship with me in the future. How comforting it is to have the assurance that I can summon their guidance whenever it is needed—in the dark, liminal spaces within me.

A few days afterwards, the five of us adventurous Silent Supper hosts shared our experiences on Zoom, during which it became clear that each of us had been deeply moved. Whether sharing a table with a hodge-podge of ancestors from different time periods and backgrounds who seemed to really enjoying getting to know one another, or welcoming parents and family members who had been absent, dismissive, or worse when living, the stories all seemed to share elements of love, intimacy and the mutual desire for new beginnings, new perspectives, and new and deepening relationships.

Since my tea party I have sought and received guidance from many ancestors in addition to the ancient mothers, including the plant world, goddesses, saints, my family line, teachers/guides, friends/guardians. I will share their stories and wisdom in the days to come, recognizing, of course, that these conversations are ongoing.

AT THE VERY LEAST the ritual created fertile ground for my writing, as I hope to be able to demonstrate in future publications.

Artwork Credit: Vincent Van Gogh