Mary Day Celebrations

Mary Day Celebration Candle

Every year some women friends and I celebrate the Goddess with in us on the 15th of August. It is the Catholic holiday set to commemorate the Assumption of Mary, the Mother of Jesus as she is whisked into the Heavens. I pick this day not because I am particularly religious but because it reminds me of my childhood. When I was a child, living in Bavaria, in southern Germany, Maria Himmelfahrt  was a really big deal. As I have written in other posts on similar topic, on that day of celebration, the whole town comes out, children in traditional costume and crowns of flowers on their heads.  The statue of Mary is carried through town from the Abbey to the main church. It is a beautiful spectacle and I always see it first and foremost within that childlike vision.

I especially always loved the way kids adorned their favorite cows with wreathes of herbs and flowers accenting their beautiful long eyelashes and luminescent big pink noses, gentle nature.

Cow & Friend

In the last 10 years it's been a way  to connect with women friends that are dear, share stories - some of them about being women, some of them childhood memories, others are myths we know or half know and want to explore.

Our Lisa is the story teller and fascinates us with her memory of women stories, both learned and intuitive.

We read our coffee cups and have  wine, let our daughters join us in the lighting of the candles and writing of secret messages on little scraps of delicate paper that we then send up in smoke to the sky, hoping that our daughters too will find some fascination in the mysteries and bounty associated with the Mother.

The Stain of Pomegranates

šipak

When I was a little girl I didn't like the taste of pomegranate juice like I do now. I just didn't know the value of the stuff. That's how it is when you are young.

When pomegranates were readily available and not expensive at the market we had them at our house.  My grandmother soaked them in the sink in cold water and then with lots of newspapers spread out on the kitchen table the two of them, she and my grandfather, would coax the pearly red seeds out of their fleshy home.  Into a bowl they went and then some sort grinding would go on.  After that, pouring and separating with colanders here and there and white cloth over  bowls and more pouring of juice with funnels. From this elaborate madness of mismatched cookware there would miraculously  appear six or eight or whatever, glass bottles of dark red stain - blue almost - so dark, the color of red.

In the afternoons, after nap time, the cousins from downstairs were called up and we would all sit in the tiny kitchen at the table with the secret drawer. Baka would put clean glasses onto the round tablet with her hands still stained and slowly she would measure out the scarlet liquid. She added ice cold mountain water from the faucet and carefully put our glasses in front of us. We drank, staring at each other, making faces and smacking darkened lips.  Baka looking out the window behind us, at the mountains, thinking to herself.