WD-40, or On Praise

When I was a kid going to Sunday School I used to hear the word “praise” get tossed around quite a bit. Even today, the word “praise” evokes in my mind an image of a beaming older woman happy to be at church, bringing her potluck tuna casserole in tow, and praising her god. Sitting there in Sunday school, I had time to wonder about the idea of “praise.”

For years, I kept thinking, “Why the hell does a god need to know how great he is? That sounds like a divine ego problem. No thanks.” I haven’t thought that in years, but it occurred to me recently that this idea of praise needs readdressing and a makeover because quite a few of us come from a similar problematic relationship with the word “praise” and what it means, especially in a religious setting.

The most cursory search for the definition of the word praise identifies the word as both a noun, and a verb. In that definition, it is discussed that as a noun, praise means:

Expression of approval, commendation, or admiration.
The extolling or exaltation of a deity, ruler, or hero.
Archaic A reason for praise; merit.

As an action, praise is:

[Expressing] warm approval of, commendation for, or admiration for.
[Expressing] a feeling of veneration or gratitude to (a deity); worship or glorify.

http://www.thefreedictionary.com/praise

The word “praise” is not just the kind, thoughtful words which are said, but the action of saying those kind and thoughtful words. Usually, praise is made known through words, but praise can also be done through gestures. For instance, when I worked as a secretary, I received flowers on Secretary’s Day from my boss: this was an action meant in gratitude and praise of the hard work I’d done. Accepting a trophy or receiving a laurel wreath: these are also acts of nonverbal praise. Praise and gratitude often go hand in hand, for an expression of praise is an acknowledgment that someone is good at something, you’ve noticed it, and it has made a difference. Praise plays a key role in relationships, whether we are aware of it or not. When we praise someone, we let them know that we value that person, we honor that person’s skills and expertise, and that there is some aspect of that person that we appreciate. Praise and gratitude are the WD-40 combination in relationships, smoothing out the friction of conflict and preventing the rust of disregard.

Most beings, and often nearly anything, can receive praise. Pablo Neruda wrote a poem praising a pair of handknit socks given to him—Ode to My Socks. It’s an honest, intimate, candid look into cherishing what to many may seem commonplace. It is more typical that deities, ancestors, spirits, heroes, regular people, pets, places, and more receive praise. Praise is considered a cornerstone of raising a child well; indeed it is considered vital for the child’s wellbeing. Verbal praise shows up in many forms anywhere from “Good job!” to something more formal like an ode or a hymn. Sometimes praise can even be shortened and tacked on as a part of a being’s own name, kind of like a nickname which is also a compliment and a reminder of that one’s abilities and attributes. It makes beings know they are appreciated when someone says something honest and kind, praising those beings’ gifts and skills.

When I had wondered those years ago, “Why would a god need me to tell him he did a good job?,” I didn’t realize the deeper significance of praise. Indeed, I missed the point entirely. The gods don’t need to be told how awesome or how awe-ful (as in “full of awe”) they are. They know this. However, it is different when we let them know that we know it too. When you take a little time out to appreciate and praise the deities, it’s like signing for a care package they’ve already delivered to you, and it helps you to acknowledge that it arrived. We could practically drown in the packing peanuts from all of the gifts we already have which are essential to life: air, water, plants that grow and provide food, animals, sunlight, rain, land, sleep, wakefulness, hunger and satiety, friendship, crickets singing in humid summer evenings, bonfires, those beautiful web-like cracks in sidewalks, the feral purr and growl of a 1970s classic muscle car that whirrs by on the road, old pilled sweaters, buildings with stained glass windows, batty old aunties, kittens…the list just keeps on coming. After millennia of not being honored and appreciated, of being ignored or insulted, and indeed of sometimes being flat-out cursed, praise is music to their ears and a balm to their souls…and it has been a long time coming.

In days of old, sometimes the praises got written down and have lasted to today. The Egyptian goddess Nut is said to be a Great One, a Great Lady, as possessing a spiritual strength, and as having a beauty that fills all places. The Hindu god Agni is praised as being a giver of treasures, of being worthy, thoughtful, true, splendid, well-known, and of shining in the darkness. The Norse god Odin is praised and known as being the Allfather, a Friend of Wealth, mighty, wise, and as a giver of victory. The Japanese sun goddess Amaterasu-ōmikami is “the great august kami (god) who shines in heaven.” Tlaloc, the Aztec god of the rain, carries the epithets of the Giver and the Green One, probably because of the life giving rains which encourage the green plant growth. The Akkadian god Marduk is known as being the most honored, as having an unrivaled decree, as being an avenger, as being a great dispeller of evil, and as having infallible weapons. The Akkadian goddess Ishtar is described as having sweet lips, as having life in her mouth, has having a mere look that can bring joy; she is known as being powerful, magnificent, protective, splendid, exalted, as being compassionate to the kindhearted, and as wearing the clothes of pleasure and love. And this is just praise for a handful of deities. Added with more deities, heroes, spirits, and ancestors and the praises fill volumes—I’m not speaking figuratively there. Epic tales like Gilgamesh, The Odyssey, The Iliad, the Epic of Baʽal Hadad, are loaded as full of praises as fresh soda pop has all those delightful fizzy bubbles. We know these things because they are written and translated, and most of us have access to them for free in public libraries. Praise exists, too, in oral traditions—the ones that have been written down, and the ones that survive.

Praise is not an ego-boost that a god demands, in childish all-too-human behavior. Praise is genuine, sincere, warm, appreciative, and we give it because it lets the being know that we noticed their gifts and that we care. If praise is said aloud or shared, that praise is then spread so that others can know of that being’s talents, skills, and gifts, and it “spreads the love.” It is also good to give thanks and praise for the gifts that are more difficult to accept—the things that chafe, the things that are heavy. That’s a more challenging thing to do, but that’s another story for another day.

Mead and Metal

The Dionysian Artist in The Dionysian Artist

In these times of decadence where the price of our labour is turned into an abstract digit on a computer screen, where we can walk into supermarkets that house every conceivable produce we would ever want, we tend to forget the significance of the objects around us. Imagine a fantasy world where if we wanted a computer we would have to make it ourselves down to every microchip, or at least, knew the person who made it. Now picture that for everything around you. Do you think we would be such a disposable society if we had such intimacy with objects?

What I love about studying ancient polytheist cultures is that everything around these people was part of a never ending cycle of narratives, layers upon layers of mysteries that explain the holy significance of things we wouldn’t even think for a second about now. For example how on earth does honey become associated with the sun and stars? What do swaddling clothes (a long forgotten tradition of binding infants to pacify them) have in common with fermenting? What does mead have to do with metal? I believe that through exploring these unusual mysteries we can get a glimpse into the thoughts of our ancestors and a greater understanding of the gods. Hopefully I’ll touch on some of those secrets in this article.

As I’ve mentioned before, alcohol was of major importance to developing civilisations for factors other than recreation. Its foremost practical purpose was it allowed impure water to be safely consumed and also prevented water from being spoiled while navigating the seas. Thereby, alcohol allowed larger cities to flourish and exploration and trade to spread. It also held a religious significance in its mind altering nature; its euphoria was seen as something divine. We associate Dionysos as being the god of wine but he is the god of honey too, with mead being a popular drink throughout Greek history. Dionysos is attributed by Ovid 1 as being the creator of honey and is often described with honeyed words from honey coated lips, wielding his Thyrsos pointed with a pinecone dripping with honey.

Karl Kerényi dedicates a fascinating and complex chapter to honey and mead in Dionysos: Archetypal Image of Indestructible Life, where he explores the religious significance of mead. In linguistics honey and intoxication have been connected since the birth of language:

“The original Greek words for “to be drunk” and “to make drunk” are methyein and methyskein. Rarer and later is oinoun “to intoxicate with wine.” Echoes of methy signify “honey” not only in a number of Indo-European languages but also in a common Indo-European-Finn-Ugric stratum; for example, Finnish mesi, metinen, and Hungarian mez. German Met and English “mead” signify, “honey beer,” and these words have exact parallels in the Norse languages.” 2

Kerenyi continues to explain that mead was developed early in the Aegean, before the introduction of wine, indicating that the production of mead coincided with a celestial calendar which followed the star Sirius (the Dog Star).

“It seems strange to us that the four cardinal points of the solar year-the two solstices and two equinoxes-the summer solstice should have been chosen as the beginning of the year. With it begins the hottest period of the year. The days begin to grow shorter, the nights, longer. Men yearn for the night.”

The Sirius calendar originates from Egypt with the rising and falling of the Nile which corresponds with the Dog Star, a system introduced to Greece via the Minoans and who used natural sun caves to measure the year. The caves around Crete were considered sacred spaces of the gods as often their birth place or place they were brought up and protected in. It was in these places people found mystery, miracles, initiation and epiphany. Of the few animals that inhabited these caves were bees with their honey considered the either the blood or food of the gods – ichor or ambrosia.

“Before they were domesticated, bees had often been found in caves. With their sweet food they were the most natural nurses for a Divine Child who was born and then kept hidden in a cave. The archetypal situation that nature offered was taken into the Greek myth of Zeus.” 3

Before the cultivation of bees, the primitive people of Crete would ‘steal’ the food of gods and place the honey in leather sacks. Men stealing the sacred food of the gods was maintained in myth:

“The cave is inhabited by sacred bees, the nurses of Zeus. It is further related that four foolhardy men wished to gather the honey of the bees. They put on bronze armour, scooped up some of the honey, and saw the “swaddling clothes of Zeus.” Thereupon their armour cracked and fell from their bodies. Zeus was angry and raised his thunderbolt against them, but the goddess of fate and Themis, goddess of the rule of nature, restrained Zeus. For it would had been contrary to the hosion if anyone had died in this cave. The four honey thieves were transformed into birds.” 4

These sacks were kept in the sun and in time became alcoholic. Consuming the sacred substance was then confirmed as a miracle by the mind altering euphoria that was guided by the light of the sun and stars. These sacks were named ‘korykos’ 5 and were associated with the swaddling clothes of the gods which were held in such holy regard that they were featured in caves where gods were said to be born throughout Greece. Just as the clothes transformed the babes into developed gods, it too turns water into an epiphany inducing liquid.

Bee hives were not exclusively for collecting honey either, as perhaps an equally important product of hives is the wax. The surrounding civilisations of Greece may have illuminated the night with candles so we could continue to draw the associations of bees, heat and light from there. However there is little indication that candles were popularly used by Greeks, who preferred instead oil lamps. There are a number of reasons for this; Greece was a major producer of olives and olive oil so as a natural resource it was practical to use oil instead. Beeswax has historically been an expensive luxury item and would have been uncommon in lower and middle class homes. The only alternative to bees wax is tallow, animal fat, which is unpleasant to burn because of the smell.

In regards to the ancient Greeks wax can literately be seen as the flesh of the gods, but the relationship of heat and light is different from candles. Greeks were the pioneers of complex figurative sculpture and perfected a method of bronze casting called the lost wax process.

At art school I minored in bronze sculpture and learnt that bronze techniques have not changed since ancient times. I quickly fell in love with wax as a medium as compared to water-based clays it is relatively stable and also malleable. Unless exposed to extreme heat, such as being left in the summer sun, wax will not melt or disfigure. It can be kept forever.

The lost wax process is simple and genius: one sculpts an object in wax, it is then moulded in a terracotta slip that is fired in a kiln, the wax drips out as the mould is simultaneously cooked. All that is left is a hollow mould ready for bronze to be poured into it. Afterwards the mould is smashed apart and the wax figure is reborn as a metal object that will last forever.

Wax and bronze continue to share an uncanny physical relationship: the heating and cooling of both is similar, for when bronze is poured into a mould its liquid form is a higher volume than the solid cool state. This means when poured into a mould it will expand and constrict, picking up all the detail. Wax goes through the same process and is able to pick up incredible detail, even finger prints. In this regard, copying bronze (counter casting, transference to wax and remoulding) produce identical statues without any size distortions or alterations.

After the bronze statue is complete it is then covered in wax as a finish, as is still practiced today. The green and brown patina that we associate with the look of bronze is the same as how we now envision Greek marble to be always white. Most Greek bronzes were melted down and destroyed and those we have in museums were usually discovered buried or in shipwrecks where they inherited the brown or green colouring from the exposure to the elements. In classical times bronzes would have been highly polished to the point they gleamed like gold with a thin layer of wax polish to protect the metal from oxidisation from the air. To maintain this polish, especially for statues exposed outside, they would have been constantly maintained by polishing and waxing.

The connection between Dionysos and Hephaistos is known in Greek mythology usually attributed to Dionysos being the liberator of the labourers’ burden. According to myth the two gods enter Olympus together, but I believe their relationship goes further with this connection between bees and bronze. As mentioned these substances used in bronze-making have an interconnected back-and-forth affinity. On top of that, the process of bronze making is similar to that of the production of mead: benign substance from bee hives, transference into container, heat, holy transformation (rebirth). Indeed it can be argued that the mould of the statue is as the swaddling clothes of gods, in both function and appearance.

In Delphi there is a legendary artefact called the Omphalos. It is a carved domed stone said to be the same stone that Rhea fooled Kronos with when he was eating his own children and made to appear like the swaddling clothes of Zeus. The Delphi oracle presided over this stone when giving her prophecies and it was kept as a holy symbol as the centre of the world. It appears just like a mould used for casting bronze statues. Also like a mould, the Omphalos is hollowed out. We don’t know for sure what religious purpose the stone served, but I speculate based on the idea of the korykos, that it was a vessel that held the blood of the gods in the form of alcohol. This is further evident in other cultures that still maintain Omphaloi, such as the one found in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, which in appearance has evolved into a cup or grail. 6

Further, the stone is often directly related to a hive, and the priestesses of Delphi who presided over the Omphalos, when giving prophecy, were called the Delphic Bee. 7 The Homeric Hymn IV to Hermes hints at bees, prophecy, since it states that Apollon learnt the art of bird prophecy from Bee Maidens: Melaina, Kleodora and Daphnis and grants their gifts to Hermes:
“But I will tell you another thing, Son of all-glorious Maia and Zeus who holds the aegis, luck-bringing genius of the gods. There are certain holy ones, sisters born — three virgins gifted with wings: their heads are besprinkled with white meal, and they dwell under a ridge of Parnassus. These are teachers of divination apart from me, the art which I practised while yet a boy following herds, though my father paid no heed to it. From their home they fly now here, now there, feeding on honey-comb and bringing all things to pass. And when they are inspired through eating yellow honey, they are willing to speak truth; but if they be deprived of the gods’ sweet food, then they speak falsely, as they swarm in and out together. These, then, I give you; enquire of them strictly and delight your heart: and if you should teach any mortal so to do, often will he hear your response — if he have good fortune. Take these, Son of Maia, and tend the wild roving, horned oxen and horses and patient mules.” 8

In Samothracian Mysteries we see the three gods Apollon, Dionysos and Hephaistos come together with their association of the Korybantes, a group of armoured warriors that protected Zeus as a child. There also seems to be a parallel with the birds myth mentioned above with the honey thieves.
The Korybantes are shown clad in armour and dancing, clanging and bashing their shield and sword to drown out the cries of the babe. Their dance is an integral part of the mysteries. Bees have a unique method of communication that involves dancing and buzzing their wings, often to communicate an alert to defend the hive… are the Korybantes the bees of Zeus?

Strabo 9 claims that the Korybantes are made up of separate groups of the sons of Hephaistos and Apollon. Details of the Samothracian Mysteries are sketchy, at best, but the sons of Hephaistos are the Kabeiroi (Cabiri), ecstatic dwarves often depicted as satyr-like daimons in the act of making and consuming wine. They are talented smiths that grant blessings to sailors, as well as the caretakers and guardians of the phallus of Dionysos-Zagreus after he is dismembered by the Titans.

It is at the Samothracian Mysteries that the founders of Thebes, Kadmos and Harmonia, met and later wed. Their most renowned daughter is Semele, the mother of the Olympian Dionysos, but Autonoë is also of interest as she was married to Aristaios (Aristaeus), the son of Apollon and the first cultivator of bees.

As with many agriculture heroes that invented and taught the mysteries of cultivation, there are differing myths of how Aristaios domesticated bees. In the theme of this article the most interesting story begins with his natural hives being destroyed by an irate Orpheus after the death of his wife. Aristaios, unhappy that he lost his hives approached the Delphic prophetess for guidance, and she said that he would find bees and honour on the island of Ceos. Aristaios followed her advice and arrived on the island to discover the natives suffering a terrible pestilence. The hero set aside his quest for bees and helped the people by honouring Zeus Ikmaios and the Dog Star, Sirius. He sacrificed bulls to both gods and from their flesh came tamed bees and honey that healed the people of Ceos and brought the cool winds and rain, thereby inventing the New Year festival dedicated to domesticated bees at the rising of Sirius. 10

This is just a minor sample of the nuances of the interwoven tapestry of honey in myth and serves a point to demonstrate that a substance many consider common and mundane was actually part of a rich and complex narrative that resonated with peoples’ identities and faith.
Although what we know of myth is just a fraction of what was told in the past, we are the first people in history to have a compiled database of stories from these people. We have access to hundreds (if not thousands) of unforgotten tales that hint at the nature of the human psyche which allows us to empathise with our ancestors and grasp at their knowledge of nature and the divine. It is through these myths that we can find hints at the mysteries and re-establish what has been forgotten.

A special thank you to Emily Kamp for her constructive criticism and Linda Spencer for the use of her photos.

Sources:

1 Ovid, Fasti III 736

2 Kerényi, Dionysos, 38

3 Kerényi, Dionysos, 31

4 Kerényi, Dionysos, 30-31

5 Kerényi, Dionysos, 45:

“The cave was called Korykion antron, “cave of the leather sack” – the most famous of all those places in and outside the Greek world that were named after the korykos, the container for liquids used in fermenting honey and, as we have seen, associated with a Cretan cave of Zeus.”

6 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Church_of_the_Holy_Sepulchre#Catholicon_and_Ambulatory
Image: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:%D0%9F%D1%83%D0%BF_%D0%B7%D0%B5%D0%BC%D0%BB%D0%B8.jpg

7 Kerényi, Dionysos, 49 via Pindar, Pythia IV 60

8 Homeric Hymns, Trans. By H. G. Evelyn-White, IV. To Hermes.

9 Strabo, Geography 10. 3. 20 – 22 Trans. Jones

10 Kerényi, Dionysos, 39
http://www.theoi.com/Georgikos/Aristaios.html

Images:

Fig1: Bronze being poured in moulds at my art school, credit: Linda Spencer, used with permission.
Fig2: Left: “Omphalos in Delphi archeologic museum” credit: Юкатан, 2009 CC licence.
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Omphalos_museum.jpg
Right: Fired moulds being removed from kiln, credit: Linda Spencer, used with permission.

Cû Dumni – A Dog of the Underworld

Segomâros Widugeni in Nemeton Segomâros

When I first started this column, I promised the occasional glimpse of my life in rural Florida. For the most part, I have not kept this promise, as the subject matter has proven too demanding and interesting for me to spend much time on personal subjects. A good break point has been hard to find, a good place to talk about my own life, without damaging my exposition of Gaulish Polytheism itself. But, he point where we shift from worldview to deities is as good a place as any, I suppose, so I will inject a few stories here – stories about a dog, and about our life, and our neighbors.

So, then, how does a Gaulish Polytheist of educated, suburban, Northern origin live in the woods of rural Florida? The unsurprising answer is: not that much differently than anyone else here. It’s a wilder life than most of you are used to, I suppose, but some millions of people in this state of 18 million inhabitants live in more or less the way we do, though perhaps with harder lives than we have, more suffering, and fewer opportunities.

We inhabit a four bedroom house, neither a mansion nor a hovel, on a half-acre of land, in a small rural settlement on the southern fringe of the Ocala National Forest. Orlando, home of the infamous Disney World, is a little more than an hour away. Daytona Beach is less than an hour. Ocala an hour in the other direction. The nearest town is about seven minutes away, and consists of two gas stations, a Dollar General Store, a library, a community center, and a post office. Technically, it’s not a town, as it has no municipal government, but rather a Census Designated Place – a mere wide spot in the road where the Census Department has munificently condescended to count people. For a town with its own City Hall and Police Department, you have to go twenty minutes the other way.

Most of the inhabitants of our little settlement live in trailers. The roads are gravel, and the Community Association (of which my wife, Dawn, and I are Board members) has a terrible time keeping them up during the rainy season. That’s all the Community Association does, by the way, that and keep up a little building generously called the Community Center, where we hold occasional fundraisers to help with the roads. Our neighbors are an interesting lot: mostly white, a few Hispanic, some Northern transplants, some Southerners, a couple fairly affluent, the retirees among them forming a middle stratum, and most terribly poor. Some don’t know where their next meals are coming from. Dawn and I help out where we can, mostly by hiring our neighbors to help us with projects whenever possible. Most of the other middling or affluent people here do the same. When I do this, I work right beside them. When money’s short, sometimes we pay in kind. Sometimes, we drink afterwards together, the privileged and the less privileged swigging rum from the same bottle and swapping stories.

To my knowledge, all of our neighbors are Christian. They do and don’t know about our religion. It’s a bit of an open secret, a thing everyone knows, but no one talks about. At least one neighbor refers to Dawn as the Village Witch, a name she wears with pride.

But tonight’s column isn’t about us. It’s about a dog. We have three dogs, two cats, and about ten chickens. The chickens provide us with eggs. We could live on them if we had to.

One of the dogs used to be a stray. When we first saw him about five years ago, he was emaciated and starving, a pale white hound dog mutt, lean bodied even if he’d had enough food, with a long head and floppy ears. As near as we could see, some lowlife sadistic coward had dumped him out here, something that happens occasionally, but had clearly spent a lifetime abusing him first. He was terrified of people, men in particular, dark haired men like me most of all. He was the most elusive dog I’d ever seen. You couldn’t get within ten feet of him, before he darted back into the woods. But he had a funny, brave habit: he barked at the bears, drove them away from the settled parts of the community.

You see, we have a bit of a bear problem out here. Bears are numerous. They get into people’s garbage. They bed down in people’s yards. They break into chicken coops for the feed. They even have the habit of getting into unlocked trucks looking for food. I’ve seen this myself. One night, I was coming home late, and saw that the lights were on in Dawn’s truck. I wondered why that would be. Was she out looking for something? As I pulled up, a bear lumbered out of the truck’s front seat, and sauntered off into the woods, staring at me insolently. The truck was undamaged except for some leaves on the seats, but we lock our vehicles now. Not from fear of crime, but from fear of bears.

So, then, this white dog would bark at the bears and frighten them off. Well, pretty quickly people figured this out and started feeding him. They’d leave the food out, then retreat until he could overcome his fear and eat it. He acquired several names in that time. I called him Cû Dumni, “Dog of the Underworld”, a sort of Gaulish riff off the Welsh Cwn Annwn. Most people named him Shy Away, from his obvious habits. Dawn, who respected neither my nor the neighbors’ naming choices, named him Caspar, because he was a sort of “friendly ghost” of a dog.

Over time, the dog became less afraid of people. You could get closer to him, though he still retreated eventually. A few less generous types among the neighbors called County Animal Control on him. After all, he got into the garbage from time to time, too. And he barked in the night, keeping the bears in the woods, in their own kingdom. Some people Didn’t Get It, and found it irritating. Animal Control dutifully came out, set traps, and drove around in trucks carrying poles set with nooses, to bring him in. They didn’t catch him. He was just too elusive, too smart. Eventually, they gave up trying, and returned to town, defeated.

Dawn fed Caspar more than anyone else, and he spent more and more time on our land. Eventually, he practically lived in our crawl space, though he still adventured every night. He would let Dawn pet him, and even I could pat him on the head every now and then, though he would then beat a quick retreat.

One wet day, I was in the front yard, I forget for what reason. Caspar was there with me, although a short distance away, as was his habit. Some teens were roaring up and down the road in an ATV, splashing through mud puddles. They were well known as mean kids, from families into drugs and violence. Caspar took off after their ATV, barking. And they steered right for him and ran him over. The ATV flipped him up into the air. He turned over twice, head over tail, and came down with a sickening crunch I could hear from across the yard and the street. They whooped, hollered, and laughed, then drove on without stopping. Poor Caspar, incredibly, got up and limped into the woods.

There were a lot of witnesses: two people across the street, and the next door neighbors, who don’t exactly live close by but still could see. The kids realized they had been seen spotted, and came back. Now, only now, they were all apologies, all remorse. I didn’t believe it for a second, but it wasn’t the time to start a feud. I enlisted them into a search party, and we looked for the dog. We looked all afternoon, but could not find him. Injured, he was more frightened than ever, more elusive. The day ended with me certain the dog had crawled off into the woods to die.

That sad certainty was gone late the next day. A shivering, traumatized, limping Caspar came out of the woods, and up to our house, seeking Dawn, the only person he trusted to help him. So, help him we did. He got him to a vet right away. It turned out that the only injury was a broken leg, so a good fate had actually been sworn for Caspar that day. The setting and bandaging of the leg, plus antibiotics, assorted shots Caspar had never had, and other bills cost more than we could afford, so we took up a collection on Dawn’s Facebook, and assorted websites. Neighbors and others donated, and we were able to pay all Caspar’s medical bills.

We took him in after that, and kept him in the house, while he gradually healed. By the time he was healed up, he was well and truly our dog, pretty well house trained, and even willing to cuddle with us on the couch. So, the dog who once retreated from me at ten feet now is willing let me hold and stroke his ears. Sometimes, men, women, and dogs win victories together – victories of compassion and gentleness, boudios trei trougocariin.

Is There A Difference Between “Syncretic” and “Syncretistic”?: A Suggestion

P. Sufenas Virius Lupus in Speaking of Syncretism

It often amazes me how words get used incorrectly. I enjoy puns probably far more than the next person (such that I speak of “pottery readings,” “remaining clam,” seeing “pigments of the imagination,” and so forth regularly!), and a clever replacement of a similar word in a stock phrase can often create results far more profound than simple amusement at cleverness.

However, it seems that a lot of people within both general paganism and modern polytheism misunderstand the term “syncretism,” and speak of deities “synchronizing” with each other (which they can do, but that means “at the same time,” as opposed to anything necessitated by theological or methodological syncretism), amongst many other possibilities, including mistaken usage of the words “synthesize,” “symmetry,” and others, in addition to misspellings of the term (e.g. “syncratic,” as if a particular culture is idiosyncratic in its perceptions of a particular deity, etc.). This happens with other terms as well: the immanence of deities is often mistaken for their imminence (i.e. happening soon) or their eminence (i.e. being noticeable and noteworthy), and while all three can certainly apply, when the specific issue at hand is the accessibility of the experiences of a given deity, the deity’s bigness or its looming immediacy is not the main focus.

Just over four years ago, I wrote a piece on my blog called “Nuancing Syncretism” which ended up getting quite a few comments (a rarity for me!). In it, I attempted to differentiate the adjectives “syncretic” and “syncretistic,” both of which are considered grammatically and linguistically viable forms in English, and yet neither one has any particularly recognized or acknowledged shade of nuance which distinguishes their definitions or potential usages. I then attempted to use these attempted distinctions in other pieces, including a presentation at PantheaCon in 2012, a course I have taught, and even in one of my books, but in practice afterwards, I have not adhered to the shades of nuance I was attempting to theorize in my own usages, both on my own blog as well as here and elsewhere in contexts where I have had occasion to discuss syncretism.

However, on further reflection, I think a more useful distinction of definitions between “syncretic” and “syncretistic” can be suggested, and it is one that I hope to observe more assiduously in my own future usages.

In theorizing on this, I might draw readers’ attentions to a slight difference observed in some sectors of religious studies between two different types of belief involved in animism. Some scholars observe a difference between animism–the cosmology which suggests there is a spirit in everything, and thus there is no such thing as a truly “inanimate object”–and animatism (a term which spell-check hates!), which is animism but goes one step further, in a sense, and equates objects to the spiritual essence inhabiting them. Thus, a volcanic rock from Hawai’i may not just have the spirit of a particular deity or landform in it, it is that spirit, or at least has a part of it (and as a result should not be removed from the island!). All animatists, therefore, would be animists, whereas not all animists are automatically animatists.

While the morphological differences in “syncretic” and “syncretistic” may be somewhat parallel, my present suggestions for how to differentiate their usages is of a different sort. Yet, “syncretic” and “syncretistic” also cannot be separated from each other either in what follows. Religions that are “syncretistic” are also “syncretic,” but often frown upon syncretism generally (after a certain point); but while some “syncretic” religions have “syncretistic” origins, they tend not to be “syncretistic” strictly speaking for long periods of time.

What do I mean by the above?

I’d like to suggest that syncretic is an adjective best applied to a wide variety of religions, which are usually indigenous in context, animistic in outlook and cosmology, and polytheistic in practice…and, most often, all three of these things (which are never mutually exclusive, in any case!). Religions which have syncretic elements are able to incorporate new influences from other cultures, and thus new deities (whether they are imported from elsewhere and are localized, or are new developments within their own mythologies, cosmologies, and theologies), new practices, and all sorts of other novel or emerging elements without any difficulty. Most of the ancient indigenous polytheistic religions the world over have thus had syncretic elements. The cultus of Serapis in Egypt and Greece, the cultus of Sabazios in Thrace and eventually Greek and Roman cultures, and the cultus of Antinous in Greece, Rome, and Egypt are examples of phenomena which are syncretic in nature. The development of the cultus of Isis in Egypt, which was both intra- and inter-pantheonic in its syncretism, is a syncretic cultus. Hinduism is likewise syncretic, and can incorporate elements from other religions, as well as new developments within itself, quite easily. Shinto had no problem incorporating aspects of Buddhism, Taoism, and even Christianity (in the form of some saints who were turned into kami) at some shrines. And Buddhism itself remains highly syncretic, able to accommodate itself into or alongside a diverse range of religious and spiritual beliefs and practices with no difficulty whatsoever. The examples of this could be multiplied extensively, but I hope the basic premise here is clear: the syncretic element is an ongoing one in a wide variety of religions that are often polytheistic in outlook or practice.

My suggestion for syncretistic differs slightly, in that it does not refer to an ongoing process or particular elements in a religion, but instead refers to the origins of certain religions. Syncretistic religions, thus, are religions that would not and could not exist without syncretism occurring (both theologically and methodologically). These religions, thus, tend not to be indigenous religions, whose origins in the distant past are often entirely unknown and specific times, places, or founding figures cannot be pointed towards in their geneses; even if one of those variables can be narrowed down, the other two (and others) generally remain unknown or uncertain. Syncretistic religions emerge in definite historical periods, and tend to seek to distinguish themselves from earlier religions; and yet, not all newer religions are syncretistic, while some remain syncretic or have syncretic tendencies. As an example, Christianity is not simply a (failed!) Jewish messianic movement turned into a creedal monotheistic religion of salvation; various forms of Christianity, both in its first few centuries as well as after, incorporated elements of Greek philosophy and mystery traditions, gnostic ideas and practices, and a variety of other influences, including the transformation of some deities and heroes in various polytheistic cultures into saints and the adoption of some holy days and practices into Christian sacramental and liturgical life. At different times and in different places, Christianity’s syncretistic origins have seemed to continue, and it allows for syncretic innovations; but in general, syncretism is frowned upon in most forms of Christianity, despite the religion’s origins themselves being syncretistic. Islam, likewise, is a fusion of Arabic cultural norms and some practices from their polytheistic origins with a re-interpretation of Christian monotheism and a heavy reinterpretation of Judaism as well, which would make it syncretistic, even though it also thinks of syncretic innovations as being amongst the most dire and inexcusable of errors and sins. The Sikh religion is also syncretistic in its origins, having developed within a context where Islamic theological and Hindu practical elements combined in a new revelation to Guru Nanak in his founding of the new faith. Examples could also be extended here to many other religions, including more recent ones like Baha’i, Cao Dai, and Wicca. What makes a religion syncretistic, thus, is that it originates in the ferment of two or more religions even where it radically innovates or even deviates from the established practices of the ones which came before it.

Returning to my suggestion above, that religions that are syncretistic are also by (the above-suggested!) definition syncretic, but often frown upon syncretism generally, is demonstrated by Christianity and Islam, but not by Wicca, for example. Likewise, some syncretic religions may have syncretistic origins, but this is generally hard to determine (e.g. some indigenous cultures develop from the mutual influences of two or more earlier cultures existing in the same geographic areas), but nonetheless they tend not to be classed as syncretistic, strictly speaking (as defined above!) for very long periods of time. The ancient Greek religion that is most recognizable in its quasi-panhellenic forms was itself the result of influences not only from the Indo-Europeans encountering the Myceneans, but also Thraco-Anatolian, Near Eastern, and a wide variety of other religions, and yet we tend not to classify it as syncretistic, even though it continues to have many syncretic elements as time goes on. The same is true of Roman religion, and all of the Celtic and Germanic religions of which we have any knowledge. There are certainly individual cults within different polytheistic religions that are syncretistic in origin–the ones mentioned above, namely Serapis, Sabazios, Antinous, and Isis (which is only a small sampling)–but their existence does not mean that the polytheistic cultures in which they emerge or are adopted are, at that point, syncretistic in general, according to the distinctions outlined above. Those cults did not differentiate themselves from the wider polytheism in which they existed, even if they are syncretistic in their own origins, which demonstrates that what is syncretistic is not a priori opposed to what is syncretic, and the two can exist easily and happily within one another.

Thus, what is syncretistic is usually an outgrowth of what is syncretic, even though what is syncretic can be deemed at odds with a religion with syncretistic origins.

It is realized that the matters discussed here, to many people (including those with a vested interest in these issues as important components of their own theological outlooks or practices), may simply appear as irrelevant hair-splitting, and that many may not wish to adopt this usage or to respect the suggestions made herein. That is not really my concern, and it is entirely up to any individual whether or not they find these suggestions useful or their future employment expedient. If your responses to or comments about the above amount to a disagreement–for whatever reason–with the premises of my suggestion, then I would request that you outline your own views on the matter in a convenient spot elsewhere online, linking to the present discussion, rather than attempting to tell me why you think I’m ~~irrelevant, stupid, and~~ wrong in the comments below. While I am an important voice in discussing syncretism within modern polytheism, I do not seek to control the discourse on this matter, nor to dictate to anyone what their own usages should be. I am attempting to provide useful options here, and elsewhere, and if you feel that I am accomplishing that, I’d appreciate your feedback indicating such. If you do disagree, then I look forward to reading your own explanations of how you think these terms might be better employed, if indeed they should be at all, in your own blogging spaces elsewhere.

Polytheism and Science (I): Coagulation

Edward P. Butler in Noēseis

According to the Platonists, the procession or emergence of being begins with a distinction within a deity, any deity, between Their existence (hyparxis) and Their power(s) (dynamis/dynameis), that which Damascius characterizes as “the very first of all distinctions and which is all but absorbed in indeterminacy, so that the second seems to be the power of the first, a power coagulated in existence,” (De principiis I 118.11-14 Combès-Westerink). The term here translated as ‘coagulated’ is sumpepêguian, a word we see, for example, used in the Iliad (5.902) to refer to the way that fig juice coagulates milk as it is stirred into it, part of the process of making cheese. This coagulation, within the fluid medium of a God’s essentially unique existence, of distinguishable powers, is what allows for Being to be grasped and understood, and in the Platonic account, is what makes philosophy, mathematics, and science in general possible.

Fundamental ontological processes, by definition, are taking place everywhere and all the time. Hence the coagulation of which Damascius is speaking, and which is the beginning of Being, is immanent to concrete acts of thought we can, in principle, perform at any time. One situation in which we can experience the coagulation of power(s) from existence is in every hymn to a God, as the hymn predicates of Them powers, perfections, or virtues, sometimes in the simple form of epithets which are basically adjectives, sometimes in the complex form of attributing actions or relations to Them. This ontological function is of course particularly present in the hymn to the degree that the hymn is dependent primarily not on other texts, but on direct, originary theophany. In this process, a God’s powers coagulate in the medium of Their presence, becoming partially separable in thought from the totality of the God’s nature, while still sharing in it. In this fashion the concept, in its true potency, is born. For powers identified and experienced in a God are experienced beyond the limits those powers would have as present in mortals. We do not yet have to take up the question of whether a God’s powers are, just by virtue of being a God’s, ‘infinite’ as such, or whether they are constrained by that God’s other powers, or by the powers of other Gods; it is enough for our present purposes to recognize that a God’s powers are experienced as indefinitely beyond the constraints associated with the mortal powers analogous to them. It is such powers that ‘coagulate’ in the hymn.

From powers experienced beyond mortal limits a certain kind of concept, in turn, becomes possible. There is a difference between concepts formed passively from experience and concepts which can structure experience in a more radical fashion. We can see examples in the elemental concepts of the earliest Hellenic philosophers. Water, in order to become a ‘principle’, an archê, for the great early Greek philosopher, mathematician and astronomer Thales, if we are to credit Aristotle’s account of his thought (Metaphysics 983b21-28), has become something which is also not water, because archê-water—that’s my term, not Thales’ or Aristotle’s—has the power to transform itself into all the things around us, things which do not share any single consistent quality of water, though they all share this or that watery quality, one thing its translucence, another thing its flowing motility. In fact, water in the everyday sense must be regarded as categorically distinct from archê-water.

Perhaps Thales came to his archê-water concept, Aristotle says, “by observing that all food is moist and that heat itself is generated from the moist and is kept alive by it … and because the seeds of all things have a moist nature, and water is the principle of moist things,” (trans. H. G. Apostle). But archê-water, if indeed everything we see around us has come to be from out of it, if it is a universal valuation, as Heraclitus says in turn about his archê-fire—“All things are exchanged/requital [antamoibê] for fire, and fire for all things, as goods for gold and gold for goods,” (frag. 90 Diels)—embodies a leap beyond what can be gathered and inferred from ordinary experience of moisture. Archê-water operates as a divine power does, everywhere and in all things, and Aristotle recognizes this, too, when he says that “some think”—e.g., Plato (Cratylus 402b, Theaetetus 152e, 180c-d)—“that the ancients … who first theologized, also conceived nature in this way, for they made Okeanos and Tethys out to be fathers of generation, and the oath of the Gods as being by water, called by them Styx,” (983b28-34). There are some, too, who see in Thales’ reported sojourn in Egypt the possibility of his having been influenced by Egyptian theologies. History, diffusion and influence, is not the point here, though, but rather that functionally Thales’ ‘water’ is more akin to the watery powers of Okeanos, Tethys, or Nūn, than it is like H₂O, though it encompasses H₂O as well as much more. And without the liberation of the concept from the constraints of mundane experience, the scientific concept in the modern sense would never have been possible. (Much would still need to be said about the difference between the Greek concept of epistêmê and our conception of ‘science’ which descends from it.)

Nor is this process only to be observed in early physics or natural philosophy, but is equally evident with respect to mathematics, which for the Pythagoreans was directly linked to reflection upon the powers of the Gods, and logic, the discovery of which in Parmenides is embedded in a theophany which is not incidental to it, but is rather its essential context. Modern commentators have inevitably, in attempting to grasp the genesis of these disciplines in ancient polytheist thinkers, either separated these theological concerns from their proto-scientific activities, as though these were in some tension with each other, or have used the presence of polytheistic theologies in these thinkers as proof that their concepts had failed to cross a crucial threshold of scientificity. A perspective informed by polytheistic metaphysics can, by contrast, restore the integrity of ancient thought. Moreover, in restoring the continuity between polytheistic theologies, wisdom traditions and the beginnings of scientific speculation, the polytheist can correct an excessively Eurocentric account of the development of the sciences, because the fundamental intellectual and ontological basis of the sciences is seen to exist in every culture, though historical contingencies have led to certain aspects being developed further in some cultures than in others.

By recognizing that Thales is not simply talking about ‘water’, or Heraclitus about ‘fire’, in the narrow sense, we recover for these doctrines, as for other doctrines of ancient physics, a perennial relevance which the scientific concepts, which are in certain respects their descendants, cannot render obsolete. Thales was not saying antiquated and incorrect things about H₂O; he was thinking about a pancosmic function of which H₂O is only one instance—indeed, of which H₂O is, properly speaking, a symbol, and the relation between symbol and a living totality is analogous, whether we are speaking of H₂O and archê-water or of some attribute or function of a God and Their living totality, like love and Aphrodite or queenship and Hera or prudence and Athena. That is, romantic love is to love as a cosmic principle, archê-love, as we see it in Empedocles, as archê-love is to Aphrodite. Aphrodite is not a symbol for love; love is a symbol for Aphrodite.

Thales also said that all things are full of Gods (quoted by Aristotle, De Anima 411a7, and by Plato, Laws 899b). Aristotle elucidates a story about Heraclitus to the same effect:

In all natural things there is something wondrous. There is a story which tells how some visitors once wished to meet Heraclitus, and when they entered and saw him in the kitchen, warming himself at the stove, they hesitated; but Heraclitus said, “Come in; don’t be afraid; there are Gods even here.” … In the works of nature purpose and not accident is predominant; and the purpose or end for the sake of which those works have been constructed or formed has its place among what is beautiful. (De Partibus Animalium 645a18–27, trans. A. L. Peck, mod.)

‘Purpose’ here does not have the banal sense of a plan external to the things themselves, as though things existed for their value to something else, but rather of the organic unity of each organism as such, to the preservation of which all of its parts are dedicated: “Just as in discussing a house, it is the whole figure and form of the house which concerns us, not merely the bricks and mortar and timber,” (ibid., 645a33-34). The presence of the Gods to the cosmos, everywhere and all through it, allows us to appreciate the value things have in and of themselves. The principles active in each and every thing, because they are pancosmic in their activity, make of each thing a cosmos in itself; and this quality of being a cosmos in itself, rather than this or that principle in particular, is how things primarily partake of the nature of the Gods. Such a thing can be studied and understood, it is intelligible all through itself, and there is nothing we can learn about the world which is not at the same time learning something about our Gods.

colouring outside the lines

Guest Author in Featured Voices

Owing to a mystical dress that changes colour in the presence of Orcs, colour itself has become a recently popularized topic. In particular importance has been reference to the epics of Homer, wherein there is no mention of the colour ‘blue’ as a descriptor, and how this is used as evidence to indicate that the Ancient Greeks were incapable of recognizing the colour ‘blue’, as they evidently had no word for it.

Before we can approach the mysterious lack of ‘blue’ in ancient Greece, we have to first understand the difference between linguistic differentiation of colour and the actual perception of it. In English, we have a variety of cardinal colours, which represent ‘fundamental’ categories to which more specific shades and hues are said to belong. The colour ‘blue’ for instance encompasses a wide variety of different shades, and both general categories like ‘dark blue’ or ‘light blue’ or ‘deep blue’ are all just kinds of ‘blue’, as too are ‘navy’ and ‘neon electric glitter-blueberry’. On the other hand, English speakers believe, owing to the linguistic distinction, that there is a difference between ‘red’ and ‘pink’. ‘Dark red’ is a shade of ‘red’, but ‘pink’ has its own distinct range of ‘dark’ and ‘light’ that is somehow distinct from ‘red’, although ‘pink’ is itself ‘light red’, even in a range of lightness that would correspond to ‘light blue’. Simply because a language makes a distinction, such as between ‘red’ and ‘light red’ (as ‘pink’), or fails to, such as between ‘dark blue’ and ‘light blue’, does not mean that a speaker is incapable of recognizing the existence of any of these shades or colours.

Homer uses the word οἶνοψ (oînops), which means ‘wine-coloured’, to describe the sea, and also to describe cattle. It’s been said that the reason for this has to do with a lack of the word for ‘blue’, and so Homer could not possibly have described something as ‘blue’ because he had no word for it and thus could not perceive it, and thus the closest thing he could come up with was ‘wine-coloured’. And also for cows. Many of his other colour choices have also been questioned, such as his use of χάλκεος (khálkeos) ‘bronze; copper’ to describe a sky, or χλωρός (khlōrós) ‘green’ to describe honey, or a word derived from κύανος (kýanos) ‘dark blue’ to describe Poseidon’s hair. But of course obviously Homer could not have used that word anyway since apparently Ancient Greek had no word for ‘blue’ in the first place, and thus obviously he never did. Except in the Iliad. And also in the Odyssey.

One thing that seems to be forgotten about Homer’s work is that it is a piece of poetic literature, and this discussion on his use of colour is not a recent phenomenon. Using ‘wine-coloured’ as a description is vivid and emotive, because his tale is vivid and emotive and inspired. If every author were limited to literal dictionary definitions of colour perception, our accumulated history of literary works would have only a single colour: dull.

One common piece of evidence for this supposed lack of ‘blue’ is that there was no word in Ancient Greek that was etymologically related to our modern English word for ‘blue’ and which possessed the same meaning. Unfortunately, this is completely true. Because the word ‘blue’ in English is etymologically derived from a Proto-Indo-European root (*bʰlēw-) which means ‘yellow’. And while on that topic, the English word for ‘yellow’ is etymologically derived from the Proto-Indo-European root (*ǵʰelh₃-wos ), and is a cognate to the Ancient Greek word χλωρός (khlōrós) which means, as noted, ‘green’. Except when it meant ‘yellow’ and ‘pale’ and was used by Homer.

This ‘evidence’ in support of Ancient Greek having no colours except for when they do is especially concerning when the logic of it is applied to modern languages with current speakers who make different colour distinctions than English speakers do. For instance, many languages regard ‘blue’ and ‘green’ as a single colour, of which our ‘blue’ and our ‘green’ are merely shades. And so Mandarin has 青 (qīng) and Japanese has 青い (aoi) and Vietnamese has xanh. But this linguistic distinction does not mean that speakers of these languages are incapable of recognizing the difference between ‘blue’ and ‘green’, and it also does not mean that they lack words for further specifying individual shades of ‘blue’ or ‘green’. Mandarin has 蓝 (lán) for ‘blue’ and 绿 (lǜ) for ‘green’; Japanese has 緑 (midori) and グリーン (gurīn) both for ‘green’; Vietnamese has xanh nước biển for ‘blue’ and xanh lá cây for ‘green’.

In a similar vein to the distinction made in English, as mentioned earlier wherein ‘red’ and ‘pink’ are distinct cardinal colours, but shades of ‘blue’ are all just the same, Russian makes a distinction between синий (sinij) and голубой (galuboj), which are ‘dark blue’ and ‘light blue’ respectively, and for a Russian speaker, these are completely different colours.

Despite their obviously muddy-coloured world and lack of ‘blue’, the Greeks somehow had a vibrant use of blue dye, which can be seen by looking at frescos from Knossos. Evidence of the use of lapis lazuli, imported from Afghanistan, has been seen in Mesopotamia, such as the eyes of a statue representing a priest of Ishtar, Ebih-Il, at the site of her temple in the city-state of Mari, and in Egypt, such as in the funeral mask of Tutankhamun. Such was the influence and import of lapis lazuli, that the word for the name of the stone itself became a colour word in many languages, ultimately coming into English as ‘azure’. Similarly, the dye indigo, originating in India, was greatly associated with its origin that the name of the colour in Ancient Greek was ἰνδικόν (indikón) ‘Indian’, which was ultimately borrowed into English as ‘indigo’.

The evolution of colour words in languages are very readily linked to their usage and, quite frequently, their application in or allusion to religious imagery. Tyrian purple, a dye produced from sea snails, gave the Phoenicians their name in Greek. Owing to its incredible value, Tyrian purple became associated with the wealth necessary to acquire it and was a symbol of nobility in Etruria and Rome, and with the rise of Catholicism, was worn not just by kings, but by cardinals and bishops, and it remains so today as the colour of the Lenten season. And for Homer, the use of κύανος (kýanos) to describe the colour of Poseidon’s hair is more than just referential, but intrinsically reverential, as it honours the very watery domain that is Poseidon’s.

In looking at the world around us, it is not just our language that emerges from the experience, but our beliefs, as well. This interplay is rooted fundamentally in place and time, swirling about us as we attempt to make sense of it, grouping things into collective sets of ordered data, sometimes with rigid consistency and yet others not so much. It is our linguistic experience and background which guides us as we traverse the framework of religion and spirituality, and through those which we then redefine our perceptions of the world around us. And so although these lines we see because we have created them are convenient to colour in, they just are not as absolute as our statements about them would seem to imply.

If James Hoscyns were a colour, he would be nacre. James Hoscyns is a former recovering child prodigy and professional translator and language teacher who can be found at www.iltlang.com. He can also be found every Monday on ILT’s “Two-Minute Language” YouTube series discussing language and linguistics at http://goo.gl/16iiXI