Ixchel and The Water Pots of August by Juliet Waldron

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So many gods and goddesses lost throughout the long stretch of human history! 

Many gods of our European past were lost during the violence of Roman colonization, or absorbed, their ancient lineage lost when these divinities were given Roman names. After the Romans, came the new religion, Christianity, and the old gods and goddesses were this time baptized as "saints," which either cloaked their origins in a doctrinally acceptable story, or simply twisted the story until it fit--often uneasily--with the new religion's teachings. 

When European colonizers reached the Americas, the same thing happened to the divinities of these "newly discovered" lands. Some of those stories are lost forever, but a few kept their names. Among these surviving rarities is IxChel, a Meso-American goddess, who could be maiden/mother/crone depending on the season of the year, the age the devotee, or the phase of the moon. 

IxChel was a goddess whose survival partially rests on the written record left by priests who observed what remained of her original religion after the Spanish conquest. From what we can glean, she was a lunar goddess, and, like so many others around the ancient world, the animals which are associated with her worship, are the rabbit (fertility) and the serpent (bringer of rain.) Below is a modern rendering of the goddess from Sacred Source's catalog. To synch with our modern preoccupation with youth, this IxChel appears as a young woman, although in the few remaining Mayan texts, her "rain" hieroglyph depicts her as Crone.

https://sacredsource.com/?srsltid=AfmBOoogCd36tvDfkvTP9t_CCNoPGWpntD6DE7UZFj9UNwT0lpuIFBYC

Like the Moon, however, Ixchel waxes and wanes; she changes. She, like so many European Great Goddesses, is a triple goddess. She was a special patroness of women, whose reproductive cycles are governed by the moon. Young women prayed to her maiden self for  beauty, or for a husband. To the married women, she was Mother Ixchel, to whom you prayed for sons to please a warrior husband or for continued fertility and good health. Women of all ages prayed to Ixchel as Life Giver, asking this fruitful deity for the blessing of good harvests, as well as for good fortune and for safe delivery during the travail of childbirth. She knew the secrets of all herbs, and was known as a skillful healer.

In Meso-America, where droughts could (and historically did) bring famine and collapse to powerful city states, IxChel's sacred serpent governed the powerful hurricane rains, whose appearance was necessary to "fill the water pots"  (the cenotes which dot the permeable limestone of the Yucatan) with the precious liquid which nourished the maize, beans and squash upon which the communities depended. "Water is Life" was as real then as it is now.

As the Moon, Ixchel governed the night. She opened the womb and then cared for the child growing inside. Her pale face radiated blessings upon her sister-children here on earth; the stars were her offspring.  In some of the surviving stories, she dies and is reborn again, a miracle that, in so many religions, only male gods perform. As a goddess of vegetation, she is a kind of Persephone figure, entering the underworld and then being reborn again.

Ixchel is also said to be first weaver, the woman who taught her human children this civilizing skill. The spindle she holds and the thread she spins governs both life and death. Like the Fates of ancient Europe, she creates the fabric of our lives, and ends them when she wishes, breaking the threads. As a destroying goddess, she is called "Keeper of Bones" and crossed bones often appear in her iconography.

Cozumel, as it is known today, was once Isla Muheres, the Island of Women, sacred to Ixchel, the home of her temples. Mayan women were supposed to make pilgrimage there at least once in their lives. If you today are a fortunate traveler, you might still go and visit Ixchel there today. Offer her copal incense, cocoa beans, or small clay female statuettes, as her devotees once did on that lovely island so long ago.

Goddess Knowledge Cards,

Pomegranate

Art by Susan Eleanor Boulet

 Here she is with an avatar--her powerful jaguar self, a creature who hunts on land and in the water--for she is a shape-shifter too. Though she was married to the Sun, she, like the cat, was a law unto herself, coming and going as she chose. Not even the Sun God could own her.

~~Juliet Waldron

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A powerful connection to the earth is a common theme among all 1^st Nations’ people about whom I’ve read, whether they live north or south of the arbitrary lines European colonists drew upon their home land. In every story I read written by 1^st Nations’ People, there is a recollection of a childhood where adults have carefully fostered a deep consciousness of what European culture commonly puts in a generalized lump called “Nature.” It’s that experience with which we European moderns, the “come heres” of the western hemisphere, are -- every day-- less and less familiar.

Football with my cousin, 1950's

Instead of gazing at screens all day, most folks my age (+70) remember playing outside regularly, especially during school summer holidays. My house was near a dairy farm and the surrounding fields were in hay and alfalfa. The farmer didn’t care if my mother and I roamed across them, or if I went by myself to a wonderful pond adjacent to a woodlot. In the spring it was full of tadpoles, crayfish, and blue gills. Later, in summer, it was full of multicolored frogs. Butterflies and dragon flies sailed above muddy flats, and floated over flowering plants, whose names I did not know, although I much admired their bright colors and floating seeds.  

Sometimes I’d see rabbits, fox, or woodchucks, or come across deer at their midday rest.  Red-winged blackbirds nested among the cattails; purple martens performed their fighter-pilot maneuvers over the pond.  At home, we even had a mud nest of barn swallows every year on the far end of our porch—off-limits to us until they’d finished rearing their adorable, plump, dun-breasted family.

For several years as a young teen I was sent to a summer camp--my parents' were fighting their way toward a divorce--for the entire three months. This particular camp was truly rustic, with unheated cabins, water you carried in buckets, and a bunch of retired police horses. These days it would probably be closed down as unsanitary and unsafe. You could take a bath--if you were willing to go to the owner's house--once a week. Otherwise, you "bathed" in the farm pond in the afternoon.

Some water came into it from chilly springs , but a creek flowed in at one end and over a dam at the other, so it was constantly in motion. The pond had been part of the original farm for years, so it was established. Water snakes cruised among the lily pads and cattail beds. While those reedy spots were green and inviting in the slanting afternoon light, we stayed as far away as possible, treading water and playing mermaids in the middle with friends.

It was, among us campers, a badge of honor to never go to the big house and take a bath. How humiliating! How sorry we were for the girls whose parents insisted upon it! The rest of us washed our bodies and our hair in the pond. We floated bottles, half filled with air and half with shampoo, as well as cakes of Ivory soap on the surface beside us. After a day of playing games, hiking in the woods, riding and grooming horses, and entertaining ourselves with marathon games of jacks--we dismantled the ping pong table to use the smooth wooden surface--everyone was ready to wash off the sweat before dinner.

When I returned home at the end of August, at my mother's insistence, I marched straight upstairs and ran the bathtub full. Standing naked before the mirror, I could see the brown dirt residue left from three months of "bathing" in a silty farm pond. The swim suit outline was shades darker than my suntan.

Many years ago, my granddaughter was taken for a walk in the woods for the first time when she was around two years old. Her entire experience of "outdoors" up until then had been playing in groomed suburban yards, or passing through parking lots and shopping malls with her Mama. After a first walk with her daddy on a nature trail, she haughtily pronounced the leaf and stick strewn paths “messy and uneven.”

It’s a funny story, but it’s also sad, as it shows how limited a modern child’s experience often is of this world in which she lives.  Fortunately for her, Dad got the message. From then on, he spent time with his girl out-of-doors, so she wouldn’t suffer from what I’ve come to look upon as Nature Deprivation. She can now out-walk her Grandma any day.

Snow picnic, 1970's, at a favorite spot

When she went to college, this eighteen year old was surprised to find "Walking" was a physical education course. As phys. ed. was required of freshmen and sophomores, she signed up, and then she was again surprised by the exhaustion and pain of which her classmates complained.

Considering all this, I guess it’s no wonder that so many people today are disrespectful of the earth, especially if shopping malls, macadam, and the virtual world are all they experience. It’s not only a great emotional and spiritual misfortune for them personally, but I believe this disconnection is the root cause of our civilization's current mega-scale disregard for our only home, our birth mother. 

Pipeline explosion

I’ve been reading To You We Shall Return by a Lakota author, Joseph Marshall III. This is part of an ongoing attitude adjustment exercise, as I hope to broaden my outlook and see the world through another cultural lens. (The one with which I was raised seems to have ever so many blind spots.) From that book is a Traditional Lakota Prayer to Mother Earth: 

 Grandmother,

You who listen and hear all,

You from whom all good things come,

It is your embrace we feel

When we return to you.

~~Juliet Waldron

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