My own mother was Pele

 my own mother was Pele

in spite of the stories told by our white grandmothers

she learned her dances

I cannot say I got my passion from the mother she was supposed to be

perhaps from the one she wasn't supposed to be

but really it is more like Pele was one of our hidden ancestors

(so many of women’s ancestors are hidden)

we women are Pele

her sweet wild memory runs in our blood

often in spite of ourselves

who we were told to be

she is one of our most honored ancestors

creator of the lands that burst from the sea

passion itself

rising from the center of the earth

inseparable from own molten core

How do we hold this heat?

How to flow in the flame without being burned?

How do we know ourselves as the flame itself?







—Lorena Wolfman




The Birth Of Hecate

 

Under the ground, in the Underworld, there is a world of molten flame.  It is red and hot, like Demeter's red hot dress. Demeter obeys gravity's invitation to descend through the portal, the open chasm in the Earth's shell. As the heat intensifies as she comes closer to the center Demeter's face flushes and becomes red. Ahead of her, the path curves back and forth, her arms flow and undulate in serpentine dance-like movements that seem to mirror the movement of flames as she steadies her descent.  Demeter's red dress flashes and flows with fire, until it becomes like a glowing ember lighting up her face, her bare arms, glowing. Her body then transforms into ember and then into dancing ash. The ash of her body swirls upward and swoops back down on the currents of heat emerging from the center. She dances as ash—flying, floating, bits of ash sailing like white butterflies captivating the light. And so now, as she has become lighter and lighter, defying all force of gravity, she moves upwards, her diaphanous flow, a glowing mosaic changing forms on the way up through the wide tunnel of rebirth leading to the world above each fragment shines glowing white gleaming with a light all its own. Finally, she crosses the threshold to the surface, as she does her ashes, her bits of 10,000 butterfly wings,  coalesce into a new form, the form of a woman ready to encounter the next stage of life as a teacher, a deep witness able to see all forms through the dark. She is Hecate, her long flowing white hair cascades about her shoulders and flows into the world, her eyes twinkle with the fire of love itself.

        —Lorena Wolfman

Meeting Places of Persephone and Pele

The heat at the center of the Earth. Creation. Hades. The Underworld.

My mother was a Pele

 

my own mother was Pele

in spite of her culture

I cannot say I got my passion from her

really it is more like Pele was one of our foremothers

one our ancestors

we women are Pele

most often in spite of ourselves

and who we were taught to be

Pele is our grandmother

creator of the lands on the sea

she is and was passion itself

rising from the core of the earth

to her own molten core

how to hold this heat?

how to flow in the flame without being burned?

how to know ourselves as the flame itself?

—Lorena Wolfman

the endless lure of the rose

there is a subtle fragrance drawing us forward

asking us to become the original pattern

the promise of the rose that brought us here

we are only being asked to remember the erotic space of being

whose only key is a question

we are drawn undulating 

into a deepening field of knowing 

that expands beyond our borders

the magnetism drawing our being forth

is the same as what makes clouds tumble

our hands hold the spheres of our becoming

like permeable cell walls always breathing

bliss encompasses the force of attraction

not unlike a hint of white rose entering our flaring nostrils

the sphere of our knowing was held even then 

in our first egg self

bounding forward on a leap of bliss

the first principle of birth

ascension 

levitating to begin the journey

and not unlike laughter 

expanding in pulsing waves 

the pleasure body of the cells

is the eros of charged ions

spinning ‘round and ‘round the stillness 

of the space of being

—Lorena Wolfman

the sea is felt

here in the arid lands

the action is far from earth

and further from the sea

the action is in the sky

sometimes such a stark blue 

without pity

sun scorching down

but here the real action

is when the clouds roll in 

as they gather from the seas 

at either edge of the continent

they blossom in shades of white 

and endless hues of grey

the sea is felt

far above our heads

expanses of water

that even when held aloft

still shade us 

our billowing guests

invite their own guests

gusting currents

to propel themselves 

through the heavens

nowhere is water ever still

it’s always changing shape

giving rise to new forms

surrendered 

to the endless lure of becoming

 —Lorena Wolfman