Iasonia   2 comments


today is one of the most important days in my own personal devotional calendar, the self-created festival of the Iasonia. it commemorates the union of Demeter and Iason, and his destruction by Zeus, as described in the cretan myth.

the day has components of ekstasis and mourning, a little like the Adonia, and like the Adonia it focuses on the ancient cycles of fertility, fruition, death and rebirth. i’m not always able to go deep, but sometimes i can. i hope i can today. when i do, the mourning phase is exquisite- terrible and wonderful. and brings me briefly but gloriously in synch with Her.

Io, Demeter Khloe!

i’m posting an older piece i wrote several years ago in honor of today. sorry for all the self-writings i’m posting lately! at some point i’ll just blog again<G>.

🙂 khairete


The Thrice-Ploughed Field

I move through my fields of undulating grain, fingertips trailing through the bearded grasses, hair unbound, sun warming my skin. He is there. His back is bent as he works over his plough, the oxen’s shoulders moving placid and slow, the plough cutting deep into my rich, dark earth. Sweat gleams on his broad back, his hair cornsilk under the sun. I stop at the edge of the field, half-concealed amid the whispering stalks of grain, mesmerized, entranced, as he urges his beasts on, working the soil, the plough turning the earth into good straight furrows, long and inviting, awaiting the seed.
My sister watched me as I left, eyeing me sidelong under her lashes, one white hand sliding along her gemmed girdle, laces loosened, proffering. I smiled at her and shook my head. No need for that, not now, not for him. We are of one mind, she and I.
He turns the oxen and they return, slow and inexorable as the seasons. The surface of the earth is dry and crumbly, but underneath it is damp and dark, fecund. Its rich scent mingles with that of the sweet grass that tickles my calves. I see the curve of his upper arm as he manhandles the plough into the turn, the lines of his thigh muscles as he strains forward with his beasts, his teeth flashing white as he calls encouragement to them, wiping the sweat from his brow. He is golden-brown, sweet as roasted barley, and his eyes are blue as the shallows of the Aegean.
Three times he drives his oxen the length and breadth of the field, three times the soil is raised, turned, combed, silkened, until it is soft, moist, pliable as coarse flour. He brings the team to a halt, speaks softly to them, scratches their thick necks, laughs like a boy when they rub their broad heads against him, unharnesses them, hobbles them to graze. He looks over his handiwork, stretches, sighs, smiles.
I step forth out of the tall grass.
He sees the movement, straightens, stands motionless, staring. I move toward him, my wheaten hair whirling around my hips, my green gown rippling. As I move toward him my fingers play in the ties to my golden girdle, loosen them, drawing his eyes, where they widen and fix, blue and shocked. I drift to a stop before him, my gown parting slightly, and those eyes lift to my face and meet mine, and the shock startles us both. I move swiftly forward and his warm strong arms catch me up and pull me desperately to him, his sweet sweet mouth on mine. And we fall to the receptive earth.
The ploughing is strong, the furrow deep, the seed vigorous.
As my lover nears the third sowing I see over his straining shoulders, his bright hair, the thunderheads piling up in the heavens. My heart leaps. He is coming, my brother, my lover, my lord, He who will bless this planting with fruitfulness and immortality. A few drops of rain patter down, cool drops sliding on my love’s hot sweet salty skin and I taste it, exquisite. Thunder mutters softly, a gentle threat, then builds to a bellow like a great bull, even as my man rears over me and roars back at the sky, eyes closed, face contorted with divine ecstasy. And as his seed spurts forth yet again we are blinded by the God’s shaft, the bolt stabbing down from the roiling chaos of clouds, impaling my love. The blue eyes fly open, stare aghast into my face, freezing my heart with the unspoken cry of terror and betrayal. I scream aloud in love and loss, and in the instant before my love is vaporized, I see those beautiful eyes light with comprehension, and his final whisper is of love and acceptance.
The thunder rolls, is muted, wanders away over the sea, lightning flashing spasmodically. I lie in the ploughed furrow, naked under the driving rain, drenched, spent, weeping, exultant.
The seed lies deep within the earth. In the turning of the seasons it sprouts, pushes forth, emerges, thrusts eagerly upward. Thousands, millions, countless polished, perfect grains, replicating themselves in the endless miracle of growth. Their mortality is essential to the immortal cycle. There are so many, so very many, mortals cannot comprehend how even a goddess can know and love them all. But each beloved seed is unique, incredible, wondrous, and is utterly known by me and held in my divine love. A love and bounty I can share with humankind because of my lost, yet eternal, immortal, infinitely precious lover, Iasion.


Posted March 30, 2015 by suzmuse in Uncategorized

2 responses to “Iasonia

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  1. Suz, You have created something beautiful and moving here. I would definitely put this on the rota of festivals for Demeter.

  2. thank you so much, julia. what a lovely thing to say.

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