Megalesia or Magna Mater
The first festival day of Megalesia/Magna Mater, or Cybele, the Great Mother, of whom all the goddesses may be seen as aspects. This seven-day festival celebrates the arrival of the image of Cybele in Rome from Asia Minor.
— The Pagan Book Of Days, Nigel Pennick
The Player Queen — Willam Butler Yeats
MY mother dandled me and sang,
‘How young it is, how young! ‘
And made a golden cradle
That on a willow swung.
‘He went away,’ my mother sang,
‘When I was brought to bed,’
And all the while her needle pulled
The gold and silver thread.
She pulled the thread and bit the thread
And made a golden gown,
And wept because she had dreamt that I
Was born to wear a crown.
‘When she was got,’ my mother sang,
I heard a sea-mew cry,
And saw a flake of the yellow foam
That dropped upon my thigh.’
How therefore could she help but braid
The gold into my hair,
And dream that I should carry
The golden top of care?
“In growing up with a narcissistic parent, you’re there to meet the needs of the parent. You learn that you really have to work for the approval and for the contingent love. And therefore, it’s your fault if you don’t feel loved. So, then you go through life thinking of yourself as flawed. And usually, because we tend to define love the way we’ve been loved, then you choose what’s been pre-defined as love. Unfortunately we aren’t born with a meter to define for us: This is good love! So, we choose what is comfortable relative to what we’ve experienced before. So, initially we generally choose people who are very much like our parents and expect that the way that we will be loved is going to change.” — T.S.
Nature the gentlest mother is — Emily Dickinson
Nature the gentlest mother is,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest of the waywardest.
Her admonition mild
In forest and the hill
By traveller be heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.
How fair her conversation
A summer afternoon,
Her household her assembly;
And when the sun go down,
Her voice among the aisles
Incite the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.
When all the children sleep,
She turns as long away
As will suffice tolight her lamps,
Then bending from the sky
With infinite affection
An infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.
You are the future — Rilke
You are the future, the immense morning sky
turning red over the prairies of eternity.
You are the rooster-crow after the night of time,
the dew, the early devotions, and the Daughter,
the Guest, the Ancient Mother, and Death.
You are the shape that changes its own shape,
that climbs out of fate, towering,
that which is never shouted for, and never mourned for,
and no more explored than a savage wood.
You are the meaning deepest inside things,
that never reveals the secret of its owner.
And how you look depends on where we are:
from a boat you are shore, from the shore a boat.
We are born of Love;
Love is our mother.