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Cerridwen by Yvonne Rathbone |
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Tales & Fun |
When I think of Cerridwen, I think of caves and fires. Silouhettes of trees at night. The dark, fertile earth, it's curve along the horizon like the image in a fish eye lens, like a breast. She is one of the Grand Mothers along with Hecate, Kali, Spiderwoman, Baba Yaga. She is the constant force that shapes us, like water on the Grand Canyon, we must be chased, harrassed, bitten and scratched. Without that, we sink into hours at the television watching someone else's creative vision while we eat potato chips and Klondike bars. And when I fear death - which is less and less often as I come to know this high lady, I realize that those things I fear to lose aren't necessarily worth having. The pain and depression, anger and hatred, stem from all that which would be cast aside at my death. So why do I hold on so? Cerridwen killed Gwion. She killed him because of fate. It's just inevitable that if you are set to stirring the magic potion, told not to taste it, left alone with your very own Tree of Knowledge, that you will somehow manage to do the very thing you were told you shouldn't. That's the way all stories are. Look at Theseus and Romeo & Juliet. Adam and Eve were set up. It's bound to happen, like Death and Taxes. Cerridwen is the one who knows it will happen. And she doesn't chase you because your bad - or because she has some gift to give you. She chases because that's what life is, being chased by desire, by fear, by guilt, until we slip. Finally, we make the fatal error and no longer can escape the inevitable. |
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