Mnemosyne: Remembering and recovering the self through identification with The Great Mother and her daughters, Athena, Artemis and Hestia

MNEMOSYNE: REMEMBERING AND RECOVERING THE SELF THROUGH IDENTIFICATION WITH THE GREAT MOTHER AND HER DAUGHTERS, ATHENA, ARTEMIS AND HESTIA

A dissertation submitted to the Caspersen School of Graduate Studies Drew University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree, Doctor of Literature

Cynthia Laudadio Drew University Madison, New Jersey May 2009

UMI Number: 3364849

Copyright 2009 by Laudadio, Cynthia

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ABSTRACT Mnemosyne: Remembering and Recovering the Self Through Identification with the Great Mother and Her Daughters, Athena, Artemis and Hestia D.Litt. Dissertation by Cynthia Laudadio The Caspersen School of graduate Studies Drew University

May 2009

Carl Jung believed humans never forget their experiences, though they might not remain in human consciousness. This dissertation reflects on the importance of remembering our mythic origins as they represent the purity and wholeness individuals once possessed before being fragmented by life experiences. This sense of completeness is embodied in The Great Mother who, according to Greek mythology, created the universe by singlehandedly bringing forth life from her womb. After her male offspring usurped her power by literally splitting her in two, her descendants came to represent her fragmented powers of creation and destruction. Three of these deities, the virgin goddesses Athena, Artemis, and Hestia, also symbolize the Great Mother's purity as they seek companionship without allowing others' desires or demands to deter them from their true intentions which ultimately benefit humankind. This dissertation argues that embracing their pure creative energy, in particular the Great Mother's power of regenerative destruction, can facilitate a woman's search for wholeness.

Supporting the assertion that integrating the virgin goddesses can reestablish the fullness inherent in the Great Mother, this dissertation employs Jung's assertion that humans are born psychologically and spiritually complete but become fragmented by life's challenges. A discussion of Jung's basic archetypes: the anima and the animus; the shadow; the persona; and the self, delineates the attributes inherent in the virgin goddesses who descended from the Great Mother. Analysis of myths which suggest the benefits of a balanced identification with Athena, Artemis, and Hestia pairs with caution regarding over-identification with any one aspect of the goddesses. The study concludes with the presentation of a family comprised of three generations of women who reveal evidence of balancing their lives in harmony with the archetypal attributes of Athena, Artemis, and Hestia. Their success in managing life's challenges, without sacrificing their spiritual wholeness, illustrates the power of integrating the virgin goddesses as a distillation of the Great Mother.

No one has lifted my dress and seen, that is, mastered, my nakedness. I am the mother without a husband, the primal mother, all are my children. He who presumes to lift my dress desecrates the mother.

Heinrich Zimmer, The Indian World Mother

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

1

Yearning to be Whole Again We Are Always Becoming The Universal Search for Meaning

1 3 4

Chapter 1. JUNG'S COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS The Archetypes of Personality The Anima and the Animus The Shadow The Persona The Self Integrating the Archetypes of Personality The Mnemonic Call of the Archetypes 2. THE GREAT MOTHER

8 14 14 17 23 25 26 28 35

The Divine Feminine's Creative and Sustaining Nature Primordial Woman Matriarchal Potency and Influence The Great Mother in the Psyche Kore, Mother, Crone The Kore and the Mother Hecate: The Bridge Between Maiden and Crone The Crone The Dark Goddess Metaphorical Womb Attachment Theory 3. ATHENA

35 40 42 45 51 52 60 63 68 79 88 98

Athena's Power Paradox Ancient Athena Society's Foundation

98 104 106 VI

Athena as Mentor Purity of Purpose Self-Fulfillment A Question of Balance Toward Integration

108 112 118 121 129

4. ARTEMIS

130

Nurturing Creative Chaos Fruitful Solitude A Force in Nature The Daughter-Mother Maiden Lost and Found The Consequences of Refusing Transcendence Life, Death and Renewal A Question of Balance Toward Integration 5. HESTIA

130 132 133 137 139 140 144 150 155 158

Hestia: Alpha and Omega Subtle Potency Freedom in Formlessness Oikos Into the Fire Journey to the Self

158 161 165 168 172 176

6. A LIVING VIRGIN TRIAD

183

Our Inner Voice The Willson-Lowther Family Vicky Willson KateWillson Vivian Lowther

186 186 190 195 200

APPENDIX A. INTERVIEW QUESTIONS

205

BIBLIOGRAPHY

207

vii

INTRODUCTION

Yearning to be Whole Again

The process of writing this dissertation has been a homecoming. At the start of this adventure, I believed I would learn a great deal about the inseparability of mythology and Jungian psychology, as well as how they inform my beliefs about myself and the world. However, I was unaware that I was searching for understanding that I have possessed all along and that the greatest lesson I would learn is how to remember myself. Mnemosyne, pronounced m-mos's-ne, is the goddess of memory, as in remembrance or mindfulness, and she lends her name to the science of mnemonics, which supports the use of tools to develop memory. She is primarily known as the mother of the nine Muses, whose inspiration for the arts, humanities and sciences forms the foundation for personal and cultural development, but it is also Mnemosyne's role to inspire us to rediscover our true purpose-—which so often becomes lost when life's struggles force our focus outward rather than inward. Mnemosyne reminds us that at one time we were sure of ourselves and our place in the world and encourages us to release flawed expectations, often engendered by disappointments, so we might evoke memories of the lives we were designed to live unencumbered by external influences.

1

2 When I entered Drew's Doctor of Letters program, I had already begun to shed my old expectations by abandoning a 15 year corporate career in education. Following an academic path was an act of faith because I sensed it was right, despite having little evidence that I would be comfortable in a classroom. Yet my intuition was correct, as the joys of teaching have far exceeded my expectations. Earning my doctorate was another leap into the unknown, as well as evidence of a return to my fascination with academic pursuits that had ended with my first administrative position in 1980. Nearly 20 years later, at the Drew orientation, I felt a gentle nudge that told me not only was I in the right place, but that I had come home. I now see this feeling as evidence of Mnemosyne helping me to remember myself. My classes triggered more memories of what I had forgotten over the years, particularly my sensitivity, curiosity and creativity. Moreover, researching and writing this dissertation has served to illuminate the ways in which various aspects of my personality had been secreted away, and I learned that they could be restored and rearranged so that I would feel the archetypal wholeness with which Carl Jung asserts humans are born. Consistent with the pattern inherent in creating this dissertation, the more arduous process of integrating all aspects of my being would be via a gradual restoration of my memory.

3 We Are Always Becoming

This dissertation actually began more than thirty years ago, when I had my first image of spiritual wholeness. While studying single-celled creatures in a high school biology class, I imagined a wheel-shaped microorganism possessing scattered, irregular teeth-like projections on its perimeter. My imaginary organism floated freely until it bumped up against similar tiny creatures whose alternating patterns of projections would complete it. The organisms periodically joined with and separated from their fellows, which I saw as mirroring the ways in which people connect with others. I now view the separations as indicative of evolving physical, emotional or spiritual needs. Interestingly, there were never two organisms whose connection made them complete: wholeness required three creatures in unison. This longstanding vision suggests that I have spent a lifetime searching for wholeness. My unceasing quest, which includes this dissertation process, is evidence of Jung's assertion that human beings are born complete, become fragmented by internal struggles, but are always seeking psychic reunion, which he terms "becoming." As I approach the end of this aspect of my life journey, I believe my completed dissertation illustrates my earlier vision of unity and balance. The joining of three similar organisms with dissimilar patterns parallels the ways in which we can become conscious of the three virgin goddesses, Athena, Artemis and Hestia, urging us to a wholeness which originates in the first entity of the Greek universe: the Great Mother.

4 The Universal Search for Meaning

It is the rare woman who does not ponder the existential questions of her personal identity and orientation in this world. The willing seeker soon discovers that, because there are no easy answers and the search for personal meaning is ongoing and often disquieting, there may be situations she has forgotten, either consciously or unconsciously, and others that did not seem to have import until subsequent occurrences later put them into context. While each individual has secreted past experiences she would prefer remain interred, they live on in "the psyche, for nothing that has been experienced ceases to exist" (Hall and Nordby 35). Carl Gustav Jung, the noted psychiatrist and mythologist, believed these experiences became intertwined with the individual's reactions to them and ultimately reside in what he termed the "personal unconscious" as they reflect situations specific to one person's history. He considered his own life journey to reflect "[his] story of the self-realization of the unconscious [since] everything in the unconscious seeks outward manifestation, and the personality too desires to evolve out of its unconscious conditions and to experience itself as a whole" (Jung, Memories 3). Jung's efforts towards living this philosophy afford each individual the opportunity to attain such wholeness—if she is willing to fearlessly mine her unconscious for its treasures and trials. Jung believed all memories reside perpetually in the soul, which he referred to as the psyche, regardless of the passage of time or the myriad experiences which fill present

5 consciousness. Jung's elevation of memory conforms with that of ancient cultures' view's of memory as integral to the search for the self, making Mnemosyne, daughter of Mother Earth, Greek goddess of memory and inventor of words key to providing both the material and the means for self-expression. Her daughters, the nine Muses, have been called upon to inspire since before Homer and Hesiod immortalized them in the invocations to The Odyssey and Theogony, respectively. A journey to the self might begin with an invocation to Mnemosyne, such as: Help me to remember that which I have forgotten, and that of which I am unaware, so that I might embrace all my experiences into my being and come to know myself. According to the Hindus, another culture with ancient origins, humans are inspired by "vasanas, 'perfumes,' scents that are the impressions of anything remaining unconsciously in the mind, the present consciousness of past perceptions" (Doniger 7). For Hindus, this includes past lives that govern decisions made in the reincarnation process, which may now be dividing the soul. The current age, which relies on the material rather than the metaphysical, can necessitate the denial or ignoring of unconscious components, accelerating psychic fragmentation. Thus, looking towards a spirituality that universally includes rather than selectively excludes experiences is one way to enhance healing, and our memories can form the foundation of this restorative process. While ephemeral in nature, memories may seem to be securely locked in a woman's collective unconscious, yet she is subject to their active and unheralded influence. Discovering how memories engender present emotional responses and their corresponding actions can lead women to a personal

6 understanding that makes them feel more secure in themselves and, it would follow, in their relationships. This process of discovery, however, is fraught with the dangers— both real and imagined—that typically surround such shadowy searches. In both the deliberate and the unwitting recalling of memory, what individuals do summon up is often, paradoxically, just what they may have spent a lifetime trying desperately to forget. Instead of calling on Mnemonysne, we seemingly prefer to invoke "Lesmosnye," meaning to hide or deliberately ignore in order to avoid psychic conflict (Kerenyi, "Mnemosyne" 121). Such ambivalence, however, engenders an internal schism, for humans cannot simply discard components of their being they do not wish to acknowledge without suffering emotional and spiritual harm. It would be a violation of the memory of the unified and sacred spirit to reject those parts we find difficult to manage or impossible to integrate in the image of ourselves that we, others, and society might anticipate or desire even if, "by themselves, the pieces do not seem to fit together" (Kiibler-Ross 16). Each individual must actively integrate all aspects of her psychic self or she will never enjoy self-possession or find comfort within her own skin, remaining instead an undeveloped personality who will never become conscious of her life's meaning (Jung, Personality 183). The need for wholeness born of psychic integration is evident in the libraries and bookstores whose shelves are replete with self-help books that promise spiritual and emotional well-being. While there is no doubt that many contain some very sincere and constructive advice, changing personal perception requires a concerted effort because, as

7 with the instinctual fear of heights or snakes or fire, emotional responses to psychological stimuli have been ingrained in humans through their animal ancestors from before • mankind evolved. Likewise, years and perhaps decades of adherence to a set of unchallenged beliefs requires a protracted period of revaluation. However, it is just such a reassessment of internal responses that can offer insight into the resultant fracturing that has occurred unbeknownst to the conscious self. A common language, that of Jung's archetypes, can facilitate this process. Therefore, an examination of Jung's vision of the unconscious, its personal and collective segments, as well as its archetypal components, promotes understanding of personal integration through the virgin goddesses. It is also important to present an overview of Jung's theory of archetypal constellation, which explains the ways in which the archetypes interact with each other and subsequently influence the individual's psychic response to stimuli. Knowledge of the patterns in which the archetypes manifest themselves helps women to recognize the relationships between the archetypes and the goddesses and thus comprehend the ways in which Athena, Artemis and Hestia direct their lives.

Chapter 1 JUNG'S COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS

Historical records and literature provide evidence that humans have always faced internal conflicts and that such interior struggles can cause fragmentation, but they were not the subject of serious research until the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries. Jung was the first person to present the intricate system of processes by which humans recognize and respond to psychological stimuli, which he saw as "associated groups of feelings, thoughts and memories . . . [that] are autonomous, possess their own driving force, and can be very powerful in controlling our thoughts and behavior" (Hall and Nordby 36). Jung believed that such responses, when consistent over time, disclosed the existence of a "complex." As a young disciple of Sigmund Freud, Jung initially agreed with his mentor's assertion that these complexes, which engender the difficulties humans encounter in relating to others and to society, were the result of traumatic childhood experiences. It would follow, then, that if all complexes are negative in origin, then all responses would be negative, yet complexes can and do motivate individuals to purposeful achievement (37). Jung further proposed that complexes arise from a deeper, even primordial "level of the psyche, which he called the collective unconscious" (38) because its contents were not specific to individuals as are those of the personal unconscious. 8

9 The collective unconscious is the repository for the archetypes, "those patterns of psychic perception common to all humanity" (Hopcke 14). The term archetype, so often attributed to Jung, has its origins in the Platonic "eidos," or ideal, and as such can not be seen as an absolute entity. Only its shadow or reflection is visible in human response to stimuli. In his Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Jung asserted that there are archetypes for each situation an individual faces, and that their recurring nature ingrains them in man's "psychic constitution" (48). Initially, the archetypes are recognized as "forms without content, representing merely the possibility of a certain type of perception and action, but when a situation occurs which corresponds to a given archetype it becomes activated and a compulsiveness appears, which, like an instinctual drive, gains its way against all reason and will" (48). It is not the archetype itself, but rather the archetype reflecting on the person's psyche that precipitates her response to the stimulus. The three virgin goddess archetypes are actually the reflections of Jung's four personality archetypes and each possesses various attributes that can trigger different internal reflections within a woman. A discussion of Jung's archetypes and the ways in which they become active in the psyche will establish the foundation for understanding how the goddess' archetypal reflections can affect us. The myriad images generated by Jung's personality archetypes, the anima/animus, shadow, persona and self, produce the varying responses and degrees of response in an individual. While certain individuals may respond similarly to given archetypal stimuli, each person's internal image of a stimulus, the archetypal reflection,

10 can be different. The archetype itself is a pure element, analogous to Plato's Forms, but it is the way in which individuals internalize the archetype and its images that produces the archetypal symbol. Thus there are as many symbols for a specific archetype as there are personal responses that, in effect, imprint these symbols on the psyche. Over time, a culture will seem to adopt an archetypal symbol that reflects its values. The serpent has become a Judea-Christian symbol of temptation and evil as reflected in the story of Adam and Eve's expulsion from the Garden of Eden. In Hinduism, the cobra is wound around Shiva's neck and is thus literally and otherwise close to God and beneficial to man. Yet, despite its near universality in the Occidental world, the serpent is not the archetype of evil; it has merely come to represent the archetype to particular cultural groups. Christ and Buddha are not the archetypes of the hero or martyr, yet each represents its culture's savior in the flesh. The Virgin Mary or Mother Nature figures are not the Great Goddess, but they are two of many personifications of her archetypal image: the loving, nurturing giver of life. Likewise, any of Jung's personality archetypes can be generated by any one aspect of the three goddesses who stimulate a woman's response to such archetypal projection. A deeper understanding of how an archetype and its corresponding symbols provoke specific psychic responses necessitates a greater understanding of Jung's view of the unconscious. His terminology regarding this subject also reinforces the importance of memory in the psyche's seeming inclination to preserve and ultimately integrate all its experiences. In Psychological Types, Jung compares his concept of the collective

11 unconscious and its inseparable archetypes with a scientific term, "mneme" (376). "Mneme" refers to a unit of memory and derives from the Greek "mimneskesthai," which means "to remember." It is also the etymologic origin of Mnemosyne, whose roles as mother of the muses and the inventor of words led ancient Greeks to consider her the mother of all human creativity (Laurent 21-22). In addition, the German philosopher Richard Semon employed "mneme" when comparing the relationship between animal intelligence and instinct to the brain's structure. Semon argued that once an organism had had a particular experience, that experience became a part of its "permanent record" (Semon 24) and that these "memory images," which he claimed were localized in the cerebral cortex, were activated by subsequent experiences. That their reactions were not consistent, as are those of hereditary responses, proved to him that they were psychically and not physiologically based (280-281). This provides further support for Jung's belief that the archetypes are hard-wired in the collective human psyche in a manner similar to instincts, but that archetypes are not instincts. Jung was aware of the difficulty some would have in appreciating the correlation between the scientific and concrete concept of instinct and the relatively abstruse notion of the archetypes (Jung, Archetypes 3). He analyzed the research of the biologists of his day, who proposed that instinctive reactions were without "gradation of intensity in respect of the circumstances which provoke [them]" (Campbell, Jung 48). Jung discovered when employing this standard that many responses were not in proportion to the stimulus intensity, and that such exaggerated responses could be observed in many

12 people. Jung thus concluded that "all these processes cannot possibly be classed as instinctive processes, and we must therefore look round for another criterion" (Campbell, Jung 48). If archetypes and instincts were arguably interchangeable, then reactions to them would be of similar intensity; however, this is not the case. For example, the sight of a snake, even a harmless garter snake, will make most people recoil at first. This is understandable in light of the potential danger. An individual does not have to process the snake through her consciousness in order to react, and her reaction is similar to that of other primates when confronted with a snake. On the other hand, if a person recoils at the sight of a chicken, "we must. .. distinguish between the two processes. In the former case the fear of snakes is a purposive process of general occurrence; the latter, when habitual, is a phobia and not an instinct, since it occurs in isolation and is not a general peculiarity" (49). Only if the response is inherited and occurs with similar degree and regularity can it be called an instinct (50). The response to archetypes is not always proportional or uniform, both within one individual and across a social group, so while they stimulate responses similar to instincts, they are uniquely human. That the stimulus provokes a disproportionate response invites further investigation into its underlying cause. It is just such an inquiry that brought Jung to the concept of archetypal constellation. Jung evinced little concern that there was no empirical evidence of archetypal existence; his primary focus was to understand how and why archetypes become

13 activated or stimulated within the psyche and to use this knowledge to appreciate the causes and effects of such archetype constellation (S. Walker 8). He deduced proof of their existence and activity from the pattern of human reactions to similar stimuli he viewed as archetypal in origin, and their various symbol components, in ways similar to that of animals whose behavior could not be explained by the learning and practice theory of instinctive modeling. These examples led Jung to investigate the concept of intuition and its relationship to archetypal response (Campbell, Jung 50-51). Animals sometimes engage in a particular behavior only once in a lifetime, specifically when it is necessary for the survival of their species and without benefit of the example of parents or other adults. Jung used the example of the yucca moth, which has a highly complex instinct that ensures it will visit the flower of the yucca plant on the only night it opens, remove its pollen in a specific manner, then travel to a second flower where it pollinates the plant while simultaneously securing its eggs for development. After completing this intricate process the insect dies (50-51). There is no subsequent opportunity for the moth to use this experience; that it is driven to complete a previously unknown activity in an unfamiliar location solely by its desire to perpetuate the species defines the moth's behavior as instinctive. Jung defined intuition as "the unconscious, purposive apprehension of a highly complicated situation . . . therefore, intuition is the reverse of instinct (51), under whose influence the organism responds in indeliberate manner. Ultimately, instincts "compel a man to a specifically human mode of existence,

14 so the archetypes force his ways of perception and apprehension into specifically human patterns" (52).

The Archetypes of Personality

While the focus of this dissertation is the Great Mother archetype and the ways in which three of her descendants, Athena, Artemis and Hestia, when united, restore her archetype in its entirety, it is important to consider the four personality archetypes Jung delineated, for they illustrate the ways in which any archetype, including the goddesses, constellates in the human psyche and helps explain the corresponding human response. A solid understanding of the archetypal structure within the personality begins with Jung's personality archetypes: the anima and the animus, the persona, the shadow, and the self.

The Anima and the Animus

The anima and the animus balance the masculine and feminine traits, respectively, of their gender opposites. The anima is evidence of the feminine archetype within the male. It keeps man from being dominated by his masculine side—his animus—and compensates for his tendency towards overt masculinity, and by an overactive persona—

15 the image that he wishes to present to society. The male may attempt to suppress his anima if he sees himself expressing what he considers an excess of feminine traits, such as sensitivity to emotions, because he does not like the way they influence his persona and thus his perceptions of others' opinions towards him. But he does so at his own peril because ignoring his feminine side will cause him untoward relationship difficulties, particularly with those of the opposite sex (S. Walker 45-47). Such consequences will become evident when measuring our response to the strong pull of Athena's Anima. In addition, the anima manifests both positive and negative qualities, such as inspiration for a spiritual quest, like that of Odysseus, or a seduction by a temptress who can lead him to his doom (49). If he chooses to eliminate the temptress to avoid her potential danger, man is also choosing to eliminate the creative opportunities that the archetype affords. Women also possess an anima, but unlike males they are completely unaware of its presence, relying instead upon others' examples of feminine responses as well as the reactions of those with whom they interact. Men are likewise usually unaware of their animus' unconscious projections. The anima is a necessary part of the female personality; too little will release the animus, the masculine archetype with its predilection for logic and reason acting to suppress creativity, to dominate the feminine. Too much anima will lead to release of excessive, unstructured energy, which will overpower the animus' disciplined state. In either case the woman will be out of balance and encounter difficulty relating to herself and to others. Here we see that being conscious of the balance between the anima and animus will help women to understand

16 their reactions to the goddess archetypes and free them to respond to the archetypal constellation in a more authentic manner. In order to be free to act spontaneously, a woman must first acknowledge her male strength, not simply acquiesce to its potentially tyrannical power, and then use it to balance her anima's tendency to overemphasize creativity at the expense of healthy structure. She seeks equilibrium between the constellating anima and animus, which helps a woman to balance the male and female influences of the archetypes in her life. Emma Jung asserted that women who consciously protect themselves against overidentification with the animus keep themselves from being consumed by its overwhelming presence at which time "it ceases to be only a danger and becomes a creative power" (Anima 42). Carl Jung found that examining myths is one way for an individual to realize both her anima and animus and to develop relationships with them. Relative to this dissertation, the actions of Athena, Artemis and Hestia in the myths can help delineate their own balance of anima and animus, and a composite of the three also provides a distinct, yet important vision of the wholeness created by balancing the male and female archetypes. By examining these constellating archetypes and relating them to the goddesses, individually and as a group, women can then integrate their archetypal power in order to cultivate the creativity that will result in personal fulfillment.

17 The Shadow

Since the anima and animus clearly possess positive and negative attributes, there is little psychic resistance to their integration as it fosters development of a fuller, more complete sense of self. The shadow archetype, however, is one that many individuals, institutions, and society as a whole often reject outright because of its potentially destructive forces. In Wisdom of the Psyche, Ginette Paris terms the shadow's contents "psychic monsters" (68) akin to the phantasmagorical demons in our nightmares. Yet, the powerful energy inherent in the shadow is precisely what engenders creativity and spontaneity; without it we would be shallow and spiritless. Willingly inviting the shadow's energy to inspire us creates a dangerous paradox in that we must face its unpleasant contents to reap its benefits. Further, external difficulties can arise when our enthusiasm, generated by integrating dark, primitive force, causes some to regard us as "freaks" (Hall and Nordby 49). Integrating the shadow is clearly a delicate balancing act, but there is no relief in denial as the shadow "never really surrenders. The persistent nature of the shadow is equally effective whether it is promoting something evil or something good" (50), so it cannot be ignored. A relationship with the shadow is threatening because it contains all the negative emotions humans experience but are loathe to acknowledge lest they become subject to social disapproval (Campbell, Jung 145). A woman seeking wholeness based on this dissertation's assertions should not deny the shadow, for its energy is inherent in all three

18 virgin goddesses, although societal norms dissuade many from willingly admitting their capacity to simply experience evil intents or emotions. To do so might make them feel or be labeled less civilized and more like the beasts from which, according to evolutionary theory, humans sprang. Forthcoming sections on the virgin goddesses will detail the risks of allowing the shadow to overwhelm the psyche, but a repressed shadow can cause "the surging forth of man's instinctive nature [which] may further overwhelm the ego and cause the person to collapse into helplessness" (Hall and Nordby 51). Acknowledging and accepting the shadow further supports Jung's assertion that the archetypes predate early human evolution, while people were still in the early stages of diverging from the primate path of development. The shadow is evidence of man's connection to a natural, if perhaps more brutal, world. The examination of the goddesses' darker natures, particularly those of the Great Mother, will reinforce the importance of integrating Jung's shadow archetype, despite the risks, as a means to achieving wholeness. Ubiquitous evidence of the shadow strengthens Jung's argument for this archetype as a natural aspect of personality that, if not integrated, can cause unpleasant consequences. In fact, when a person attempts to overpower negative experiences, the accompanying emotions do not go away; they reside in the shadow. When difficulties arise, negative elements can reassert themselves precisely when the person is least able to deal with them. Thus the shadow cannot and should not be repressed, for denial always brings disaster (50).

19 Confronting the shadow presents risks as well, forcing us to accept our dread potential to commit horrendous acts. The shadow's store of raw emotions, particularly anger and unfulfilled desires, can be manifest negatively. Yet it is precisely because shadow material is so powerful that we must be wary of the direct confrontation that can be so overwhelming as to lead us to carry out the very atrocities we fear committing. Conversely, if we persist in denying our shadow, there is the danger we will lose control and act on our emotions anyway. While contemporary philosophers and historians are often quick to note the more violent deeds of the previous century, humankind's propensity for violent acts towards others and towards the environment has never been in danger of extinction. The cruel dictators of ancient and recent history responded to the same negative urges that "ordinary" women and men experience today. While Nero, Pol Pot, Stalin, and Charles Taylor are prime examples of man's latent evil, the writers of the Golden Age of Greece and Rome were also well aware of both genders' potential for acts of cruelty. Therefore, classical poets were quite adept at pointing out that women can possess shadows containing far darker elements than those of their male counterparts. For example, Clytemnestra murders her husband in the middle of his welcome home feast, either in reprisal for his sacrificing their daughter, Iphigenia, so that he could seek military glory in Troy, or because he arrived home after ten years with his concubine, Cassandra, in tow. Clytemnestra's anger, repressed for ten years, swells into an uncontrollable vengeance that destroys her as well as dooms what is left of her family. Electra,

20 Iphigenia's sister, has also been brooding for ten years in the shadow of her mother's unaddressed grief and fury, developing an unquestioned alliance with her absent father that only intensifies as his arrival approaches. After his murder, Electra's roiling shadow contents direct her goading of Orestes (the degree of which depends on the dramatist's interpretation) to action and then lead her to cheer her brother's commission of matricide in an attempt to balance the scales of Clytemnestra's regicide. Electra suffers for allowing her shadow contents to overwhelm her through all-consuming regret over Orestes' torment by the Furies, guilt for encouraging the death of the woman who bore her, and expulsion from her home. Medea succumbs to her shadow when she murders her children following Jason's rejection. Having already abandoned her family home in favor of Jason, she is completely alone. Overwhelmed, she succumbs to the shadow's energy in the act of infanticide. Medea's story is reflected in every tabloid report of a mother murdering her offspring in a fit of madness, desperation, rage or fear. The reality of these images makes people even more committed to suppressing the seething emotions that might precipitate such heinous acts. Most women do not want to be seen as possessing Medea's murderous potential, and this fear's very rise to consciousness affirms the shadow's presence. The only alternative seems to be to oppress these feelings and their negative energy but, as previously stated, nothing in the unconscious can be destroyed; however, embracing the shadow aspects of Athena, Artemis, and Hestia will ensure that negative feelings are positively integrated while reducing the damaging consequences of denial.

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21

The shadow archetype possesses tremendous energy that we must integrate or risk its overwhelming us. Suppressing its power requires an equal amount of pressure from the conscious self. Eventually, the force of the energy inside will exceed the containing pressure exerted by an individual, for "emotion, incidentally, is not an activity of the individual but something that happens to him" (Campbell, Portable Works 145). Humans may embrace the fantasy that they control all their thoughts, but it is hubristic to believe in such mortal omnipotence. The power of emotion, in and of itself, is evidence of the shadow's constellating in the unconscious. There are several examples of archetypal images and symbols that support the shadow's energy-charged reputation. Grandiose representations of the archetype such as the devil, Iago, Dr. Hyde, or even Darth Vadar often enable an individual to further deny the shadow's existence. It is easy to compare ourselves favorably to any of the above as our actions are rarely analogous; thus we rationalize that we do not possess a shadow similar in form and function to the shadow archetype that Hitler inflated, meaning the shadow with which he unconsciously identified too strongly. This rationalization reveals the potential danger in disregarding Jung's theory that the individual does not possess the archetype, but rather the archetype possesses the individual. Projecting one's shadow onto a collective example of the archetype, onto someone like Hitler, for example, does not facilitate acceptance that "your brother, your shadow, [is] the imperfect being in you that follows after and does everything which you are loathe to do, all things that you are too cowardly or decent to do" (Jung, Dream 76). Rejection of the shadow, however, projects a

22 rejection of the self from which it originates and thus leads to dissociation, the splitting off of undesired parts of the self, rather than psychic unity. The only way to truly integrate the shadow is through examining and understanding its positive and negative effects on the psyche. Unfortunately, this requires a woman to not only acknowledge her shadow but also be willing to place it in full view, where it will most likely invite harsh judgment. As with the anima and animus, it is very difficult for an individual to know her personal shadow. The only way to gain its acquaintance is through "the expressions of fear, shock, and alarm on others' faces [that] can give a clue to its presence" (S. Walker 35). Despite all of its negative implications, Jung still saw his shadow as an inseparable and beneficial part of his personality for whose influence on his life he must be accountable (36). He went so far as to aver that the shadow was critical to psychological growth and that "integration of the shadow, or the realization of the personal unconscious, marks the first stage in the analytic process, and that without it a recognition of anima and animus is impossible" (Campbell, Jung 161). Seeing these three archetypes in the virgin goddesses will likewise prove essential to our psychic integration as they facilitate a return to the Great Mother as a whole. An obstacle stands in the way of the integration process and its resultant authenticity: the persona. According to Jung, the persona functions to protect the self from harmful criticism by helping the individual mirror acceptable social behavior. But it also can overextend its reach, causing a woman to modify or limit her actions and

23 reactions in an attempt to avoid outside criticism. Social acceptance, while desirable on many levels, can stifle the authentic self. Again, a careful balancing act is required.

The Persona

In ancient Greek theatre, the persona was the mask worn by the actor in order to convey a particular character or mood. The persona archetype functions similarly. The persona, unique to each individual, contains what any one person wants the world to see. It is the character with which she wants to be identified and, as such, necessitates repressing whichever archetype, the anima, animus or shadow, the individual either knows from experience or perhaps senses will be unaccepted by others. Despite its potential for rejecting the true self, the persona can help a woman to maintain a healthy relationship with society. It should not be dissociated or ignored any more than it should be overdeveloped to the point at which an individual turns into a people-pleasing shell of her true self. Creating and maintaining a healthy persona requires the same energy and attention as is necessary to develop full sensitivity to Jung's other personality archetypes. A male who feels threatened by real or perceived responses to his anima may consciously repress it, which in turn reduces its compensatory benefit and causes him to project an overly masculine image that inhibits relating with a wide variety of individuals. He may be internally conscious of the sympathetic tendencies necessary for wholeness, but he

24 rejects them by projecting the more animus-driven qualities that society or the members of his social group have labeled as more desirable. The result is a fragmenting of his personality. Likewise, a woman who fails to fully develop her animus will project a persona of weakness, helplessness, and sentimentality. Her willingness to use her persona to project this image depends on the responses mirrored back to her as well as those for which she is rewarded by her real or desired social group. If excessive weakness or feigned helplessness seems to gain approval, she will surrender the natural strength of her animus, which is what Emma Jung so strongly warned against. If she rejects her anima because, for example, she does not want to feel an association with anything that resembles the "dumb blond" stereotype, she may use her persona to excess and instead project Jung's controlling, inflexible type that alienates men—and most likely quite a few women as well. Since much of this jockeying for control takes place in the unconscious, it requires a commitment to vigilantly observing personal responses and others' reactions to those responses for clues to an overactive persona. Though both genders can benefit from, as well as suffer the harm induced by, not actively seeking archetypal balance, it is women who stand to lose more. It is still difficult for a woman to be perceived as strong without acquiring the title of "bitch," while a man who projects more anima than most receives the currently admirable label of "metrosexual." The validation of the projection of an authentic self comes as much from within as from without, and the peace that its balanced archetypes engender can only be

25 realized through much examination of the manner in which the archetypes of the virgin goddesses constellate in her psyche. Only after this effort can a woman safely diminish her excess persona and comfortably identify with her true self.

The Self

Despite their opposing forces, a woman can encourage the anima and animus, shadow, and persona to cooperate for her benefit, for "the mature person has integrated these polarities" (Enns 127). Jung believed that the ego, as the personality's unifying force, not only exists in relationship to the other complexes, but also that it "draws its stability and growth from a larger, more complete sense of human wholeness which Jung saw archetypally based" (Hopcke 96). This becomes more easily understood when the self archetype is seen as a transcendent, overarching presence that encompasses all that has been experienced and can be experienced. The Tao symbol, with its inseparable yin and yang, also embodies the self archetype (Jung, Psychological 460) and thus strengthens the self s universal recognition. "Empirically, therefore, the self appears as a play of light and shadow, although conceived as a totality and unity in which the opposites are united . . . it is an archetypal idea (v. Idea, Image), which differs from other ideas of the kind in that it occupies a central position befitting the significance of its content and its numinosity" (461). The aura surrounding the self is one of wholeness, completion, and unity. Hence it can harmoniously integrate the other psychic elements of

•

26

the collective unconscious, the anima, animus, shadow and persona, which can then come into balance with the personal unconscious and the ego. Here Jung's concept of the Magna Mater as the overarching archetypal symbol that exemplifies wholeness (S. Walker, 10) becomes a critical element.

Integrating the Archetypes of Personality

Understanding the mechanisms operating beneath the conscious is not solely a useful tool for personal enhancement. Self-awareness, which must precede interpersonal growth, develops through the continual practice of examining actions and reactions and, in following Jung's model, through identifying the archetypes whose constellations have encouraged them. Paradoxically, this task is actually complicated by the growing awareness of what is occurring under the surface; the greater the awareness, however, the greater the potential for internal conflict. Jung recognized that ignoring unconscious activities makes for an easier existence, but that facing these conflicts would actually lead to wholeness through a fully formed personality. The man who surrenders to his inner voice will be "swept away by the blind flux of psychic events and be destroyed" (Jung, Development 180). However, if he willingly sacrifices himself to the struggle then he consciously creates his own reality (180).

27 Once a woman establishes the link between the archetypes in the unconscious and their representative symbols, ones that have persisted for millennia, it becomes easier to see how a thorough understanding of the archetypes can facilitate developing a sense of wholeness. A given woman is not having a singular experience; there is some other entity in the universe whose impression matches a similar imprint on her psyche. The archetype constellating in the unconscious begins to take form, becoming real, tangible evidence of the existence of a powerful, enveloping force. This dissertation is not suggesting that any woman is or can become a goddess, let alone the Great Mother, but if the anima in women has the job of making the female more aware of her feminine attributes while facilitating her maintenance of a balance with the animus' masculine traits, then the projected outcome is wholeness. Lying between a woman, with her anima/animus archetypes, and the primordial Great Mother, are all the generations of fragmented female deities. As the anima and animus archetypes provide psychic equanimity, they mirror the completeness of the Great Mother. Her descendants, the selfsustaining Athena, Artemis and Hestia, thus provide a direct link for the woman who is searching back to her primordial wholeness.

28 The Mnemonic Call of the Archetypes

It is likely that a woman actively seeking wholeness already senses an imbalance or missing element in her life. While the archetypes are undoubtedly active, absent knowledge of their structure and constellating function she is powerless to integrate their energy. Identifying the archetypal symbols and images facilitates the process. This "archetypal consciousness" is a valuable tool to help us objectively examine the stimulus of a particular situation or individual. We are then able to pause, examine our reactions and, perhaps, seek a more directed approach to solving a problem or filling a need. To review, an archetypal image is the reflection of the archetype in the unconscious. An archetypal symbol is the result of one image's becoming a standard for an entire social group. Athena, Artemis and Hestia are archetypal images as they each reflect, to varying degrees and in varying proportions, the four primary Jungian archetypes. For example, when Athena is viewed in a pure state, unencumbered by society's stereotypes about strong women, then her directness, her penchant for logic, and her fiery response to injustice will be seen as healthy derivatives of her animus rather than a tendency towards "bitchiness" that can be attributed to women in power. Likewise, Hestia's quiet nature will be seen as a contemplative expression of her anima rather than "passivity," while Artemis' perceived wildness will be termed passionately nurturing rather than rashly emotional.

29 Although this dissertation is concerned with the impact of archetypes on women's psyches, it would be wrong to view archetypes as gender specific, principally because of the gender balancing functions of the anima and animus. There are no strictly male or strictly female archetypes or archetypal symbols, and the archetypes, particularly those based on gender, must be viewed without value judgments if their constellations are to be incorporated without bias into a woman's broader personal understanding. They help women, first to recognize their needs and then, to seek fulfillment based on the clues provided by the constellating archetypes which generate the archetypal symbols. For example, Athena mentors Odysseus by first forcing him to acknowledge his anima as he develops patience over time. Only when he has learned to graciously accept help does she stoke the fire of his animus so he might exact maximum revenge from the suitors. In the model of Odysseus embracing his anima, it is also quite possible for a man rather than a woman to assume the role of the mother in the psyche of his friend, and for the friend to project the mother archetype onto the man. Alternately, the archetypal hero is not necessarily male; Joseph Campbell, whose writings are based on Jung's archetypal theory, notes in The Power of Myth that all individuals have the potential to be heroes simply by embarking on a quest to find "the germinal idea that will have the potentiality of bringing forth that new thing" (167). That "new thing" is an external benefit to society as well as a deeper understanding of and appreciation for the self that usually cannot be attained without the assistance of a spiritual helper, the wise old man who has a counterpart in the crone. These helpers can derive from either the anima or the animus,

30 providing the hero with specific sensibilities depending on the situation. A male hero might need to utilize the anima's attribute of patience in order to best assess a dangerous encounter in which rashness might prove disastrous. Conversely, he might need to summon the raw strength of his animus in order to endure extreme physical challenges. A female might need to draw on her animus in order to remain dispassionate in the face of violent destruction, or she might want to temper her raw emotions by concentrating on her calmer anima aspects in the nature of Hestia's soothing and stable hearth or Athena's cultivation of the family group. There are many challenges in the adventure which only an astute hero—by virtue of her full integration—can successfully overcome. The temptress who would delay or destroy the male hero with her overwhelming sexuality is analogous to the male tempter who would likewise seduce the female hero away from her task. These two archetypes will employ any of the hero's desires in order to bring about her or his destruction. Both function as does the ogre, or threshold guardian, an archetypal image that appears as an insurmountable obstacle to the hero's progress, and both exist in the shadow archetype, because they stand in the way of the seeker who must descend into the darkness in order to fulfill the self, which is the true prize and the hope for those who follow this dissertation's framework. A woman who is consciously aware can assume the hero mantle and recognize any one of these shadow aspects as a warning that she must call upon one of the virgin triad in order to accomplish the tasks she might otherwise find loathsome. Wilderness survival stories are replete with details of behaviors that "civilized" persons would find revolting but preserved the

31 hero's life. In fact, those who refuse to resort to actions that are seemingly inhuman, cannibalism perhaps, will surely die. Thus the shadow should not to be reviled or dismissed out of hand, despite its often grim contents, all of which are evident in the portions of the three goddess that descend from the Dark Goddess aspect of the Great Mother. The archetypal image of the mother, which is a principal element of this thesis, is a complex combination of Jung's personality archetypes. In her completeness, she reflects both the masculine and feminine traits of animus and anima and also possesses a dark shadow side—which paradoxically encourages growth and renewal based on the requisite destruction of the old. An archetype cannot project a persona for it has no agenda to promote, and in its primary nature it encompasses the self archetype as well. Instead, the mother's archetypal image becomes apparent through her many archetypal symbols, of which the Madonna, the Earth Mother, and the Whore are merely three. Within each of these symbols exists at least one additional symbol sub-group. The Earth Mother, for example, can project an image of the beaded and fringed hippie of the Beat Generation, or that of the zaftig female figure who personifies the Great Goddess in Neolithic statuary. In either likeness, she represents a proximity to nature that is emblematic of the Great Goddess herself, and which is evident in Artemis' nearly synonymous relationship with the natural world and its untamed energy. The Whore might present herself as the temptress who tries to lure the hero to destruction, or she can

32 be the much maligned woman of ill-repute who nonetheless possesses a pure heart that encourages the hero to look beyond the apparent. The danger exists for the archetypal symbol to become a stereotype through the exaggeration of its positive or negative aspects, and a woman can come to embody that stereotype. If women view the mother archetype—and, by extension, the Great Mother—as either fragmented or stereotyped into one aspect, they run the risk of either dissociating (separating out the anxiety producing parts) their own ego states, or of seeing themselves in one dimension. This would destroy rather than promote the psychic wholeness that self-searching can generate, and it is this longing to feel complete in ourselves and as a part of our world that evokes within each of us the willingness to plunge into the depths of our existence. The search for wholeness is a journey, an odyssey that is analogous to that of the hero adventure described by Campbell. Secreted beyond the threshold, our boon of wholeness is submerged in the dark recesses of our unconscious. The truth we so desire is difficult to attain, and we must embrace all that we cannot see in order to live fully: But one must learn to know oneself in order to know who one is. For what comes after the door [threshold] is, surprisingly enough, a boundless expanse full of unprecedented uncertainty, with apparently no inside and no outside, no above and no below, no here and no there , no mine and no thine, no good and no bad. It is the world of water, where all life floats in suspension. (Jung, Archetypes 21)

33 In that water, which Jung considered the principal symbol of the unconscious, images are distorted in a manner analogous to the way that light bends. This distortion creates a sense of anxiety, for the seeker can no longer trust her ability to see or hear or touch. Logic and reason cannot help her to decipher truth from falsehood, and thus she must come to rely on a new set of senses. She must push away the rigid absolutes which the conscious state so loves so she might be free to feel what is constellated in her unconscious, releasing her hold on the absolutes that seem a life preserver in a state of awareness, but in this situation will pull her under. Jung's belief that "[fjhe necessary and needful reaction from the collective unconscious expresses itself in archetypally formed ideas" (21) can also help women to identify and feel comfortable with the images and emotions that may surface, seemingly out of nowhere. Jung argued that these psychic phenomena are archetypal, for "so far as the collective unconscious contents are concerned we are dealing with archaic or—I would say—primordial types, that is, with universal images that have existed since the remotest times" (4-5). With enough practice in the art of recognizing the archetype's presence, they become part of "the class of ideas that people at first find strange but soon come to possess and use as familiar conceptions" (3-4). The woman who answers the call to discover herself, despite the psychic discomfort, can embrace a new internal compass that will help her to orient herself in the unconscious realm. The archetypal contents of the unconscious sea are most commonly expressed through myths and fairy tales, because these stories have developed over long periods of

34 time and this gives them a shape or a form (5). Jung even went so far as to say that "myths are first and foremost psychic phenomena that reveal the nature of the soul" and that "man has an imperative need—or rather, his conscious psyche has an irresistible urge—to assimilate all outer sense experiences to inner, psychic events (Jung, Archetypes 6). If the earliest human memories are, as Jung asserted, the archetypes that reside in the collective unconscious, then it is reasonable to suppose that the oldest of those memories would include the most elemental archetypes, one of whom would be the Great Goddess. As her image and folklore date from the Paleolithic era, it stands to reason that they would represent a primordial entity. And if Jung's theory that myths are the means of communication between the unconscious and the conscious is correct, then the myths surrounding her and her essential role in the creation of the universe would be a logical place to begin her analysis.

Chapter 2 THE GREAT MOTHER

Many cultures have portrayed the Great Mother as humankind's progenitor, and as the fundamental element in these stories of origin she provides an elemental image of the maternal. This chapter will explore the Great Mother's various presentations, as well as the ways in which cultures have viewed her as life's creator and nurturer, roles which also encompass her destructive potential since any new growth, physical or spiritual, requires the death of the old. An examination of the Great Mother's traditional division into Kore, Mother and Crone will provide an even broader view of the divine feminine which will, in turn, form a basis for understanding the ways in which the virgin goddesses embody the Great Mother's attributes. With this portrait of the Great Mother as an overarching presence, we begin to become aware of an unconscious desire to reconnect with her archetype.

The Divine Feminine's Creative and Sustaining Nature

Western society has romanticized the concept of a mother to represent comfort and gentleness, security, and a sense of self and home, but this one dimensional symbol is 35

36 not representative of the Greek's embodiment of the Great Mother as the archetype for the overarching creatrix who exemplifies the universe's fullness and wholeness. Although classicists did not give her a name until 1849 (Hutton 92), the Great Mother's presence actually became recognizable through the female deities of Greek and Roman mythology during the Iron Age (1100B.C. to 700B.C.) Myriad artifacts conceptualizing a Great Goddess can be found as far back as the Paleolithic (pre-30,000-9,000 B.C.) and Neolithic (7,000-3,000 B.C.) periods. Clay, terra cotta and wood compositions have been excavated from such far-flung European and Asian cultures as France, Spain, China and the area formerly known as Mesopotamia. Later statuary and pottery from the Bronze Age reflect the same themes of the nurturing, life giving mother accompanied by the creatures of the natural world, as well as the dark goddess who represents the death that is necessary for regeneration. Similar images and stories are depicted on 12th Century Spanish Frescoes, in 14th Century German paintings and in 16th Century illustrations on a French manuscript (Neumann, Mother Plates). A later, direct focus on the Great Mother as a unique entity was possibly an outgrowth of the mid-nineteenth century Romantic Movement at which time arose the idea that "behind the various goddesses of classical Greece stood a single great goddess" (Hutton 92-93). Also at this time, historians and religious scholars were investigating the origins of society. In 1862, scholars began examining the possibility that the "earliest human societies had been woman-centered" (93). In 1903, Jane Ellen Harrison went so far as to

37 posit that society had prospered under matriarchal rule and that males were of secondary importance. In her view, an early, once peaceful and creative goddess-worshipping society that had no male deities of any consequence was later destroyed by a male-worshipping tribe. She believed that the world had never been restored to its former natural order (Harrison 273, 285). Harrison's assertions are debatable, but her archaeological and sociological research contributed to the first modern study of mankind's feminine origins. Twentieth century interest in the Feminine increased with the writings of Robert Graves and Robert Briffault. In 1929, archaeologists' discoveries further strengthened the concept of a single female deity (Hutton 93). While there have been disagreements regarding the extent to which the veneration of the goddess impacted social development, there is evidence to suggest that early civilizations across Europe and Asia had been aware of the Great Mother and, as Erich Neumann suggests, had worshipped her almost exclusively: Of the Stone Age sculptures known to us, there are fifty-five female figures and only five male figures. The male figures, of youths, are atypical and poorly executed, hence it is certain that they had no significance for the cult. This fits in with the secondary character of the male godhead, who appeared only later in the history of religions and derived his divine rank from his mother, the Goddess. {Mother 95)

38 Further evidence of the cultural importance of honoring the Great Mother has been found in locations "from Siberia to southern Africa, from the Indus to Ireland, and all over the New World as well" (Barstow 7). In caves across Western Europe, particularly in the Dordogne region of France, there are drawings that incorporate images of the Great Mother archetype and her relationship with the earth. Similarly, in Tell Halaf, Syria, figures pre-dating the fourth millennium B.C. include females accompanied by animals; Erich Neumann saw these as evidence of that society's belief in the Great Goddess not simply as the mother of man but rather as the progenitor of all living things (Neumann Mother 96). While Neumann's assertion has not been widely accepted, there is additional evidence that women were far more integral to maintaining social order than traditional historical texts acknowledge. In Catalhoyuk, Turkey, there exists strong evidence of a Neolithic female-centered society, perhaps similar to the one proposed by Jane Harrison. The archaeological remains seem to indicate that this society had a fairly high degree of sophistication. Trinkets, jewelry, and small tools (Fromm 154) signify both wealth and creative expression, two aspects to which civilizations under stress would not be devoting their time or energy. Architectural ruins do not reveal a large distinction between the living conditions of the rich and the poor, leading historians to deduce that there was little internal unrest. The remains of the dead also seem to point to a peaceful, somewhat more egalitarian society in which women were honored at least as much as, if not more than, men. James Mellaart, who is primarily responsible for the discoveries at Catalhoyuk,

39 noted that "among the many hundreds of skeletons unearthed, not a single one has been found that showed signs of violent death" (qtd. in Fromm 155). The burial grounds also provide insight into the role of mothers in Catalhoyiik society: "The most impressive direct evidence for the central role of mothers in Catal Hoyiik [sic] lies in the fact that children were always buried with their mother, and never with their father" (Fromm 155). This, according to Fromm, is a "characteristically matriarchal trait: the children's essential relationship is considered to be to the mother and not to the father, as in the case in patriarchal societies" (Fromm 156). Yet even Fromm admits that it is impossible to draw definitive conclusions about whether Neolithic communities were matriarchal or female-centered, and at what point a clearly delineated patriarchy either emerged or usurped women's revered status. What is important for the purposes of this dissertation is that from the earliest stages of their development, humans recognized the crucial importance of the mother to the continued success of the individual and the group. The preponderance of artifacts reflect females, not males, and in at least two cultures, Catalhoyiik and Tell Halaf, evidence supports the theory that customs and rituals point to human acknowledgment of the female's critical value in perpetuating that culture. Evidence of the earliest peoples' attempts to represent the Great Mother—and not a male figure—strengthens the argument for her archetypal significance throughout history. These overarching female deities of the Neolithic era eventually gave way to the Greek and Roman goddesses, three of whom will form the

essential focus of this dissertation. The Great Mother became Gaia, whose story of patriarchal usurpation forms the foundation for the Greek's story of origin.

Primordial Woman

The poet Hesiod presented the Greek creation myth in his Theogony, in the eighth century B.C. He called the Great Mother Gaia, which derives from the root word "Ge" meaning earth or land. Gaia, unlike her more familiar looking Titan and Olympian descendants, does not bear any likeness to humans, and this is crucial to understanding her impact, as an archetype, on the human psyche. Hesiod provides no definitive description to invoke any mental image of her form. She simply emerges from Chaos as "Broad-bosomed Earth, sure standing-place for all/The gods who live on snowy Olympus' peak (Wende 27). After bringing forth "starry Heaven," the "long hills," the "barren sea with its swollen waves," and myriad deities, she brings forth the "crooked scheming Kronos," and the monsters, the Cyclopes, and the "hundred-handed ones" (28). Here the poet describes the Earth as comprised of two seemingly antithetical intentions: the first capable of creating such beauty as the mountains or the seas; the second begetting the barbaric creatures who strike fear into the human heart. What Hesiod does not directly state, but man knows from experience, is that those beautiful waters can turn into a deadly flood as surely as the mountain can erupt molten lava and ash. There is no

41 rational thought expected of the Great Mother, no presupposed human emotions she might choose to control or demonstrate. Gaia simply is. "Gaia reminds us that the divine is transhuman and prehuman—there from the beginning—not simply a human projection. Because of this she is the primordial source as no humanlike mother can be" (Downing, Goddess 50). Yet even with her dark, destructive capabilities, it makes perfect sense that Gaia, who either begat or facilitated the existence of the Greek deities that subsequently form a basis for Western culture and philosophy, would be female. It took Zeus' swallowing of Metis, pregnant with Athena, to project the concept of a male creator who, ironically, was attempting to destroy his male successor. Instead, in one fell swoop he destroyed his ancestry and his progeny. Before Cronos began and Zeus completed the patriarchal usurpation of the Great Mother's realm, Gaia was of primary importance to the culture. Archaeologists have unearthed artifacts from the Neolithic Era and Bronze Age (roughly between 3000-1100 B.C.) that represent the Great Mother as full, round, and often discernibly pregnant with a correspondingly prominent navel that indicates her life-generating potential. Until Hesiod and his contemporary, Homer, began to record Greek history in verse, around 1100 BC, these renderings of the Great Mother were already tangible evidence of her existence. Yet since the poets included her offspring in their poems, they had to have written at a time past which Gaia had already been fragmented into the female goddesses that mark Greece's Iron and Golden Ages. Thus it is important to look back to the time

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42

before Hesiod and Homer to visualize the complete goddess before moving forward to the three Olympians who, this dissertation argues, embody her wholeness.

Matriarchal Potency and Influence

Long before the appearance of Hestia, Athena and Artemis, Gaia was of primary importance to Greek culture. Even Apollo, whose oracle at Delphi is a prominent element in classical mythology, actually defers to Gaia's earlier, more primal role. In all the tales of gods and heroes, no deity appears more frequently than Apollo and no place is more sacred than Delphi, as it is the source of all infallible truth. It causes Orestes' entire predicament after Apollo tacitly authorizes him to commit matricide. Similarly, Oedipus sends Creon to Delphi in his desperate effort to save Thebes from plague. Apollo's word is law and it is, ironically, Orestes' acceptance, as well as Oedipus' refusal of this truth that dooms to his fate. Apollo's importance actually derives from his inheriting his power and position from his grandmother: before the temple was Apollo's it was Gaia's, and the Greeks considered this spot then, and do now, to be the omphalos, the "world navel" (Downing, "Mother Goddess" 50). The world navel is a most significant and sacred location for many cultures because it is the spot at which humans can literally and spiritually connect to the primordial whole as embodied by the Great Mother. The story of the Buddha attests to

43 its meaningfulness. The Bo Tree, under which Guatama faces the challenges that will transform him into the Buddha, is the navel from which he attains the knowledge to "redeem the universe" (Campbell, Hero 32). Likewise, the place of Christ's crucifixion is regarded as the navel of his transformation or enlightenment as he is resurrected to eternal life. It is impossible for any living being to transcend the human experience without self-annihilation (92). Both Christ and the Buddha experience transformative deaths that enable their higher states of being, but such conversions are not limited to religious figures. The archetypal hero must enter into this "sacred marriage," a spiritual union with the divine goddess, to attain the higher plane. Odysseus enters the world navel when he descends into the Underworld to learn how to return home to Ithaca. It is no surprise that Tieresias, who experienced part of his life as a woman and who has been so closely associated with Apollo's oracle at Delphi, provides Odysseus with the necessary information. Jason, another hero, survives the clashing rocks and secures the Golden Fleece with help from Medea, a witch whose powers represent the dark nature of the Great Mother. But when Jason rejects Medea, he is also rejecting the goddess' completeness. Only after he divorces himself from the sacred marriage by taking a new wife, one who does not possess the dark secrets of the earth, does he bring suffering upon himself and all of Corinth. No one who wishes to attain a higher level of consciousness can do so without surrendering to annihilation through the Great Mother, and while

44 Odysseus embraces his metaphorical death, Jason refuses and thus does not die to a new life. The Great Mother embodies death as a method of maintaining universal order and balance. "The Archetypal Feminine not only bears and directs life as a whole, and the ego in particular, but also takes everything that is born of it back into its womb of origination and death" (30). As with the contents of the personal unconscious, nothing is ever truly lost. Remains from the Neolithic period support the concept of Great Mother as life giver and life taker, and there is comfort even in the face of her latter attribute. During this time: . . . graves and temples assumed the shape of the egg, vagina and uterus of the Goddess or of her complete body. The megalithic passage graves of western Europe quite probably symbolized the vagina (passage) and pregnant belly (tholos, round chamber) of the Goddess. The shape of a grave is an analogue of the natural hill with an omphalos. . . on top, a universal symbol of the Earth Mother's pregnant belly with umbilical cord, as recorded in European folk beliefs. (Gimbutas xxiii) In their belief that the earth was their mother, humans structured graves to resemble her as much as possible. In this way the dead could literally return to the womb where they would become part of the earth's process of renewal, as last year's garden debris decays into the nutrients that will nourish next spring's growth. Here humans find the security inherent in the concept of going home to the mother, back to the place in

45 which they were originally nurtured and hoping to again feel secure. If, as Freud believed, separation from the mother produces all anxiety (Campbell, Hero 52), then nothing could engender greater solace than the act of re-entering the birth womb, despite its price. As death is a transformative experience, this re-seeding or self-creating concept of the Great Mother is fundamental to understanding the autonomous natures of Athena, Artemis and Hestia who, due to their own self-sustaining aspects, represent the Great Mother's primordial wholeness through their pure archetypal states. With the ancients' understanding of life and death as cyclical, it is no wonder that the psychological discoveries of the 20th century would lead humans back to the primordial womb.

The Great Mother in the Psyche

Much of the 20th century interest in the Great Mother and the Feminine results from Jung's introduction of the psychology of archetypes, which claims that specific archetypes resonate within the human psyche because humans are hardwired with receptors that respond to archetypal images in ways similar to the way in which genes respond to chemical stimuli and that ".. . just as the body is programmed with chromosomes, the psyche is programmed with archetypes, or universal images as part of the collective unconscious" (Citron 40). Erich Neumann, Jung's protege, further claimed the existence of a link between the archaeological evidence and the archetype's

46 psychological constellation. In fact, without comprehending these two complementary aspects we would not be able to understand how the Great Mother's primordial nature resonates within us, as it has within humanity for tens of thousands of years. The archeological evidence reveals that humans have unconsciously acknowledged and even relied upon an overarching female presence. Actively integrating this relationship into our consciousness, where we may call upon its restorative power, is the natural next step for those who recognize the need for greater balance. Neumann argues that the archetype is an integral part of our psyche in that "[ejvery mood that takes hold of the entire personality is an expression of the dynamic effect of an archetype, regardless whether this effect is accepted or rejected by the human consciousness; whether it remains unconscious or grips the consciousness" (Neumann, Mother 4). From the Neolithic period forward, statuary and carvings illustrate artists' attempts to bring form and substance to an entity that, according to Jung and Neumann, exists solely in the collective and personal unconscious. The Great Mother, like all archetypes, resonates within each person, and it is her reflection that artists and followers replicate. Mother images are shadows on the psychic wall, stylized copies of what we intuit. This is particularly true for a woman, whose physical and spiritual consciousnesses are so intertwined that "she does not understand with her head but with her entire body" (Neumann, Fear 19). We desire to make concrete what we intuit. Yet while the images and statuary will never truly depict the archetype, internalizing the

47 archetypal image will make us feel we are in the archetype's presence as its "dynamic action . . . extends beyond unconscious instinct and continues to operate as an unconscious will that determines the personality, exerting a decisive influence on the mood, inclinations, and tendencies of the personality, and, ultimately on its conceptions, intentions, interests, on consciousness and the specific direction of the mind" (Neumann Mother 4-5). Carl Jung refers to the archetype as an "eternal presence" (7). In accepting this assertion, we must also accept that the archetype is as much a part of a woman's psyche as anything else of a spiritual nature. Neumann further develops Jung's claim when he states that archetypal symbols "possess a dynamic and a material component. They take hold of the human personality as a whole, arouse it and fascinate it, and attract consciousness, which strives to interpret them" (8). Thus women must respond to the unconscious calling of the Great Mother, for she represents the essential building blocks of the internal psyche. Every time a woman answers this call she is coming home. If she does not recognize the call, at least as an internal, spiritual summons, then she may be spiritually wounded. We cannot choose to either admit or refuse the Great Mother any more than we can control what resonates within us on a visceral level. We do not choose the archetype; the archetype chooses us and holds onto us until we give it our total focus (Cain XV). The Great Mother and other archetypes, such as her three virgin descendants, are present without our conscious direction; in fact, if it were up to our egos, our conscious states, the archetype would probably not even be permitted to activate our

48 memories. While we do not manufacture the archetypes or our responses to them, we can and must identify them and then compensate for our ego's deliberate attempts to ignore, evade, and deny in the hopes of preserving a status quo that, while potentially harmful or even dangerous, is also familiar and comfortable. We must instead eschew the safety net, emerge from behind the the fortress, and delve beneath the moat's murky surface to see what frightens our ego into maintaining at all costs its current, though fractured state. We must, like the archetypal hero, enter the sacred marriage fully aware and willing to experience the destruction that must precede that higher state of being. A woman can realize this force and summon the courage to use it if she is truly willing to travel into the unknown realm. Since many people possess a deep, often paralyzing fear of the unknown, individuals can carefully cultivate a connection with the spirit of the archetype that resides inside by listening to her quiet, gentle nudge that calls us home to ourselves in such a way as to alleviate rather than exacerbate any anxiety. Her tiny voice is in effect a preamble to a much greater and all-enveloping presence. With practice, a woman can learn to trust the messages that seem to come from deep within, strengthening the intuition that engenders the connection between her psyche's unconscious recognition of the Great Mother archetype and her conscious decision making process. According to Neumann, "human life in the beginning is determined to a far higher degree by the unconscious than by consciousness; it is directed more by archetypal images than by concepts, by instincts than by the voluntary decision of the ego" (Neumann, Mother 16). He further argues that we are attempting to recreate,

49 through reintegration, that early human state when humans possessed a stronger sense of the archetypes. The female archetypes resonating offer a communal support that is critical to attaining wholeness, but as they are manifest in the numinous we find them difficult to embrace. However, women can compensate for Western society's preference for logic and absolutes by releasing their fear of the unknown and willingly embracing the archetypes, for it is actually that which we can only sense rather than see or touch that will facilitate our return to the original state of wholeness of the Great Mother in which we were born. For "it is the elementary character of the Feminine [that] becomes evident wherever the ego and consciousness are still small and undeveloped and the unconscious is dominant (25). Most infants imprint on the primary caretaker as mother; thus a baby sees in her mother "the archetype of the Great Mother, that is, the reality of an all-powerful numinous woman on whom [s]he is dependent on all things, and not the objective reality of [her] personal mother" (15). While the Great Mother is not the replication of the literal mother, she becomes part of the archetype constellation for the individual. In this example, "mother" is first and foremost a psychological entity which acts as a spiritually nurturing presence and "great" indicates that the force of this spiritual mother transcends humanity and natural world (Neumann Mother 11). Hence the child's psyche has great difficulty differentiating between the archetypal Great Mother and the mother or mother figure present from birth. The two figures blur so that when the Terrible Mother eventually manifests herself in the heretofore comforting birth or nurturing mother, she

can overwhelm the child's internal expectations of the archetype, ultimately leading to its rejection. Infants recognize their initial mother-figure in an archetypal framework because of their complete helplessness; the mother figure forms an infant's entire world. "This means that the mother of the primal relationship, as the one who encompasses, contains, and directs life, is at the same time both world and Self'in one" (Neumann, Fear 232). As the child develops and seeks to extend her world's borders, she must leave that allencompassing mother behind. This is the process of ego individuation which Jungians define as "the process by which a person becomes a psychological 'in-dividual,' that is a separate, indivisible unity or whole" (Hall and Nordby 34). However, breaking off from the all-consuming maternal archetype can fragment the ego. This is frequently due to the fact that the child is moving to a higher plane of development which is guarded by the dark goddess portion of the Great Mother. This "Terrible Mother" aspect can be dangerous, even deadly to the unprepared ego attempting transcendence. Yet those who possess willingly face this dark aspect and humble themselves to her annihilation will gain the boon of a more complete existence and more thorough understanding of the self. As adult women attempting to restore balance, we know that there can be no creativity, no renewal of the self without destroying the old self in the process, and we move forward willingly, despite our natural trepidation.

51 Kore, Mother, Crone

While this dissertation is posing the unique argument that the Great Mother descended into the three virgin goddesses, her tripartite nature actually follows historical and literary tradition in that it conforms to the idea that the number three possesses mystical or extraordinary qualities. Three-sided structures, such as the pyramids, are recognized as some of the most stable, and their very construction is surrounded by mystery. Within a literary framework, the search for wholeness is evident in Grimm's Cinderella having to complete three tasks in order to attend the ball, in Psyche's completing three tasks to regain Cupid's trust, and in Macbeth's three witches appearing three times before he devolves entirely. Furthermore, Christianity's Holy Trinity represents a complete entity in which all of the parts are equal to and indivisible from the whole. Such a trinity theory regarding the Great Mother has also been advanced by psychologists, psychiatrists, and mythologists such as Carl Jung, Erich Neumann, Christine Downing, M. Esther Harding, and Jean Shinoda Bolen, as the foundation for the Great Mother archetype. In The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Jung presents the Great Mother's threefold nature as actually comprised of three distinct archetypes, the Kore, or Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. It is important to understand these three archetypes and the ways in which they interact in the unconscious in order to visualize the ways in which they reside in the virgin goddesses and thus can subsequently be invoked by the conscious woman seeking wholeness. Since the argument of this

52 thesis is that the three virgins, Athena, Artemis and Hestia, are a distillation of the Great Mother herself, it must follow that each contains the elements of the Kore, Mother and Crone, albeit in unique proportions.

The Kore and the Mother

A child, by its very youth, represents life's possibilities and an attitude of hope for the future. Jung believed that a divine child, which he called Xhepuer, symbolizes "more than mere child" and is present in all persons (Hopke 107). The puer, through its feminine equivalent, the Kore, encompasses the regenerative nature of female life. Since the Kore is inherent in every woman, each of us can employ our understanding of this maiden archetype to gather self knowledge as we journey to new wholeness born of our experiences with all three aspects of the Great Mother. Persephone, goddess of youth and innocence betrayed, is most often personified as the Kore. Some mythologists consider the two synonymous, but that would confuse the archetype with its symbol. Greek myths are, in fact, full of young goddesses in the form of nymphs or as consorts to mature goddesses, such as the role Hebe plays as Hera's charge. Goddesses also assume the form of young girls who symbolize the Kore, such as when Athena leads Odysseus to Alcinoos' palace, employing the child's purity to foster trust in the hero. Scores of girls who exemplify the Kore archetype were devoted to

53 Artemis, whose virgin existence and proximity to nature most closely embodies the Kore attributes. The Kore's ubiquitous influence is evident even in Aphrodite, who presents "an aspect of the primordial maiden, Protogonos Kore" (Jung and Kerenyi 103). It seems incongruous to view Aphrodite, the quintessence of mature eroticism, as representative of the virgin maiden, but she was unknowing and unknown when she was born of the sea. Only later does her origin in the life force generated from Cronos' castration of Uranos overwhelm her initial innocence. In addition, the virgin state is not limited to a female without sexual experience; it is instead a capacity to self-sustain and a willingness to remain open to new experiences despite past difficulties. These are important distinctions because this dissertation is not proposing that women should remain virgins or not seek life partners; however they must be willing to honestly explore the opportunities placed before them without yielding to undue influence from others. When we recognize the Kore's influence in Aphrodite, the ostensible antithesis of innocence, we can also see the Kore inherent in Athena, Artemis, Hestia, and in ourselves. Hestia, whose quietude seems antithetical to youthful exuberance, also possesses Kore elements in her embodiment of the hearth that serves as the symbol of a flame's cleansing purity. She makes a conscious decision to remain a virgin following the conflict between Apollo and Poseidon over which would "have" her. She chooses to be self-sustaining, partnerless, partially because of the petty infighting among the Olympians in which she never takes part. She prefers the company of mortals, who universally welcome her into their homes. Hestia projects wisdom and self-assurance by being more

54 than willing to exist without the pomp and circumstance accorded to and often demanded by her fellow Olympians. She even surrenders her place on Olympus to Dionysus upon his ascension and never participates in the humiliating and divisive antics of the other deities. So this seemingly simple, quiet, unattached goddess may be virtually unknown to the gods, but she is certainly wise and knowing in her rejection of their petty, jealous and power hungry pursuits. Her Kore is evident in the fact that she needs neither males nor the spotlight directed towards Mt. Olympus for security or a sense of self. Athena, so closely aligned to the attention-grabbing Zeus, might seem to spend a great deal of time in the spotlight, yet she, too, embodies the maiden aspect by remaining a virgin, and her near-absence of a personal agenda encourages others to believe her intentions are pure even if they do not support them. There are times, of course, when she projects a "win at all costs" persona, such as in the Trojan War or when she allows Odysseus to wander the Mediterranean for years, but her steadfastness simply serves to highlight, not diminish, her Kore aspect. Artemis' youthful attire and demeanor, as well as her physical distance from Olympus, also sets off her Kore aspect. As will be detailed later, she enjoys being "daddy's little girl," asking for and being granted whatever she wants—including followers who must abandon her when they reach adolescence. Artemis' quick temper and proximity to death as it correlates with the wilderness' theme of survival of the fittest highlights the Kore's dichotomous nature. Though these three goddesses can project

55 positive characteristics such as Hestia's self-assurance, Athena's decisiveness, and Artemis' life force, there is clearly a dark aspect born of their opposing traits. The dual nature of each of the three goddesses is illustrative of the archetypes' tendencies to "oscillate between their positive and negative meanings" and the inherently positive side, such as the pure maiden, can also appear "in a despicable and distorted form" (Jung and Kerenyi 157). For example, Persephone is at once the young girl picking flowers, completely innocent of both her surroundings and her sexual allure, as well as the dread Queen of the Dead. Hestia's hearth brings life-giving warmth as well as the all-consuming fire that returns the dead to the Great Mother's womb. Artemis embodies the Kore paradox in that she personifies not just nature's innocence and purity but through them her "unsubdued virginity and the terrors of birth . .. have their dominion in a purely naturalistic, feminine world' (107). Likewise Athena, patron of the civilized arts of handicrafts and weaving, was also a ruthless warrior who held more sway with Zeus than any other: "it was not Hera, Zeus's spouse, who shared dominion with him so much as the androgynous figure of Pallas Athene. In the Peloponnese, she was also much adored as 'Mother Athene,' and to the Athenians she was very much the 'Mother' " (106). Even her title, Pallas, connotes a oxymoronic masculine femininity (Downing, Mythological 109). Athena and her sister goddesses possess paradoxical attributes, which can exist either singly or in multiples, producing both harmony and discord.

The supraordinate personality refers to the total person, how she appears to the world rather than her self-perception (Jung and Kerenyi 158). Thus the concept of the Kore in her full, supraordinate form, is antithetical to the romanticized notion of the helpless maiden or distressed damsel that has persisted since the Middle Ages and has sometimes inspired women to seek the fantasy of a knight in shining armor to rescue them from harm. Looking for the goddesses within might not be as romantic a prospect, but it is more likely to produce the serenity women desire. It does require that we face the supraordinate Kore, with her simultaneously coexistent innocence and violence, light and darkness, raw emotion and intellect within her seemingly incongruous figure, and recognize her presence within us. What may become obscured by the overarching idea of the maiden, at once known and unknown, is that her contradiction extends far beyond her existence the moment in which she attains knowledge, in Persephone's case by Hades' rape. "The prototypical Kore, Persephone, illustrates the maiden's dichotomous nature. The figure corresponding to the Kore in woman is generally a double one, i.e., a mother and a maiden, which is to say that she appears now as the one, now as the other" (158). Clearly there must be more to Persephone than her dramatic abduction or we will not be able to integrate the full Kore experience. In the moment Hades takes her, Persephone learns what women know and thus ceases to be a maiden. While on the surface the knowledge is overtly sexual, there are also implicit overtones of maturity and mortality as maiden innocence dies as she simultaneously realizes her future, one of hardship and the inevitability of the death of

57 her own life phases as well as her body. Persephone is no longer defined as a daughter, for her lost innocence is the "allegorical equivalent" of her descent into the underworld (109). The complications of Persephone's, and thus the Kore's, nature do not end along with her virgin state as they are passages to a heretofore unknown and unavoidable realm. According to Homer's Hymn to Demeter, only Hecate, a moon goddess, hears Persephone scream. Hecate, who is always associated with darkness, joins Demeter to search for Persephone in order to satisfy the Mother's desire to re-establish their parentchild relationship. It is doubtful that Demeter would have located Persephone without Hecate's aid, thus darkness enables their reunion and delineates the dichotomy of the mother-daughter bond as representative of the two aspects of the mother archetype: One of the forms (daughter with mother) appears as life; the other (young girl with husband) as death. Mother and daughter form a living unity in a borderline situation—a natural unit which, equally naturally, carries within it the seeds of its own destruction. As a maiden, Persephone is an Artemisian figure. She might well have been one of the companions of Artemis who were untrue to their maidenhood and thus paid the penalty of death. (107) Persephone's journey to the underworld is at once metaphorical and literal. The loss of virginity is analogous with death in the sense that the child self must die in order for the mother self to emerge. Despite her efforts, Demeter will never again regain her daughter in her archetypal maiden form, and the evolution of the feminine archetype has

58 proven that she should not. Mortal women can now see the importance of their identification with the complete Kore archetype. Integrating the maiden aspects of Athena, Artemis and Hestia can encourage women to accept their childlike and innocent natures as a release from the pressures of adulthood which can drain us of our creative spirit. Sometimes it is not just acceptable, but necessary, to see the world as would a young girl lest we become weighed down by adult realizations and responsibilities. Fully integrating the Kore aspects of the three goddesses will help us to know when and in which situations we should encourage either the maiden or mother aspects of these archetypes to be present. Balancing between childhood and adulthood has never been easy. The Greeks may have been one of the first societies to capture the resistance to the realities of life that cloak the process of maturation. Neither Persephone nor Demeter were ready to accept a young woman's fate, and her story only echoes the strain that early marriage rites forced on women in the ancient world. It also only exacerbated the fears of young brides-to-be by seeming to require at least the symbolic surrender of a woman's autonomy. "There were also suggestions of a theme of abduction: at the start of the wedding procession the bride was lifted on to the chariot by the groom; and as she was led towards her new home, and again when she was conducted around the hearth, the groom held her by the wrist, a gesture indicating control and possession" (Blundell 123). Yet despite this ceremony, and the activities associated with marriage and motherhood, the Kore does return, possessing the knowledge of her maidenhood as well as that of her

59 motherhood. The memory of her own transformation can help a mother to guide her daughter through the same experience. In the best of circumstances, the mother and daughter archetypes are integrated into a whole that facilitates the development of each. Without such integration a woman can neither grow nor teach her offspring how to mature with full knowledge and embrace of the various archetypal influences. The dangers of refusing to move from one stage of life to another are evident in Demeter's reaction to Persephone's marriage. Demeter's myth shatters the romantic notion of an eternal spring in which a woman can remain innocent not just of her physical state, but also of the natural rhythms of the earth of which she is a part. To ignore these cycles is to reject life and the Great Mother. In emphasizing Hades' violent abduction of the flower-picking innocent, what is often left out of the myth is the fact that Zeus and his (and Demeter's) mother, Rhea, actually planned the encounter. "From the Earth Mother's point of view, neither seduction nor death is the least bit tragic or even dramatic" (Jung and Kerenyi 156). All Hades is doing is removing the Kore from her childish pursuits, ultimately causing her to realize that the complete giving of her heart will require a kind of death (Luke, Mothers 82). It also demands of the mother a kind of death experience so that she may accomplish the necessary release of the daughter. The existential lesson every woman can take from Demeter's experience is that life will present difficulties that cannot be rationalized on an emotional level. No matter how logical it appears for young women—and men for that matter—to leave home and find a partner and thus reconstitute their relationships with their parents, Demeter

60 represents those many mothers who are unable to release their primary relationship with their children. While this is an understandable response, it hinders women from assimilating all of life's inevitable vicissitudes as part of the regenerative process. "By entering into the figure of Demeter we realize the universal principle of life, which is to be pursued, robbed, raped, to fail to understand, to rage and grieve, but then to get everything back and be born again" (Jung and Kerenyi 137). If we recognize our propensity to allow one aspect of the archetype, in this case the mother's desire to keep the child from transitioning to adulthood, to overwhelm us, we will be able to withstand its pressure and call on its other aspects to offer balance.

Hecate: The Bridge Between Maiden and Crone

Transitioning from the Kore to the Mother aspect is made possible by the gaining of knowledge. That knowledge displaces previously held beliefs and we sense the loss of our old selves, Hecate, a third aspect of the Kore, can help us to recognize our losses and helps us to see the dark underside of life as essential to the natural order, whether or not we want to accept the fact that life requires death and that knowledge gained can mean a sense of personal loss. One duality in the Kore archetype, that of the mother and the daughter, is evident in Persephone's role in the myths. Since she spends at least one third of the year in the underworld—and no hero seeking her out, from Psyche through

61 Hercules, fails to find her in Hades' palace—her identity as the Queen of the Dead requires special consideration, particularly as it seems to contradict Demeter's image of the Maiden, Persephone. Once the Kore has tasted the pomegranate seed, she has eaten the knowledge of the Mother, or woman, and can no longer live solely as her mother's daughter. "Persephone, as her own death-aspect, must return to rule as the Queen of the Underworld . . . As Kore, the maiden, she returns each spring, [as] the fruits of the fields. And so there is an eternal cycle of birth-loss-mourning-searching-rebirth" (Sjoo and Mor 167). As the Queen Mother of the dead, Persephone must now enforce the Earth Mother's rules of destruction and regeneration in the dark facet of her Kore archetype, often referred to as the earth goddess Hecate, the very one who facilitated her integration with Demeter following her abduction. Hecate is a complex deity, the product of various parentages depending on the poet, with some even suggesting that she is the product of Zeus's rape of Demeter which thus more symbolically binds mother and daughter. Others claim her to be related to Circe, and she certainly shares a gift for magic and sorcery (Bell 219) that is reinforced by her association with darkness, caves, the moon, and the underworld. Viewed in isolation, these qualities do not fully illustrate her Kore aspect, but a further examination of her relationship with Persephone will unite the two goddesses in one. Hecate as Kore (and vice versa) originates with her assisting Demeter's effort to restore Persephone to the land of the living. After Zeus, Demeter, and Hades strike the bargain that keeps

62 Persephone in the underworld for part of the year, Hecate remains with her, even becoming her primary consort. Persephone is forced to exist in the shadows for just part of the year; thus Hecate, who lives out of reach of Apollo's rays, truly personifies the Kore's dark aspect as well as corresponds with, as this dissertation will later present, the Dark Goddess aspect of the Great Mother. She spans both worlds, residing in a shadowy cave yet close to the living. The torch she uses to search for Persephone corresponds not to the sun but rather to the moon, whose embodiment she shares with Artemis and Selene as part of a second trinity. Hecate is able to illuminate the darkness, death, the underworld, and all the mysterious places that humans fear. On a metaphorical level, this could also extend to her symbolic personification of the unconscious and the illuminating torch she would bring to those who are willing to search out its secrets. "It is towards her—and especially towards her . . . chthonic [underworld] and chaotic, ineluctable depths—that the new individuating, yin-yang balanced ego must return to find its matrix and the embodied and flexible strength to be active and vulnerable, to stand its own ground and still to be empathetically related to others" (Perera 7). Hecate's torch guides women into the unknown so that they might find all fragments of their lost selves. This painful search is necessary as "Sacrifice and suffering are prerequisites of the transformation conferred by her, and this law of dying and becoming is an essential part of the wisdom of the Great Goddess of living things, the goddess of all growth, psychic as well as physical" (Neumann, Mother 252).

63 This is seemingly what the Kore experiences as she integrates the mother aspect and thus serves as a model for all women who wish to attain equilibrium through her. "Besides her Kore quality, her affinity with the moon and with a primitive world of ghosts, a sort of motherliness also pertains to the idea of Hecate. Like Artemis or Mother Earth herself, she was . . . nurse and nourisher of all those born after her" (Jung and Kerenyi 112). Her care of Persephone bears this out, as does her position with the other deities. Such respect suggests her ability to facilitate our understanding of the third traditional aspect of the Great Mother, the Crone.

The Crone

The final feature of Hecate as the Kore is her role as the wise-woman, the Crone. This aspect links the youthful and sometimes naive qualities of the maiden with the wisdom of those who have had a lifetime of experience on which to reflect and integrate into their lives. Like Hestia, who is above the other Olympian's immature competitiveness, Hecate disdains conflict and reaps respect for her wise ways. Zeus maintained the rights bestowed on her by the Titans, keeping "Her privilege in earth and sea and heaven/As it was portioned to her from the start" (Wende 36-7). Even Zeus, so covetous of his role as king of the gods, honored Hecate above all, making her the "nurse and overseer of all the young/Who from that day were born and came to see/The light of

64 Dawn who sees the world; and thus/She is a nurse; and these are her high (italics mine) tasks" (37). On many levels Hecate epitomizes the archetype of the triad, had Jung thought to include it in his philosophy. Her three-fold nature is ubiquitous, as seen in her statues, some with triangular foundations and three faces looking in three directions, and often located where three roads intersect (Jung and Kerenyi 112). She personifies the moon, along with Artemis and Selene. As the dark, subterranean aspect of the Kore she provides a balance to the ethereal mother and daughter archetypes represented by Demeter and Persephone, as well as establishes a connection to the Great Mother through her devotion to nature and to the dark goddess through her practice of magic and the dark arts. Correspondingly, she accompanies Persephone in her journey to the Underworld, offering her companionship in her "nekyia, a descent into Hades for the 'treasure hard to find' " (158). The Kore is a critical piece of the puzzle that exists in the dark aspects of many goddesses, not just in Persephone, Demeter or Artemis. "Indeed, the children of the goddess are all integrally connected with the themes of birth, death, and resurrection" (Eisler 23), the latter two most clearly embodied in the Crone. The Crone has a long and storied history across cultures. Crones are viewed as "long-lasting survivors, as wise and powerful, self-affirming women, as wanton, willful, intractable women, as women who refuse to yield to patriarchal power" (Downing, Mirrors 193). She is also the sum of all the life that she has brought forth and all that she has received back into her womb. The Greeks did not view old age "as the final stage of

65 life but [rather] as the passage away from life" (192). Her shadowy nature on the cusp between life and death illustrates why the archetype sometimes appears in a terrifying persona. She is the wart-encrusted, stooped, bent old woman of fairy tales who forces children to face life's shadows, similar to the ogre or threshold guardian of Joseph Campbell's hero myth, and her enigmatic appearance, enfolded in cloaks and rags, enhances that mystery. But while this figure is one symbol of the Crone archetype, it is not her only symbol; just as Jung proclaimed that there are as many archetypes as there are situations, there are also as many symbols of the archetype as fit each unique circumstance. Athena's imparting of wisdom and justice is just one such symbolic representation that is far removed from the visual image of old age or death. Crones embody timelessness, engendering wisdom born of the strength of many lifetimes, and Crone figures are culturally ubiquitous. Maat, the Egyptian goddess, determined the rules of truth and justice. "Even the gods were constrained to live by the Laws of Maat" (B. Walker, Crone 51). Rhea, mother of Zeus and the other Olympians, gave tablets containing laws similar in content to those presented by Moses to the first King Minos on Mt. Dictys, in which Rhea's cave was located. The three Fates, or Moerae, control the length and nature of a person's life; Atropos, the eldest of the three, is the one who cuts the life-thread with an uncontested authority. Ellie, a Teutonic goddess whose name means old age, bests Thor, who is strength personified (29, 51). The Crone's seeming omnipotence gives her nature a gravity that commands respect far surpassing the other deities. This may well come from the Crone's apparent proximity to

66 death, a logical conclusion considering that she embodies a woman at the end of a life which she has filled with knowledge gleaned from myriad experiences, all the while pointing towards death's inevitability, as Barbara Walker confirms: The older, matriarchal view of the Crone accompanied a philosophy less centered in the ego, more accepting of natural cycles. Just as seed developed into ripening fruit, then withered away, so growing up would pass through maturity into growing old. No power in earth or heaven could rescind this cyclical law, which is why the Goddess of waxing and waning was thought more powerful than any god. As the birth-giving Virgin and the death-dealing Crone were part of one another, death and life together were like the new seed within the withered fruit, so visions of the young Goddess invariably merged with the old one. (29) Yet while the Crone is most easily visualized as old, she does not exist solely in that likeness. Hecate embodies her wisdom in a youthful aspect as she presides over the transformations that occur from life to death to regeneration. In this way the Crone can also be seen as analogous to the biblical Sophia, "the spiritual transformative character . . . [who] transcends the earth-night-unconscious aspect of the Feminine" (Neumann Mother 216), and whose name derives from the Greek word for wisdom. Like Hecate, her companion, Persephone's role as Queen of the Underworld illustrates her Crone attribute as she becomes the wise but feared woman who holds the secrets of transcendent death. Living underground with the shades, she is emblematic of

67 impending doom and is sought out only by those in straits desperate enough to necessitate a journey into the earth's uterine chamber. The universality of that journey is evident in that the roles of Persephone and Hecate are not unique to the Greeks. "In Egypt, the name of one of the oldest Goddesses, Heqit or Hekat, was formed from the root heq, "intelligence," which also meant a tribal ruler in the predynastic period" (B. Walker, Crone 50). Hecate provides the culminating wisdom that helps Persephone to assume the role of daughter to Demeter and husband to Hades (Woodman and Dickson 134), as well as fulfilling her Mother role. She thus facilitates the transformation of three into one. Women must act different parts by clothing themselves in different personas, in order to satisfy themselves and the people around them. While an excess of role-playing can cause a woman to lose sight of her true self, there is no doubt that she must acknowledge her myriad parts and address their needs in order to feel complete; effectively relating to others is a part of her wholeness. She might be Kore-MaidenCrone to varying degrees at different life stages, and even at various times in a given day. Paradoxically, the only way to achieve a balance with others is to focus inward. "Women are, by nature, disposed to relationship and connectedness; yet true relationship cannot be embraced until a woman has a deep sense of her at-one-ment. Without this essential independence from all roles and bonds, she is a potential victim for servitude" (135). To avoid such a fate a woman must separate the Crone from the other two aspects, Maiden and Mother. "The crone in a woman is that part of her psyche that is not identified with any relationship nor confined by any bond. She infuses an intrinsic sense of self-worth,

68 of autonomy, into the role of virgin and mother, and gives the woman strength to stand to her own creative experience" (134). She enables us to realize our ability to self-create and thus self-sustain.

The Dark Goddess

The previous section highlights how the Kore and Mother facets of the Great Mother archetype are united through their dark aspects, particularly Hecate. The Great Mother's chthonic attribute, of which the Crone is one example, seems antithetical to the human desire to receive comfort from the mother; thus her presence is one that we might prefer to ignore because it causes a schism in the belief structure with which we surround our idealized image of the maternal archetype. Yet all the evidence of Jung, Neumann, Shinoda Bolen, Harding, and others forces us to either abandon our denial or accept permanent fragmentation. Facing the Dark Mother will not alleviate our discomfort, but it will make us more clear-sighted and honest about what we think and feel and thus more likely to benefit from integrating the Great Mother's singularly unappealing aspect. The Dark Goddess's destructive potential can engender a primordial dread that often reflects childhood anxiety. Infants understandably fear any perceived threat to their safety and security, especially when it emanates from the being upon whom the child relies for her very existence. Such uncertainty can reawaken in the adult the threats felt

69 in infancy and childhood, such as the darkness, wild animals, witches and other monsters. "This reaction can carry over into the relationships adults have with the archetype, with other adults, and in response to external stimuli in the form of persons or situations. If we remain trapped in fear, we will never know the treasures of the dark" (WoodmanDickson 37). Clearly, integrating the Dark Goddess is a critical part of psychic development. The Dark Goddess serves myriad purposes. She warns us of the dangers inherent in our transformation to a higher plane of existence. Yet in seeking personal growth as a vehicle towards fulfillment, women must be willing to face the challenges that complicate their journey or suffer the consequences brought on by emotional stagnation. Circumstances will "[bring] us to a crisis in which we look the Death Goddess straight in the eye. That look can change our lives. It may not, in which case, we may obliterate ourselves" (28). If women remain immobile for protracted periods, they will become unable to conceptualize a different response that will free them from spiritual stagnation. If this outlook never changes; ennui and its resultant complacency descend until even the tiniest effort becomes Herculean. Eventually, even arising from bed or exiting the shower become insurmountable tasks because they seem purposeless endeavors, as do even more disheartening efforts that might force a confrontation with new situations for which some women feel they lack the necessary coping skills. Existing on a plane between paralyzing familiarity and primordial fear is psychically exhausting and debilitating, yet the cause and resolution of this spiritual

70 conundrum is the Great Goddess herself. Joseph Campbell, in The Hero With a Thousand Faces, defines the archetypal hero as any person who responds to the challenge of the darkness in order to attain the next level of psychic development, but one who refuses the call to adventure invites doom. Continuing resistance negatively transforms the experience so that "whatever house he builds, it will be a house of death . . . all he can do is create new problems for himself and await the gradual approach of his disintegration" (59). Our fears notwithstanding, we must let go of our old ways or be dragged until the old self is annihilated. To reach the "Goddess within . . . [the hero] must pass through his own wasteland, give up his false sense of power, and discover what is of real value to him. Only then can he give full expression to his own creative power" (Woodman and Dickson 128). The Dark Goddess facilitates the necessary destruction of old values and ideas that hinder our integration and our imagination. The Great Mother archetype is often viewed as analogous to the uroboros, the circular snake that consumes its tail in a perpetual cycle of death and regeneration, in a manner comparable to the ways in which opposing forces balance the universe: sunlight and darkness; ocean and desert; security and fear; inclusion and alienation; goodness and evil; life and death; Kore and Crone. As the Great Mother is synonymous with the earth, she also embodies all of those and other paradoxes. It is natural for humans to desire safety and security from their caretakers, but it is a fact of nature that the forces that sustain us can also bring us ruin. Drought and deluge are but two sides of the same coin, and thus it is with the Great Mother: "For in a profound way life and birth are always

71 bound up with death and destruction. That is why the Terrible Mother is 'Great' and deadly and protective" (Neumann, Mother 153). There is no way to avoid life's sharp, inexorable vicissitudes. Humans fear the Dark Goddess' power precisely because the pain and fear it generates are antithetical to the comfort of having basic needs met by caretakers, who are usually maternal. In Fear of the Feminine, Neumann claims that "the primal relationship to the mother is not only the first relationship, it is the image and prototype of relating in general" (240). The birth mother holds the power of life and death over the infant, thus germinating the understandably paralyzing fear of being destroyed in her presence, either literally or symbolically. The infant lives in a world maintained by her mother, who intervenes when there is danger. This continues for the first year, until the child develops some sense of a world separate from the being who has become for her the primordial mother archetype figure. At some point, owing to internal or external stimuli, the mother will not be able to respond to the child in a timely manner, and the child will have her first experience of fear in response to the perception that her lifeline is no longer direct and solely dedicated to her comfort. The Terrible Mother has become a reality: Because the small child lives in an archetypal rather than a personal world in the pre-ego and early-ego stages of development, it has no possibility of understanding that the personal mother is blameless;

72 rather it experiences its exposure and vulnerability to the negative world as if to the "negative mother." (234) As the child has viewed the mother as an all-encompassing entity, she may now develop the fear that her entire world has grown dangerous and even life threatening. Eventually, the healthy process of ego individuation will cause the child to pull away from the maternal archetype of her own volition. But just as surely as she leaves, she will have to return to confront the true Terrible Mother aspect. Joseph Campbell wrote extensively on the Great Mother, recognizing her as "the life of everything that lives [and].. .the death of everything that dies (Hero 114). He describes her as a seductive force to the archetypal heroes who face her dark aspect on their journeys, sometimes assisting, but more likely to be hindering their way. To overcome her obstacles, the hero must confront any inherent expectation of the maternal as an exclusively positive force; only then will her mind be "opened to the inscrutable presence which exists, not primarily as 'good' and 'bad'...but [rather] as the law and image of the nature of being" (114). All heroes must integrate the apparently antithetical halves of the Great Mother and, despite their gender, the archetypal heroes Odysseus and Jason illustrate why this is necessary for the hero's survival. Odysseys is willing to release his ego's "defensive control" (Woodman and Dickson 48) and thus ascends to the next dimension of existence. Conversely, Jason is unable to surrender to the "devouring Mother" and instead "become[s] "stuck in the black hole" (38). During Odysseus' ten year voyage

73 back to Ithaca he experiences myriad encounters with the Great Mother in her terrible aspect. Some of these are obvious, like Scylla and the Laestrygonian women, who devour his men. The Terrible Mother also appears couched in the form of the Good Mother. Circe, for instance, is a witch Odysseus initially recognizes as dangerous. Yet he willingly capitulates to her and his own carnal desires, which waylay him for a year. Only then does Circe reveal herself to be the ogre at the threshold of the Underworld, where Odysseus will face the troubles that await him if he truly wants to return home. Circe and Calypso, who likewise guard the entrances to other stages of Odysseus' journey, represent the sexual, creative energy of the Dark Goddess. Odysseus easily loses himself in the flesh rather than face the difficult physical and spiritual tests that lie ahead. According to Mary Lefkowitz, "sexuality is regarded as dangerous not because it is physically unclean or polluting . . . but rather because of its ability to deceive ("Powers o f 591). Of course, a hero must also be willing to play a part in this deception, and a denial of the energy inherent in the Dark Goddess will just as surely preclude the hero from attaining her true boon. Such is the dilemma for Jason, who has even more difficulty with the Terrible Mother than Odysseus. Perhaps it is because he benefits from her dark powers in the figure of Medea—who is, not surprisingly, Circe's niece. Medea is instrumental in helping Jason to secure the Golden Fleece and then to evade capture. Her ointments, compounded from the earth- womb of the Great Mother, protect Jason from the guardians of the fleece; she is even willing to sacrifice her brother and use his dismembered body to

74 slow her father in his attempt to stop Jason's flight. Jason has full knowledge of Medea's powers; he either deliberately ignores them or thinks he will be able to avoid the inherent dangers in a union with the Dark Goddess. In either case, he is tragically mistaken. [Ajlthough Jason did indeed save Medea from the dragon and free her from the world ruled by her father, he failed when he should have developed an individual relationship with her. He abandoned her because he was no match for her obviously dangerous individuality and passion that could not be contained in a patriarchal marriage. Left with the disillusionment of her partner's failure, Medea regressed to the Terrible Mother who murders her own children. (Neumann, Fear 47) Jason is ruined, bereft of kingdom, wife, and heirs. He becomes a social pariah, isolated and alienated, a fate the Greeks considered worse than physical death. Women on a journey seeking wholeness must face the dark and destructive Great Mother, whose representations are not for the faint of heart. Because her dark half represents death, it is natural to want to maintain a safe distance, but such protections are neither possible nor desirable, for the mysteries of death are intertwined with the mysteries of life as the Great Mother pulls all she creates back inside herself: Here the womb becomes a devouring maw and the conceptual symbols of diminution, rending, hacking to pieces, and annihilation, of rot and decay, have their place, which is associated with graves, cemeteries and negative death magic. Here belongs also the blood-drinking goddess

75 of death, whose hunger can be appeased only through the slaying of innumerable living creatures, whether like Kali in India she must be . satisfied by the killing of men and animals; whether as goddess of war she perpetually demands the blood of men, or as goddess of death destroys all living things without distinction. (Neumann, Great Mother 72) The human predilection to ignore warning signs of imminent danger is well . documented. Penelope's suitors' challenge omens of their approaching death. Julius Caesar discounts the soothsayer and Calpurnia and is dispatched on schedule by the conspirators. Unfortunately, women are just as likely as men to plow ahead without contemplating the whole of a situation. The story of Arachne illustrates the female propensity to either ignore the goddess or to treat her with disdain rather than respect. Athena, in the form of a hag, a familiar Crone figure, queries Arachne regarding the inspiration of her talent, whereupon Arachne "denied such a debt. . . [and] almost hit her rebuker" (Ovid 211). After Athena reveals herself, Arachne exacerbates her situation by refusing to pay Athena homage and by daring to use her tapestry to portray the gods' foibles rather than their glory. Arachne appears self-destructive, choosing to hang herself rather than surrender any part of her ego to the goddess. Athena has the last word, as she usually does, when she raises up Arachne as a spider, whose webs are marvels of engineering and beauty unachievable by humans but whose creators are the objects of human disdain.

76 Psyche is a second mortal who challenges the goddess' dark powers. Unlike Arachne, Psyche does not brag of her gift, her beauty, but she does bemoan her situation—that no man will marry her because her beauty will guarantee him troubles. She is also not responsible for Cupid's amorous intentions, but she is culpable for not revering his goddess mother. After Psyche wounds Cupid in the forbidden act of unmasking his identity, Psyche has her first direct confrontation with the goddess. In response to Psyche's request for help in regaining Cupid's affection, Venus "chides Psyche for her faithlessness and rebukes her with the words 'so you finally remembered you have a goddess' " (Woodman and Dickson 129). The tasks Venus demands of Psyche challenge her willingness to move through the darkness where she might discover her own potential. It is only once Psyche acknowledges the scope and meaning of the beauty bestowed on her by Aphrodite that "she dares to become like her, not only in her beauty but also in her divine wholeness" (131-132). Aphrodite, like Athena, is a stern taskmaster, but the tasks have an affirming, transformative effect: "Through all the tasks the mother assigns, she releases the attributes in the young feminine that are necessary to the maturing" (131-132). Venus' beauty seems antithetical to the terror she instills in Psyche, which corresponds with the concept of nature's opposing and balancing properties, and in this she stands in stark contrast to the devastating images of the dark mother in other cultures. Indians portray their dark goddess, Kali, in seemingly escalating visions of blood and destruction. In one statue she stands "in a boat floating in a sea of blood" while raising a

77 "Skull full of seething blood to her lips." In a second statue she is seen "devouring the entrails that form a deathly umbilical cord between the corpse's open belly and her own gullet." In a third she is "adorned with the hacked-off hands and heads of her victims" (Neumann, Mother 152-153). All of these images encourage us to look at our physical and spiritual mortality. As part of the Great Mother archetype, the Dark Goddess also personifies the earth in its receiving state. The previous images show her consuming parts of her victims, taking back inside that to which she has given life. (72). The purpose of this swallowing imagery is reflected in the hero's journey, during which "[t]he Goddess symbolizes the energy we need to become whole, to proceed towards consciousness. This is not an easy task for ego consciousness to pursue, because all change, all growth, presupposes the death of the old" (Woodman-Dickson 51). Yet maintaining our grip on what we think we know or believe we understand can be just as deadly. Focusing on potential losses rather than gains will cast a woman into a spiritual hole, the familiar prison of discomfort in which the potential for positive outcomes can be overshadowed by the fear of what lies head. The addict, despite the desperation brought on by loss of family, friends, and financial security, will still abuse her chosen substance—food, alcohol, narcotics—or behavior—gambling, sex, relationships— because there is comfort in that painful familiarity. The guardian of the threshold, the Dark Goddess, is not the drink or drug or abusive partner. Rather it is a life of sobriety or

78 abstinence, existing without the substance, situation, or person which has formed a "secure" set of boundaries that frightens the addict right back into her compulsion. The paradox is that the Dark Goddess is not nearly as terrifying as the demons that lurk in the consciousness' dark recesses. Facing the goddess forces women to create for themselves a new, albeit frightening, reality. Yet when women embrace the goddess in a true, sacred marriage they receive "the 'matriarchal mysterium' in which the earth reveals, beyond her elementary maternal character, her true nature as the Great Transformer . . . the Great Creatrix" (Neumann, Fear 203). Ultimately the death imagery comes full circle. An examination of ancient artifacts suggests the primordial origin of the goddess' regenerative powers. Phallic aspects suggest "a complete, self-fulfilling, self-sustaining and self-generating femaleness . . . that does not demand a bloody sacrifice from the male. She is an image that is complete—unto herself. For this reason she is important as a reminder and as an expression of the concept of female wholeness: the pre-condition for true relatedness" (Reis 26). Facing the Dark Goddess can leave a woman feeling sorely divided. The various pieces, also known as ego states, are what women struggle to rejoin in the creative process that is only made possible by the destruction of the ego in the confrontation with the Dark Goddess: A woman engaged in this initiatory process must be willing to be stripped and penetrated, to be ravished and killed by the goddess before she can attain her powers for self-creation. We must pass through the

79 threshold of the dark goddesses to reach the more ancient, unified image of the Great Goddess, to reach a more complete sense of our own psychological wholeness. (28) The sacred marriage is frightening because it is life changing. It demands examination of the psyche's rejected, lost parts which will undoubtedly require facing the pain that initiated their dissociation. If a woman truly desires the power to recreate herself, she must be willing to experience the "anxiety-arousing aspect of the Terrible Feminine that threatens to devour the ego-hero and drive it back into the arms of the Terrible Mother within, who in her incestuous embrace promises the peace of death through self-surrender" (Neumann, Fear 242). Only then will she honestly embrace all of her various personas and experience wholeness. Once she reaches this higher state of being, "this self-created self can then come into true relationship with the self-creative activity of others" (Reis 29-30).

Metaphorical Womb

Once we have accepted that we must sacrifice ourselves to the Great Mother, we willingly re-enter her womb in the hopes that peace and serenity are the reward for our subjugation to a greater entity. In her awesome presence there is a simultaneous yearning to return to the wholeness of her womb, where safety and comfort are supreme and the

80 blood link with the mother assures our connection to a larger world, as well as acceptance that it comes at the cost of satisfying the goddess' "blood lust" (Zimmer 71). Jung also confirms that we only gain self-knowledge when we capitulate to the Great Mother in order to achieve the "original state of unconsciousness" (Alchemical 263). Voluntary annihilation frees a woman to embrace life's cyclical nature and attain the yearned for, but elusive balance. Anxiety in the face of inevitable destruction can make a woman afraid to contemplate the possibilities inherent in her darkest thoughts, inhibiting her search through the waters in which her life and all new life begins, and leaving her stripped of all creativity. She must avoid the isolation that appears safe and turn instead to the union that emanates danger. Women must let go of "one-ness" in order to attain "oneness" inherent in the Great Mother. Rejoining what has been split is a constant theme in mythology that begins with the Great Mother's origins. According to Homer and Apollodorus, the earth and the heavens were initially unified in the Great Goddess' care. There was no above or beneath, and thus no value was placed on one position relative to the other. Once the male deities systematically usurped her position, however, dividing the two sections can be viewed as rending the mother asunder. Atlas, the Titan whom Zeus punished for aligning himself with Cronos against the future Olympians, had the monumental task of keeping the heavens from falling on the earth in what can be seen as their desperate attempt to rejoin their estranged halves. Only mighty Hercules temporarily eases Atlas' burden. In order for Zeus and his patriarchy to reign supreme, the feminine earth must be forcibly separated from the

81 heavens with the most animus-laden figures of the lot assigned the task of keeping the universe unnaturally cleaved in two. In the above example the Greek deities seem to be abandoning, even exiling their creator. Fortunately, this is not the ubiquitous view, as Eastern cultures have, throughout their history, maintained her "Beginninglessness, which is implicit in the term 'mother' . . . [and] as mother she existed prior to any of the things to which she has given life" (Zimmer 78). Her primordial nature cries out for reverence, not rending, and women hear and echo her cry in their own struggle to reunite their beings. In India, rather than profaning the mother by splitting her power, she "is appeased, conciliated, and included among the sacred forces. And the mothers lose none of their stature and power in the process" (82). Curiously, a male again proffers the wisdom inherent in heeding the call for union with the mother as a means to enlightenment. Hercules' labors, which arguably comprise the most familiar Greek hero tale, illustrate an attempt to subjugate the will of the mother as personified in Hera. What is often omitted from the popular versions is that Hercules can not truly atone until he immolates himself, seemingly preferring death over surrendering to the goddess. Only after his physical destruction does he ascend Olympus. Ironically, he has surrendered with his very funeral pyre serving as the mother's womb; once transformed by its cleansing properties he enters into a union with the goddess, illustrated by Hera's heretofore unattainable acceptance. Again, the enduring Indian

82 portrayal of the Great Mother as the generating and consuming womb shows us why Hercules' journey is an emulative model: The goddess, who 'consists of all the beings and worlds' (jaganmaT) is herself the pregnant salt womb of the life sea, holding all forms of life in her embrace and nourishing them; she herself casts them adrift in the sea and gives them over to decay, and in all innocence rebuilds them into forms forever new, which devour one another. He who thus comprehends the mother does not ask to be delivered from her, but rather to be released from himself, to be freed from the presumption of his ego in inner devotion to her eternal power. (87) We have an advantage over Hercules in that we do not need to resist until our pain is so great that we believe death offers the only relief—the time to re-enter the womb is always at hand and this return home is always our choice. Indians recognize and embrace the Great Mother's duality as the personification of life itself, even welcoming the self-sacrifice necessary to gain the higher plane of existence that can only be achieved through surrender to the supreme force in the universe. According to Zimmer, even the other immortals recognize the importance of integrating the Great Goddess, for she "is wedded as the power peculiar to them, the power which moves them and without which they can do nothing, but by virtue of which they can do what is their nature to do" (79). We, too, can take advantage of the power that elevates our spirit and lifts us out of our discontent if we listen to the primordial need

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to rejoin heaven and earth and re-enter them as the mother's womb in a reassertion of the sacred unity. Yet despite the intuitive desire for the reunion with the spirit, there is still resistance from the ego, which does not wish to relinquish control. Humans look for, even long for, logical, rational explanations to existential quandaries, but Jung averred that while such a philosophy is appropriate in normal circumstances, "it is entirely inadequate when it comes to the really great and decisive questions" {Psychological 260-61). Despite thousands of years of feminine suppression by Western civilization, embracing the matriarchal world is the natural order, for it permits a return to the primordial sense of balance, ultimately leading those who seek it to a serenity and transference of the universe's natural equilibrium to the self. This bridging of the sacred and the profane engenders true spirituality, a connectedness between nature and the self, indivisible, inseparable, and strongly anchoring the individual to her place and time. In uniting with the feminine we attain an intuitive sense of belonging to the world in the present moment. Entering the dark womb personifies our return to the spirit of our original essences, and that is the very spirituality for which we hunger. An additional step, recognizing and reintegrating the sloughed off shards of our psyche, is necessary to recreate the wholeness in which we were born. Human anxiety can develop when people feel split off from others, which actually begins when individuals become internally fragmented through the process of dissociation. Jung saw "personality as being capable of dissociation into a number of subsidiary personalities, any of which could temporarily take over the executive role"

84 (Storr 329), and he believed that the cure for neurosis consists of realigning the divided selves into a new whole (329). This integration is the basis for individuation, whereby the psyche seeks the wholeness known at birth. Paradoxically, the opposing process of dissociation actually aids development, as "dissecting, dismembering is essential for bringing . . . [archetypal] content to consciousness" (Dreifuss 259). The Great Mother's power to destroy the old self in order to recreate a new self is exactly what we seek when we willingly enter her annihilating womb Regenerative destruction, the creation of a new self on the ruins of the old, is the paramount objective of the journey home, and its primordial nature frames it as archetypal. The continuous cycle of creation, nurture, and death draws us into its vortex, a symbolic drowning which we cannot, and do not wish to escape. The only way to cultivate regeneration is through destruction and its accompanying anxiety. As the archetypes begin to constellate they agitate the psyche, inciting the urge to bury the uncomfortable feelings which indicate change is necessary and that death and rebirth are inseparable (Storr 329). But the longer the struggle persists between the elemental desire for change and the stubborn ego, the more dissociation will take place. While Jung asserted that no person could ever be completely integrated, catastrophic ego fragmentation will inhibit even a partial integration (330). Thus it is imperative to monitor internal turmoil as well as internal dialogue. Blindly seeking instantaneous painkillers will only temporarily re-submerge the archetypal constellation, which will resurface later, perhaps at an even more inopportune time. Jung warns that forgetting and

85 eliminating are not identical. On the contrary, a situation ignored will worsen and we risk being blindsided, a much less defensible position (Integration 10). The discomfort actually fortifies the psyche against its being totally dominated by the unconscious, against which we have little defense. We can more effectively protect ourselves when we know the details of our foe's attack (Jung, Civilization 249). If we become aware of our unconscious content, which this dissertation argues would be the virgin goddesses' constellating archetypes, then we have some control over our choices and actions and will no longer be helpless when threatened either from within or without. The conscious is always at the mercy of the unconscious, which makes decisions that appear to the conscious to be logical and rational responses to complicated situations for which there are, paradoxically, no simple solutions. Such unconscious responses look to be products of healthy intuition, the perception of relations as filtered through the unconscious, while in actuality "an emotion is the intrusion of an unconscious personality" (Jung, Integration 27). When operating on impulses generated by the unconscious, it is difficult to know what is real. Here again the womb serves as a vehicle for sorting out our confusion. Water is the Jungians' archetypal symbol for the unconscious, and in the literal sense the womb is filled with liquid. Within the Great Mother's womb, we would do well to remember that all images and sounds are as distorted as they would be in water and the obscured details in this dark realm can trick our senses. Focusing exclusively on what seems solid or lucid might not be in our best interests, but the distorted imagery might seem threatening. This is the point at which we

86 must let our unconscious lead us else we remain stuck in the same psychic space prior to our attempt to become one with the Great Mother archetype. We must release our old perceptions and integrate the unconscious' inherently unknowable elements into the conscious. While it might seem that the conscious would be the best choice to control the psyche, "yogis wind up with samadhi [sic], an ecstatic condition that seems to be the equivalent to an unconscious state. The fact that they call our unconscious the universal consciousness does not change things in the least: in their case the unconscious has devoured the ego consciousness (Jung, Integration 26). The unconscious cannot be allowed sole rule, but it must be permitted to modify the psyche's reliance on pure reason and logic. Creativity and spontaneity originate in the unconscious' chaos. The same apparently irrational thoughts and ideas that could not possibly be the children of consciousness are the very ones that permit the mind to think freely in order to solve what seems unsolvable. Thus the only workable conclusion is to allow consciousness and unconsciousness to compete with each other in "open conflict and open collaboration. Yet, paradoxically, this is exactly what human life should be. It is the old play of hammer and anvil: the suffering iron between them will in the end be shaped into an unbreakable whole, the individual. This is what is called . . . the process of individuation" (27). All parts of the healthy psyche must work together in order to form a whole. The organizing conscious combines with the seeming randomness of the personal

87 unconscious and collective unconscious to help us see the fullness of situations, creating the three-dimensional world in which we live. This collection of opposing energies orbiting around and interacting with each other is also what draws us into the mother's womb, seeking her completeness as a mirror to the psychological wholeness in which we were first formed. It further provides us with the willingness to let ourselves be destroyed in order to be re-formed into a whole that could not have been imagined in our former state. Jung exhorts us to embrace our personal myths, which come from having "suffered and struggled with a question until an answer has come to you from the depths of your soul. That does not imply that this is the definitive truth, but rather that this truth which has come is relevant for oneself as one now is, and believing in this truth helps one to feel well" (qtd. in von Franz 12). And so we must seek out every opportunity to write our myth, to bring ourselves to the wholeness through whatever means we can secure. One way is through the return to the mother, and an Indian myth retold by Heinrich Zimmer provides us with a model: The "Mistress of All Desires and Joys" imprisoned the gods underwater for not recognizing her greatness. After they had been freed, they went to pay her homage and she rewarded them by allowing them to "drink of the waters of her womb and bathe therein: 'Thus will you be free of imprisonment in your ego and filled with supreme heroic might, and thus will you move to your place in the zenith of heaven.' " (89)

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The wholeness in which we were born becomes lost in the process of living. Though there are often traumatic emotional events, the simple, repetitive nature of life's ebb and flow eventually cause ripples that disturb the surface of even a vast inland sea. Out of the same chaos that breeds dissociation and fragmentation will come the desire to return to the serenity of the womb. Our dissociated parts, the ones lying on our sea bottoms, must be re-integrated into our psyches if true individuation and its serene wholeness are to be attained. For women, this journey must be undertaken without the aid of an exclusively masculine archetype, for it is this entity that caused the initial fragmentation of the Great Mother and upset the balance of the previously femininecentered universe. Only when a woman is complete in her own right, made whole through the feminine archetype within, can she embrace anyone else, male or female, in a meaningful relationship.

Attachment Theory

Relationships form the basis of most people's understanding of themselves as individuals often define or judge themselves based on their mirrored reflections in the eyes of friends, family, and peers. Attachment theory, a psychological model that explores the effects of early interactions between the infant and her primary caretaker, "proposes that infants have an innate tendency to place relationships at the centre of their

89 emotional worlds, to internalize them and so build up generalized patterns of those relationships to render them meaningful and predictable" (Knox 521). Adherents to attachment theory principles believe that humans cannot have secure relationships without secure attachments, that humans need secure attachments through adulthood, and that these "relationships can be understood in attachment terms no less than those of children" (Holmes 6). Many schools of psychology, including attachment theory, Depth (Jungian archetypal), and Gestalt, base their therapeutic systems on having clients develop meaningful relationships with their therapists in order to repair the damage caused by faulty primary relationships. Some attachment theorists go so far as to suggest that the violent outbursts of today's adolescents are the result of "attachment gone wrong . . . [as evinced in] the protest of children separated from, or deprived of, a secure bond" (xv). Yet even in less extreme reactions there is an effect on the adult psyche if initial relationships have not offered the requisite security. While Jung believed that humans are hardwired for responding to the archetypes, similar to the ways in which all members of the animal kingdom respond to instinctive urges, some attachment theorists propose that the infant develops "complex mental imagery and phantasies in the first months of life" (Knox 522). Interactions with the environment then become internalized and, though they are not pre-existing, they serve the same structural function as the archetypes which is to convert external stimuli into readily usable data for the psyche and to organize our real world experiences. As was

90 discussed in the previous chapter, we must not underestimate the impact of our responses to activities of the unconscious, particularly because they occur without our awareness. Both Jung's archetype theory and attachment theory provide insight into the difficulty people have relating to each other and, more importantly, to themselves, due to the reactions taking place in the unconscious—what attachment theorists call implicit memory. These interactions cannot be lost, nor can the particularly unpleasant ones be denied or discarded, which also complements Jung's philosophy that no experience can ever be lost. They remain "stored in the form of inaccessible patters of organization (separate from discrete memories of events), which continue to influence our normal and abnormal mental functioning in the present day" (526). Inaccessibility is a key facet of the process, since behaviors engendered by what is happening beneath the conscious are out of the ego's control. While it might seem undesirable for these activities to take place beneath the ego's radar, so to speak, just the opposite is true. Strict ego control would result in a loss of spontaneity and the unwillingness to discover, both of which are intrinsic parts of the type of learning that can only occur when the mind is comfortably open. Attachment theory focuses on the way the infant either obtains or is denied a secure connection with her mother. Originally, the mother's role was to provide protection from a hostile environment, ultimately creating a safe haven in which the infant, now released from fear of emotional and physical harm, is free to react to stimuli. Exploration and creativity paradoxically require a fearlessness that originates in secure attachment. Since safety equates with survival, "exploration is sacrificed for the sake of

91 security," (Holmes 8) resulting in the loss of opportunities to grow. Such inhibition, if reinforced early and often, is decidedly difficult to replace with a willing vulnerability. The requisite courage, or even simply the resigned acceptance that growth only takes place outside familiar boundaries, will be unattainable, resulting in spiritual stagnation. If children, and the adults they become, have not felt secure enough to venture out on their own, safe in the knowledge that the responsible adult will be there when they return, then they will not have the ability to function autonomously. "Like love and hate or light and dark, attachment and detachment are inseparable. To be securely attached we need to learn to be alone. Only in secure solitude do we discover who we truly are, and thereby value the uniqueness of our bond with the other" (Holmes 83). We cannot develop strong relationships with others if we do not have the foundation for a strong relationship with the self. We will instead continue to hide behind the persona we believe others prefer over our true selves, and also reject the shadow that affords us a wide range of emotional responses that enlarge our personal and world view—so long as we do not act on harmful impulses. The shadow, with its inherent darkness, is a perfect place to develop a more complete understanding of the depth of our psyche. In fact, we cannot discover much without acknowledging and embracing our shadow selves. Entering the shadow's darkness can be seen as analogous to returning to the dark unknown that is the womb of the Great Mother. The self-knowledge gleaned there can provide the source material for further developing wholeness. However, we must be willing to act in an autonomous manner, free of the paralyzing fear stimulated by the

92 unknown, all the while secure in the knowledge that the primordial caretaker, the Great Mother, will provide us with exactly what we require to meet the forthcoming challenge. There can be no "assistance" from the outside unless it is to encourage the journey within, lest incorporating others' influences contaminate the search for our authentic selves. To be sure, no part of this process is easily confronted or accomplished. It is, in many ways, an act of faith in the enveloping spirit that incorporates itself into our beings as it invites us to be part of the universal whole, similar to entering the Great Mother's womb in full knowledge of the required sacrifice. The consequences of being unprepared for this spiritual journey, however, can be devastating, and can be overcome only by either developing or repairing the primary relationships: A securely attached child will build up an internal working model of a responsive, reliable care-giver and of a self that is worthy of love and attention and will take these assumptions into later relationships. An insecure child takes into the world his or her assumptions of the world as a dangerous and threatening place and of himself as unworthy of love. These patterns formed and laid down in the mind are very difficult to change once they have become established in early life; they are laid down in implicit memory and so are not available to conscious awareness because they are not memories of events, but schematic patterns formed from repeated past experiences. (Knox 520)

93 We must become aware of which childhood experience directs our interactions with others. As adults, it is possible to realize that there is something bubbling underneath the surface when we notice ourselves reacting towards others, and towards the self, in ways that are beyond the normal range. Recognizing any anomalies, or even patterns of behavior, is the crucial first step to sensing our internal dialogue and imagery. Certain situations trigger interior responses that seem inscrutable. While we might either ignore or justify an initial outburst, it will not be long before our relationships suffer, leading to the isolation so dreaded by the Greeks as a punishment worse than physical death. Classical mythology is replete with characters whose actions have alienated them from society, and in each example the Greeks cast such isolation as an anathema. The gods punished Bellerophon's attempt to reach Olympus by not only having Pegasus throw him, but, at least according to Pindar, by then having him wander the earth devouring his soul. Oedipus, cursed by fate, is actually exiled three times. Laius first cast him out of Thebes following the oracle's prophecy of patricide. When Oedipus later hears the same prophecy he abandons Corinth only to return to Thebes, where he unwittingly fulfills the prophecy and ultimately exiles himself by banishing Laius' as yet unidentified killer. Women, too, must endure separation from their homes and society. Electra endures banishment from her family for siding with her absent father, Agamemnon, rather than supporting her mother, Clytemnestra, and her paramour, Aegisthus. Medea

94 exiles herself by protesting her father's practice of killing all visitors. When Jason offers her the opportunity to not only escape her imprisonment but also to become part of his quest for the Golden Fleece, Medea permanently closes the door to her father's house by committing fratricide in her successful facilitating of Jason's escape. Despite her sacrifices, Jason tires of Medea and takes a new, more socially promising wife. Given the choice, Medea's prefers death to banishment: "I am alone, an exile" (Euripedes, Medea 35) and "May the gods save me from becoming/a stateless refugee . .. Death is better" (36). Though these characters' situations are far more overtly dramatic than those of most individuals, their inability to develop and maintain secure attachments is a precursor to the consequences they suffer. They have either lost or never possessed a sense of their connectedness to others and to their societies. Oedpius, for example, believes himself the son of Polybus and Merope, and clings to that fractured truth for as long as he can. And though Medea certainly knows herself and her history, she willingly denies her nature in order to belong to Jason. When that bond proves false, she realizes that she has no anchor in her world. Oedipus eventually sees that his attempts to alter his fate have resulted in his belonging to no place and to no one. The ancient poets clearly communicated the need for humans to recognize that they belong to something larger as well as the devastating consequences that come when that need cannot be achieved. A fully individualized self, securely connected to the world at all times, may not be attainable, but what is possible is a spiritual existence that is more fully integrated,

95 both without and within. Jung presents the psyche as having a conscious guided by the ego, a collective unconscious containing the primary archetypes, and a personal unconscious in which the complexes arise through the constellating archetypes. Understanding the structure of the psyche can help us to understand the ways in which our primordial nature interacts with our experiences. The result is a framework that helps to explain why we react in specific ways that are both similar to and unique from our fellows and facilitates development of the self-knowledge necessary to make the requisite changes that will further develop our wholeness. Because of the primordial nature of Jung's archetypes, it is appropriate that any examination of their effects on the unconscious would include early archetypal images such as the Great Mother and the descendants who most directly incorporate her qualities. Likewise, there is a common thread throughout archetypal analysis that proposes the individual experience the journey alone. On a metaphorical level, however, the female hero is not on an uncharted journey. Joseph Campbell states: We have not even to risk the adventure alone; for the heroes of all time have gone before us; the labyrinth is thoroughly known; we have only to follow the thread of the hero-path. And where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence; where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world. {Hero 25)

96 Attachment theory also supports this principle of first discovering the self in order to be equipped to enter into satisfying relationships with others. This is why I propose that the three virgin goddesses, Athena, Artemis and Hestia, offer a path towards universally desired wholeness. They are virgins, but are not asexual; they simply do not practice their sexuality. Correspondingly, their ability to be self-sustaining rather than needful and competitive is most appealing and important to this thesis. The Great Mother was a complete spirit, seeking others for companionship but requiring none to thrive or procreate. The introduction of distinctly male figures, such as Father Heaven and Cronos, initiated her denigration. Some of her female offspring actually had to seek out male assistance once the animus-laden Cronos and Father Heaven began vying for power. Rhea, for example, fell into the same trap as her mother when she sought Zeus' help to defeat the tyrannical Cronos, all the while knowing that the current power struggle began when Cronos assisted Mother Earth and subsequently gained power from the castrated Father Heaven. Hera was likewise crippled by her involvement with the overtly masculine. It is only after her utter frustration with Zeus that she retreats to a solitary and peaceful existence that resembles the Great Mother. Aphrodite also consorts with males to the detriment of many mortals and immortals, and Demeter nearly destroys the earth after Hades rapes Persephone who, not surprisingly, was the product of Zeus' rape of Demeter. Athena, Artemis and Hestia for the most part avoid those pitfalls. In fact, only Athena's jealousy at having lost out to Aphrodite in Paris' judgment brings out her

97 reaction as a "spumed woman" for not having been named "the fairest." In the next three sections I will present the goddesses as individuals who embody the archetypes inherent in the Great Mother, then illustrate how they unite to a triad which will support a woman who seeks to follow her path to wholeness, a path that must lead her back to her Great Mother.

Chapter 3 ATHENA

Proud and powerful, Athena can be a most intimidating presence, yet her impassive image belies a complex combination of the Great Mother's attributes. Athena's strength generally tends away from belligerence, her wisdom is far-sighted and focused on social stability, and while she does not need others, she embraces those— particularly mortals—who bring her satisfaction. The Great Mother, similarly, enjoyed consorts she did not need. This chapter will delineate the degrees to which Athena's qualities reflect the Great Mother and ultimately reveal how thoughtfully embracing her strength and wisdom is one step towards bringing women to a closer union with the Great Mother.

Athena's Power Paradox

Attachment theory suggests that we want to reunite with the archetypal mother, which this dissertation asserts is partially comprised by Athena. Such conceptualization and integration of Athena's balanced archetype requires examining all aspects of her personality, especially those that might seem undesirable, keeping in mind that in 98

99 Theogony, Hesiod relates how Mother Earth brought forth both the beautiful and wondrous as well as the scheming, insolent and proud (Wende 27). Logic suggests, then, that her progeny, particularly those with the most direct links, would possess some measure of these antithetical attributes, which is most certainly evident in the three virgin goddesses who together, this dissertation theorizes, comprise the reunification of her fragmented whole. Athena is an enigmatic collection of seemingly contrary qualities. Scholars argue she is dichotomous, exhibiting great power and exercising much influence for the benefit of humanity while also denigrating women, particularly strong mortals, and doing little to help them gain even a portion of the benefits an organized society provides for mortal men. Yet her undeniable strength, wisdom and fairness set her character far above most other deities who are all too often drawn into petty conflicts that bring suffering to scores of innocent mortals. Her desire for justice, combined with her invention and promotion of artisanship, strengthens society for all individuals. Almost all of Athena's actions serve to preserve order for mankind, and those that seem initially hurtful can ultimately be seen as directly beneficial or can admonish mortals to maintain their own psychic balance. The frequent pairing of Athena with Ares provides a straightforward example of how a seemingly negative quality can, upon close examination, be viewed as an alternately positive projection. Ancient poets cast both deities as warriors, praising Athena's gifts of strategic skill and her love of justice while simultaneously condemning

100 Ares' bloodlust. She is not battle-shy, as evidenced in Book V of Homer's The Iliad, when she guides Diomedes spear into the dread Ares (192), but her participation usually involves strategizing for the Greeks rather than participating or reveling in the deaths of their enemies. Only when the triumphant Greeks—who gained victory through her inspiration—fail to honor her and, to make matters worse, Ajax rapes Cassandra in Athena's temple, does she becomes violently destructive. Since "the Greeks did not punish him [Ajax] severely, or even reprimand him! . . . despite the fact that [Athena's] strength enabled them to sack Troy" (Euripides, Electra 185) Athena feels completely justified in exacting retribution that balances the scales. This is not blind vengeance for two reasons: the first is that mortals' respecting their place in the universe is essential to maintaining Zeus' order, which Athena sees as paramount to a healthy society; and second is that the Greeks failed to express gratitude for the victory that had eluded them for ten years. To further illustrate Athena's commitment to justice, she asks for and receives help from Poseidon, knowing full well that her beloved Odysseus will suffer along with the other, more culpable, Achaeans. She may be harsh but she is impartial. Even when supporting Hercules in his labors, she feels compelled to return the Golden Apples of the Hesperides to their proper home "for it was not lawful that they be laid down anywhere" (Apollodorous I: 233). Not everyone sees Athena's actions as noble or even fair-minded, but historian Sue Blundell's criticism of Athena with respect to her treatment of women does provide another opportunity to demonstrate how the goddess' outward negativity is actually

101 balanced and preserves her faithfulness to the individual as well as to the social group. Blundell charges that Athena is a champion of Zeus' patriarchal control of the universe (26-28). She and other critics cite the closing arguments in Aeschylus' Eumenides as evidence of the goddess' characteristic denial of and absolute derision for the most important role women can play in advancing a society: motherhood. A close examination of this scene in relation to the complete trilogy will reveal Athena's larger and more benevolent motives. With Orestes facing a brutal sentence at the hands of the Furies for having killed his mother, Clytemnestra, in retribution for her part in murdering his father, Agamemnon, Apollo employs a defense strategy that claims the mother is only an incidental participant in bearing a child. He argues: "The woman you call the mother of the child / is not the parent, just a nurse to the seed . .. The man is the source of life" (260). Athena subsequently validates her vote for Orestes' innocence by claiming: . . . No mother gave me birth. I honor the male in all things but marriage. Yes, with all my heart I am my Father's child. I cannot set store by the woman's death— she killed her husband, guardian of their house. (264) Outwardly, both Apollo and Athena completely discount the female role in procreation—a process that maintains the species and promotes social stability, one of

102 Athena's main concerns in her role as Athena Polis. Yet, paradoxically, this is one clue that Athena has not lost sight of the female's essential impact on society. A second clue is embedded in the details Athena and Apollo omit from their discourse yet remain imbedded in the trilogy's dialogue. Athena's statements at the trial, if taken in isolation, are unsympathetic to her gender as she seemingly values her father's supremacy at the cost of the denial of maternity. As would any good advocate, Athena may have carefully chosen words that could not fail to free Orestes' since it had been Apollo's oracle that sanctioned the revenge killing. Had Athena taken a less authoritative stance, she would have had a that much weaker rationale for her vote to acquit. In addition, Athena might very well have felt Clytemnestra's death was justified because she committed regicide in killing the figurative father of his subjects and thus destabilized the society. Also, Orestes' mother was so strong that Aeschylus introduces her, in Agamemnon, via the Watchman's assessment that she "commands, full of her high hopes. / That woman—she manoeuvres [sic] like a man" (104). It would be unlikely that Athena, a balanced entity, would feel compassion for a woman who let her overwhelming animosity lead her to take up with Agamemnon's family's sworn enemy, Aegisthus. Furthermore, these details contributed to her son's exile and her daughter's alienation, engendering an irreparable family rift that also upsets balance. Athena might also feel compelled to punish Clytemnestra's violent breach of hospitality, since she murdered her husband at his welcome home feast. Clytemnestra's destruction of the family unit would drive Athena to even the scales. Orestes' matricide, despite its undeniable ugliness, most

. 103 definitely served that purpose. Further, Athena follows this logic in The Odyssey when she orders the slaughter of all the suitors, regardless of their degree of culpability, in order to restore peace in Ithaca. Athena, intelligent, pragmatic, and never without a plan, knowingly and purposefully denies the evidence of her own mother's contribution to Athena's decidedly unusual birth in order to preserve order. Correspondingly, she also consciously ignores Apollo's tacit disavowal of the irrefutable existence of his own mother, Leto, which will be detailed in this dissertation's discussion of the birth of Artemis, his twin sister, not to mention the fact that it took two women, Leto and Artemis, to deliver Apollo. It would be difficult to imagine the astute Athena failing to see the advantage in deliberately employing a selective presentation of her ancestry in order to gain Orestes' release; her calculated choice to ignore Metis is entirely consistent with Athena's prudent and determined nature. In addition, the specifics of Athena's birth are as varied as her manyfaceted character so, in a sense, she employs the simplicity crucial to execute her plan and achieve her end. Here it is important to repeat that she is not the goddess of war but rather of military strategy, and her sagacity and pragmatism illustrate her tactical nature as well as reveal her archetypal metamorphosis from armed warrior to goddess of wisdom.

104 Ancient Athena

Athena, the warrior who originated in stories that pre-date Homer and Hesiod, actually existed before Zeus and was even viewed synonymously with Mother Earth. Walter Otto asserts that the Mycenaeans depicted an armed goddess with a shield who resembles the more familiar Athena of the two aforementioned poets and that "her name itself points to a source outside the Greek range, to which neither its root syllable nor its word-form can belong" (43). Athena's ancient origins are important because they connect her more closely to the time of the Great Mother's reign and they illustrate the history of a goddess, not a god, whose cerebral faculties are only later primarily the purview of male deities and mortal heroes. In this manner she preserves intellect as a function of the feminine in spite of patriarchal usurpation of the Great Mother's powers. Since the deities subsequently became a composite of their characterizations in their various stories, Zeus' daughter would naturally be partially composed of the Athena who predates Zeus as well as the daughter whom he allegedly fathered alone. She brings knowledge of the earlier time and incorporates it with her present existence. Thus it is perfectly fitting that Athena "is much more than the goddess of battle; she is, in fact, the sworn enemy of the wild spirit whose sole delight is the rush of combat" (43). With her knowledge of the consequences of prior rashness she becomes instead the primary promoter of thoughtful, rather than precipitous, actions that ultimately lead to present wisdom.

105 Athena became synonymous with Sophia, divine wisdom, about the First Century B.C. (Blundell 27), with her intellect and her complex nature originating in the very heredity she audaciously denies in Eumenides. The abridged version of her creation myth is that she sprang from her father's head fully grown and in armor. What is often omitted, and what is most important to understanding her character's well-roundedness, is that she is most definitely the product of a male and a female. Her mother, Metis, whose name means "wise counsel" (Woolger and Woolger 24) and "cunning intelligence" (Blundell 28), is pregnant with Athena when Zeus swallows her with the intention of precluding usurpation by the son Metis is destined to later bear. Metis did not submit willingly to Zeus; in fact, she kept changing her shape in order to avoid her fate. Further proof of Metis' cunning is evident in her earlier having had Cronos swallow the potion created by Rhea and Gaia that forces him to regurgitate Zeus' brothers and sisters (Apollodorus 1:9); here her shrewd nature effects a complete change in the universe's structure. Thus Metis' wisdom is cleverness more powerful than brute strength for it is what ultimately permitted Cronos' opponents to best him. This change was also facilitated by her being a Titan, and she passed on her ancient wisdom to her daughter.

106 Society's Foundation

As the first child of Zeus, a female and a perpetual virgin, Athena embodies all that Zeus' world order promises. "The violence which characterised [sic] the previous regimes has now been replaced by peaceful and enlightened government... the virgins who are then born to Zeus tell us what the nature of that power will be" (Blundell 22). The birth of Athena's next three sisters, Eunomia (Order), Eirene (Peace) and Dike (Justice), proclaims a government with a philosophy of moral excellence and validates the importance of reason and logic over unbridled emotion (22). As virgins, Athena and her sisters personify an overarching wisdom that remains uncorrupted by unrestrained passion. If an individual seeks to fulfill her desires heedless of the effects on others, then the group suffers and it is ultimately Athena's goal to preserve society as a totality even at the expense of the individual. The stability of the state must always be maintained above private interests with the individual subsequently reaping the personal benefits of a sound social structure. All of this, accomplished during Zeus' reign, was set in motion when he ended the usurpation of the father by the son. In promoting Athena, a pure and self-sustaining symbol of the feminine, he promotes stability on Olympus and on Earth while he provides us with a model of healthy control that can stabilize our own psyche and help us to act with careful consideration rather than rashness, for no one aspect of the individual can hold sway indefinitely any more than an individual can allow pursuit of her interests to overwhelm society.

107 Athena is the champion of all that facilitates societal development. In every way her actions have helped mankind to utilize the natural world, whether through the bridle or yoke that controls work animals or from the handicrafts that make the home a central and solid focus of the family. Athena has helped humans create order from chaos and offered permanence and the benefits of civilizations to nomadic peoples. Ancient Athens is arguably the ultimate tribute to social order, and Athena is considered Athens' matriarch as it was she who planted the olive tree on the hill above the city, claiming it for herself and also protecting the land from becoming a barren extension of Poseidon's salty realm. She taught Greeks how to cultivate the olive and turn its fruit into a most valuable commodity. Athena's influence and inspiration have encouraged development of these practical arts. The raw materials such as the olive or wool or wood were always available to humans, but in fostering Athens as a cultural center she brought women and men to awareness of what was possible. Each creation made the family a more viable unit which, in turn, strengthened the community. In the mortal world there were no substitutes for the mothers and other women who ran the households, and Athena did not deny them but rather did much to encourage their success as they ensured the success of the group and came to represent its security. Karl Kerenyi details Athena's contributions to the Greek psyche in Athene: Virgin and Mother, portraying her as the rescuer, advisor, preserver of the divine and natural order, teacher of handicrafts that sustain societies, guide to the lost, inspirer of shipbuilders and, essentially, the patron saint of the all-important hero who spreads the

108 glory of Greece throughout the lands (8-9). This is quite a reputation to shoulder, and luckily Athena's shoulders are broad in the many artistic renditions of her figure. In fact, it is just such an image that Athena, with her feminine shape hidden behind shield and sword, would like to project: that of a tough minded leader who does not wilt under pressure and who, when her gifts are abused or rejected, can wield her righteousness with the same energy of Zeus' hurling his thunderbolts to destroy ungrateful or dishonorable mortals. In fact, Athena is the only deity Zeus trusts to know the location of his thunderbolts, and it is only she he allows to use them.

Athena as Mentor

In addition to the many practical gifts Athena bestowed on her followers, she helped them to transcend their earth-bound limitations by acting as their spiritual guide, and she can help us rise above the temporal constraints of contemporary society. There is something very appealing about her power and privilege that resonates within us. "We either know we could not be Athene, could not be as confident and accomplished and creative as she—or are all too conscious of how easily we could be Athene, the Athene whose androgyny becomes a capitulation to her inner masculine aspect" (Downing, Goddess 120). There is an understandable trepidation in facing Athena and her seemingly animus driven persona. We are awed and humbled by its possibilities and its

109 prerogatives and appreciate being able to recognize the ways in which her archetype constellates within our psyches, ultimately revealing the harmony born of a balance of anima and animus. Perhaps it is her androgynous appeal, in that she does and does not resemble us, that draws us to Athena from the moment of her birth. Her dramatic delivery includes Hephaestus, at least according to Pindar, as a perverted midwife, splitting open Zeus' head in order to release her. Here is a female born of a male assisted by a male mid-wife. Athena certainly lives up to her spectacular birth with a powerful personality and the freedom to act that comes from a close relationship with her nearly omnipotent father, Zeus. The lines between male and female are definitely blurred, but it would be unfair to solely categorize Athena based on her birth-story or on the often replicated statue that once graced the Parthenon, depicting her with shield and sword and a correspondingly fierce countenance. Her unyielding nature has been reinforced through the verses ancient poets dedicated to her, though they also reveal some of the deep complexity her armor belies; her feminine nature is evident despite—or maybe even more so because of—her masculine image. We can likewise summon Athena when we are in need of a more masculine, animus engendered approach or when our anima threatens to overwhelm and render us void of logic and reason. Homer, who wrote a great deal about Athena in both The Iliad and The Odyssey, presents her contradictory aspects in two of the Homeric Hymns, the complete work acting as a cast of Greek mythological characters. In "Hymn Eleven," Homer admires

110 her militaristic qualities and approvingly links her with Ares, the much feared Greek god of war: I begin to sing of Pallas Athena, defender of cities, awesome goddess; she and Ares care for deeds of war, cities being sacked and cries of battle. And she protects an army going to war and returning. Hail, O goddess, and grant me good fortune and happiness. (Athanassakis 53) Homer's reverence seems paradoxical; in The Iliad, he makes clear Athena's disdain towards the god who loved blood more than honor and, in The Odyssey, Homer has her counsel Odysseus to use his brains rather than brute force to return home safely. Only when battling the suitors does Athena allow Odysseus' wrath to fuel his revenge— though both Athena and Odysseus would term their actions as just rather than vengeful— balancing the scales that had tipped in the suitors' favor for far too long. Here Homer's initial partnering of the two warrior gods is confusing until the last line illuminates the poet's—and perhaps even our own—ambivalence regarding the goddess. He does not plead for Greek victory in battle, as would logically follow the first four lines and his own partisan interests, but he rather importunes of her a blessing of happiness and good fortune—which is a decidedly antithetical request of the militaristic deity he portrays but does concur with Kerenyi's overarching portrait of a supportive deity. Homer's complex presentation continues in "Hymn Twenty-Eight" wherein he

Ill draws a fuller Athena; she fairly glows in his description of her as glorious, resplendent, golden, resourceful and even bashful. In these lines, rather than focusing on her skill in battle, he adapts her strength to the nobler cause of defense of cities, and even Poseidon stops the crashing waves before her glory (Athanassakis 59). Thus Homer draws a paradoxical—and very useful—initial portrait of the grey-eyed goddess that makes perfect sense if we are to see her as a complete being. She is, like all women, far more complicated than any single description and her well-rounded personality, with its opposing attributes, is a multifaceted reflection of all the archetypes, even in light of her prominent animus. If we are to look at the ways in which Athena embodies her ancestry, we must further examine her origins as Zeus' daughter in light of the archetypes of her personality. An early mention of Athena appears in Hesiod's Theogony, "the oldest didactic poem of Hellenism" (Kerenyi, "Mnemosyne" 128). At first glance Hesiod seems to focus, as does Homer, on her tough and formidable aspects. Hesiod's Athena is "the fearsome queen who brings the noise of war . .. [who] loves shouts and battling and fights" (Wende 53). These qualities supply tangible evidence of her nature as being "Equal in spirit and intelligence / To Zeus her father" (52) who, as lord of the gods, was a decidedly animus-driven deity. Hesiod's emphasis on Athena's strength and war strategy shows her through a predominantly masculine lens. Both "Hymn Eleven" and Theogony present a one-sided view of a goddess dispossessed of any particularly feminine qualities. The impetus for such judgments may originate in her birth in that Zeus was

112 simultaneously able to prevent his dethroning and propagate the idea of procreation without the necessity of a female. By subsuming Metis, however, he is also able to assimilate her wise counsel as expressed through their daughter, Athena. In this way Athena enhances, or even becomes, Zeus' creative self: his anima (Woolger and Woolger 24). It is important to see Athena as her father's intellectual consort rather than as "daddy's little girl" if we are to avoid labeling Athena as a promoter of masculine qualities as superior to feminine. To conclude our study at the above details would cause us to miss the substance of what these initial observations belie: that Athena is awesome and worthy of integration not because of her animus' strength but rather what it reveals to us, encourages us to achieve, and how it informs our relationships with others. Her virgin status facilitates her interactions but it requires further discussion as this dissertation is certainly not suggesting that any woman force herself to abstain from sexual intimacy.

Purity of Purpose

There is more to Athena's virginity than the obvious barrier of her armor, which hides her feminine figure and, considering the prominently placed head of Medusa on her shield, scares away any suitors. Athena's virginity, in regards to her self-sustaining nature, is an important quality in viewing her as the preserver of balance in society and, by extension, in our psyches. Athena rarely interacts with her aunts and sisters and, save

113 the judgment of Paris, is rarely even in conflict with the other goddesses on Olympus because they have divergent desires and interests. She has no time for romantic escapades; in fact Athena—along with Artemis and Hestia—is immune to the erotic influences of Aphrodite and her son (Athanassakis 42). Instead of consorting with other deities, she seeks the company of heroes, like Odysseus and Perseus, whose attraction lies in their intellectual intricacies and adventurous spirits. Her focus is always on benefiting the hero and society, not herself. Unlike the temptations of Circe, Calypso, and even Nausicaa, each of whom would keep Odysseus from returning to Ithaca, Athena never stops cheering, cajoling and pushing the hero to complete his journey home. "Athena on the one level can be understood as the benign counterpart of the goddess Calypso, whose succour [sic] is stifling and ultimately destructive; and here one remembers that the lure presented by Calypso is a sexual one, while Athena is a virgin goddess" (Blundell 53). Of all the women Odysseus encounters on his travels, only Athena has no personal agenda. If she were not whole and pure she might be seen as teasing the emotions of Odysseus, Hercules and Perseus, rather than helping each of them to realize, in their individual ways, their own strengths. The lessons she teaches the heroes can also resonate within us because in all situations she leads the heroes to develop greater balance which ultimately engenders greater stability in their environments. Hercules, for example, is arguably the most well known of the Greek heroes who, as Zeus' son, was fairly well equipped to care for himself. Already reeling from the guilt

. 114 of having murdered his first wife while under Hera's jealous spell, Hercules needs expiation, not enchantment or romance, which Athena's support helps him to attain while simultaneously remaining faithful to her own objectives. In facilitating his banishing of the Stymphalian birds, Athena also restores balance to a region long suffering from their brutal onslaught of poisoning the fields and randomly killing the locals (Graves, Myths 481). She also assists Hercules when he retrieves the Golden Apples of the Hesperides. Once procured and presented to his taskmaster, Eurystheus, Athena returns the apples to their rightful owners, the nymphs, so Hercules would not be required to make further amends. Athena's assistance of Perseus also reinstates a certain societal balance. In helping Perseus to slay Medusa she makes possible the justifiable destruction of Polydectes, who employed treachery against his brother, Dictys, and Perseus' mother, Danae, in order to illicitly gain power. After Perseus returns his winged sandals to Hermes and his cap of invisibility to Hades, Athena places Medusa's head in the middle of her shield and later employs the blood from the Gorgon's left veins to curse mankind and that from the right to save mankind (Apollodorus II: 17), an act which again effects a balance. Athena's interactions with Odysseus most fully exemplify her inherent wholeness and her ability to promote wholeness in others. Odysseus' objective is always to return to his wife and son in Ithaca, ultimately reuniting his family and his kingdom. It might seem odd that Athena would permit nearly ten years of painful trials to pass before

115 intervening on his behalf, but she does not let her affection for Odysseus get in the way of her ultimate goal of fostering balance in her hero. Athena forces Odysseus to realize, despite his great strength and intelligence, that no single person lives solely for himself and by his own wits. Over the course of his journey, Odysseys realizes his physical strength and his propensity to use brute force, both aspects of his animus, have hindered his progress towards Ithaca. He also realizes his predisposition to do "what seems best to me" (Homer, Odyssey 163) has actually made his journey more difficult. Odysseus is so anxious to project an indestructible persona that he allows his animus to overwhelm his personality. Athena's actions reveal her consistent plan that Odysseus effect balance through greater reliance on his anima qualities. She rightfully abandons him and the other Greeks when they exhibit ingratitude for her help defeating the Trojans. She does not intervene until well after he loses all of his ships, watches his men die, and has been left on Calypso's island with nothing but the luxury of seven years of self-reflection. After Athena implores Zeus to release Odysseus, she does not rescue him from Poseidon's relentless vengeance. This forces the hero to accept help from women, first from Ino, then from Nausicaa, and finally from Queen Arete. In his dealings with the latter two he actually becomes a supplicant, wrapping his arms around the princess and kneeling in the hearth ashes before the queen. He later endures the boastings of King Alcinoos' men, boastings that once might have been his very own and very similar to those he hurled at Poseidon's son, Polyphemus. He eventually weeps at the great loss of men and years that

116 he has endured. Odysseus' has had his entire store of forceful animus qualities stripped away and he is now ready to be reconstituted as a balanced soul. When Odysseus finally reaches Ithacan soil, Athena helps him to realize the benefits of a more well-rounded personality; because of the suffering wrought by too much reliance on his animus this hero is now willing rather than willful. She knows her hero through and through, seeming to enjoy matching wits with the man who, along with his protectress, " 'are both old hands / at the arts of intrigue. Here among mortal men / you're far the best at tactics, spinning yarns, / and I am famous among the gods for wisdom, / cunning wiles too' " (296). Athena knows what Odysseus needs and she turns him into a homeless and physically weak beggar in the shadow of the suitors' extravagance. He must graciously accept the kindness of others such as Eumaeus and suffer abuse by the suitors. Odysseus learns that his intrinsic value, his soul, will never succumb to the transience of physical or financial attributes, despite their undeniable usefulness. The suitors, with their power and wealth and youthful good looks, will soon lie dead. When the goddesses and maidens across the Mediterranean offered Odysseus their beds it was natural that Odysseus value his handsomeness and the brawn that enabled him to survive intense physical trials. Yet what eventually allows Odysseus to regain all he lost and more than he imagined is his willingness to learn from his experiences. Unleashing his uncontrollable rage would have doomed him in his fight with the suitors, and indulging in his powerful libido, would have allowed him to contentedly remain with Circe, Calypso, or Nausicaa, but those momentary releases

117 would have come at the cost of regaining Ithaca and reunion with Penelope—who is clearly his intellectual match and thus a far more satisfying partner than any goddess with divine sexual skills. He chooses instead to emulate Athena's calm, deliberate actions and is rewarded for his patience. As she does for Zeus, Athena provides a balancing anima to her hero's excessive animus. Powerful females have always been attracted to powerful males, and Athena's relationships with the powerful men of Olympus are further evidence of her preference for intellectual rather than erotic satisfaction. She refuses intercourse and instead gains satisfaction for herself by helping her hero attain personal fulfillment. It is as if Athena is filling the hero, who in turn satisfies society, rather than seeking fulfillment through the male as is the case in the typical heterosexual relationship. She fills his head and heart with wonderment and awe of the possibilities he might never have imagined. Athena is certainly not advocating celibacy; she is the one to hold back Dawn so that Odysseus and Penelope can have all the time they need for a physical reunion. But she fills her hero's brain, heart and soul, releasing him to strive for transcendence rather than be limited by earthly satisfaction. Athena's wise counsel allows her followers to become conscious of what is already available but perhaps remains unseen: "What Athena shows man, what she desires of him, and what she inspires him to, is boldness, will to victory, courage. But all of this is nothing without directing reason and illuminating clarity. These are the true fountainheads of worthy deeds, and it is they which complete the nature of the goddess of victory" (Otto 53). She subtly inspires wisdom through mindfulness.

118 Self-Fulfillment

One reason Athena can fulfill others without seeming to need reciprocal fulfillment is that she is already content in herself. She has respect and self-assuredness that originates in her relationship with her father. Already possessing Zeus' full approval, she has a solid sense of her capabilities. Unlike some of the other female deities, Athena has no need to be jealous of Zeus or of the wife or lover of any hero and thus does not waste time or expend creative energy on retribution. She is not completely lacking womanly emotions but she expresses them, and benefits from them, in peculiarly masculine ways. For some this may be off-putting, but Athena's approach offers women myriad opportunities for self-fulfillment. As does Athena, we possess the potential to create without procreating, which allows us to transcend the narrow view of the female's contribution to society. Athena never marries or seeks any romantic encounters, typical female experiences and desires, but her desirability is confirmed through the pursuit by Poseidon and Hephaestus, whom she cruelly rebuffs. Her rejection of Hephaestus, along with the more typical feminine needs of traditional partnership and motherhood, illustrates several aspects of Athena's multifaceted personality that reveal to women the previously unrealized ways in which we can enjoy our creative and nurturing anima aspects. Athena also teaches us that we do not have to project excessive anima or restrict our animus instincts to do so, but we must be mindful of their influences.

119 Athena's closeness to her father may exhibit what Jung called the "negative mother complex, an overidentification with her own masculine, aggressive side" (Downing, Goddess 80). But to label her as such would prohibit our seeing Athena as a complete being who offers women today an opportunity to achieve wholeness despite their past experiences or proclivities. Athena engages in more conflicts with males than with females, which might be attributable to her reliance on her animus rather than on the usual feminine qualities with which the gods are familiar and can thus easily manipulate to their advantage. She is nearly oblivious to affairs of the heart, and her single-minded desire to maintain a strong persona brings her to situations which she is less wellequipped to handle and in which she thus acts rashly rather than mindfully. For example, when the innocent Tieresias stumbles upon her naked body she strikes him blind, a bit of an overreaction that she only later recompenses by giving him the gift of second sight. Her response, however, meshes perfectly with her desire to protect what lies beneath her armor. It is paramount that she not permit herself to appear vulnerable to any male, even to one who is clearly not interested in taking advantage of her. Athena is not void of nurturing, maternal instincts, but they are submerged beneath her intense desire to protect herself and to promote civilization and order over the inevitable emotional chaos personified by her blind cousin, Eros. Sometimes her actions suggest a tendency to overcompensate for her distaste for disorder. The story of Erichthonius' birth illustrates both Athena's urge to protect herself and the promotion social order. It is ironic in this instance that motherhood and Athenian order are the products of her desire to avoid

120 maternity. This episode also cautions us against creating an imbalance caused by valuing one personality aspect over another and provides us with a compensatory model. Rivals seek to weaken their opponents in their most vulnerable places. Thus Poseidon, often at odds with Athena, informs Hephaestus that Athena is coming to see him with romance on her mind rather than for her intended purpose of having the metalworker make her a new set of armaments. The ruse in itself provides insight into the similar ways in which others saw Athena in comparison to the ways in which she views herself, not to mention Poseidon's astute character assessment. Hephaestus falls for the plot because he knows Athena, seduced by shields, would not see that weapons were not foremost on his agenda. Athena was, quite simply, blinded by her desire for the strong and powerful image seeking new weapons would reap, a decidedly animus-driven pursuit. Thus when Hephaestus' obvious romantic intentions finally awaken Athena to the imminent danger, she cruelly rejects him. Yet Hephaestus's ardor, building since the moment Poseidon gave him hope of consummating his unrequited love, cannot be stopped. Athena wipes Hephaestus' seed from her leg onto the ground, where it is fertilized by the Great Mother. From this consummation arises a child, Erichthonius. At this point Athena integrates her animus and anima. She rejects Hephaestus along with the assumption that a woman should submit to a man, particularly one who is "at the ready," but Athena accepts this child of her attempted violation and becomes his mother. She is later rewarded for employing her maternal gifts when Erichthonius ascends the throne and "establishes Athena as a political unit. .. [thus becoming] the first

121 real Athenian" (Songe-Meller 94-95). Athens prospered primarily due to its ability to conquer enemies and colonize their lands (Woolger and Woolger 25). Hence it is the combination of two opposite aspects of Athena's personality, her animus' refusal to submit combined with her anima's desire to nurture and sustain life that satisfies her ultimate goal of promoting and maintaining order in Greek society and in herself.

A Question of Balance

There is no doubt that women should view Athena's self-preservation in the face of violent oppression as a model to emulate. Many women say yes to things they do not want because it is easier to acquiesce than to protest. The resentments that can develop are very difficult to resolve and can cause significant psychic damage. Athena's actions, however justified, warn us against allowing blind determination to become dangerous willfulness. She would have lost much for herself and society had she abandoned Erichthonius as a symbol of attempted male domination. While Athena successfully uses her animus to gain political stature, the determination of Athena's uncles to force her to wear the feminine persona only comes close to succeeding because Athena is so deeply drawn to sustaining her animus above all other archetypes. She is, ultimately, only able to use their assault to her benefit when she brings forward the anima aspect that nurtures Erichthonius. The child later rewards Athena with influence in the formation and

governance of Athens. Nurturing, an anima-driven action, permits Athena to accrue more power and stature in developing the foundation of Greek civilization, a more traditionally male and animus-driven effort than motherhood. Athena's history seems to foreshadow just this type of juxtaposition of Jung's male and female personality archetypes. Athena was the beneficiary when Zeus symbolically rendered her mother, Metis, unessential to the birth process, and she again gains when she deliberately avoids pregnancy. Her own birth gains Athena much honor and influence at her father's side; being his child alone in the eyes of many, her "motherlessness" is actually an advantage. By adopting Hephaestus' child she profits again by becoming the most important figure in the formation of Athens as a city-state— without having to relegate her animus to secondary status. Raising and nurturing Erichthonius does speak to her softer anima qualities, but some would argue that she ultimately benefits significantly by either allowing or deliberately ignoring society's discounting of females' importance to birthing and raising a child. Athena clearly possesses both male and female archetypes, and she uses them to her advantage, but as the patron of a city whose political ideals excluded women, she tips her personality scale towards the animus. Unlike her mother's situation in which the benefits of women were passed down to the father through the child, Athens remained for a long time a place where women "were either mothers, slaves, or prostitutes, never leaders or intellectuals" (27). Unsurprisingly, she does not seem to be the least bit troubled by her apparent double standard, nor should we. The development of Athens and other cities did benefit

123 women, and the future generations to which they gave birth ensured the cultures' continued success. Perhaps the message Athena is sending to women who would covet her success and fulfillment without contemplating the underlying effort is that they should emulate her behavior rather than that of her peers, both female and male. If women want what Athena has, then perhaps they should engage with others in manners similar to this goddess. Athena may easily overlook or excuse the exclusivity of her power because the other deities do not command the respect that is the prerequisite for attaining such power, and in some ways her judgment is correct. Unlike her two aunts, Hera and Aphrodite, who vented their frustrations on innocent mortals, Athena was a highly respected Olympian. Hesiod and Homer paint her as a superior companion for Zeus by emphasizing the masculine tendencies controlled by her animus. Olympus is inhabited by strongly drawn individuals, most of whom demonstrate excessive, and thus flawed, feminine or masculine characteristics which serve in the myths as examples of how not to act. For example, Aphrodite plays the "femme fatale" with immortals and humans alike. She tries to control the world through her son's quiver of desire-laced arrows. Aphrodite's meddling causes the Trojan War, which leads to much strife for the Olympians, the warriors and their families and communities—something which Athena, protector of cities, would have found abhorrent. Hera's jealous tantrums, her frustrated response to her powerlessness in regard to Zeus' overt philandering, are as well documented as Aphrodite's manipulations. Unlike Athena, who is fairly consistent in her

124 application of justice over revenge, Hera relieves her impotence by tormenting the women with whom Zeus consorts, even though they are anything but impervious to his seductions. Transforming Io into a cow was not going to transform Zeus into a model spouse. Nor were the warmongering Ares or kidnapping Hades or resentful Poseidon worthy of emulation. Each of the above offenders would do well to follow Athena's lead in establishing a balance between his or her anima and animus. Both the male and female inhabitants of Olympus are victims of too much emotion, and perhaps Athena sees fit to hold firm to her logical and less emotional animus in light of her family members' dramatic actions and their consequences. Though these deities and their situations are larger-than-life, the Greeks did draw their gods in a human frame; thus we are just as likely to be oblivious to the consequences of our actions as they were unconcerned with theirs. Luckily, we have our consciousness of their constellating archetypes to guide us to more mindful choices. So far this dissertation has primarily described the ways in which Athena interacts with male deities and heroes to argue that she is a model for wholeness. This is primarily because those are the ones with whom she has most of her interactions and thus they provide the best opportunity to analyze her motivations. As this dissertation is specifically proposing that women should embrace the goddess as a means of achieving balance, it is important to examine the ways in which Athena's dealings with females illuminate the goddess' archetypal constellations so that we can identify similar

125 archetypal reflections, their potential for creating anxiety in our psyches, and seek ways to find solace. The creation of Athens and the support of the heroes present Athena as a creative force, yet she, along with Artemis and Hestia, also possesses the opposing destructive capability of the Great Mother. In some cases the destruction she causes seems to be the result of rashness or decisions made in anger, such as when, as a child, she struck out at and mortally wounded her friend Pallas (Apollodorus II: 41), so perhaps her deliberative nature comes from hard-won wisdom. Her negative side can also be seen as the integration of the energy of the dark side of the Great Mother, such as the powerful and potentially destructive force of Kali. Athena can transform the Great Mother's destructive potential into a social support by taking the Dark Goddess' powers to annihilate and using them to restore balance. Athena most definitely possesses the Great Mother's ability to destroy, but that is tempered by her penchant for inspiring creativity, order and justice. As we examine our own motives, we will need to be clear if we are acting harshly for our own gains at the expense of others or if we are creating destruction in order to give rise to a better situation. The myth in which Athena seems most merciless—and correspondingly less balanced and thus less admirable—is the story of Arachne. The myth's primary origin comes from Ovid's Metamorphosis, in a tale that chronologically follows one in which Athena listens with satisfaction to the divine retribution wrought on the Pierid sisters when they challenged the Muses and lost. In its simplicity, the story illustrates Athena's

126 penchant for justice; the Pierids were sore losers of their own challenge so of course they deserved to be turned into magpies. In addition, Athena is supporting the old order in that the Muses were the daughters of Mnemosyne and she, as the source of all things remembered, is the basis for new ideas or creations. The Pierids must be punished in order to honor the pattern of new inspiration springing from old recollections. In the subsequent chapter, however, Ovid puts Athena in the place of the wronged Muses and thus illustrates her commitment to absolute power and respect for the gods. Though Athena is not excessively vengeful in any other myth, she seems to go out of her way in this situation to confront the girl of low birth whose talents have been widely praised by others as evidence of Athena's generosity. Athena's displeasure lies in the girl's unwillingness to give credit where credit is due and her failure to show humility to the gods. A lover of order, Athena would naturally find this to be anathema. It also follows that the insulted Athena would be immediately ready to punish any mortal who might attempt to diminish her power and, even more importantly, that of the Olympians. In order to squash Arachne and thus divert the attention from herself and the other deities, Athena employs her Crone form to confront and entrap Arachne. The goddess does not deny Arachne's talent but instead focuses on the excessive pride which exceeds Arachne's artistry at the loom. The citizenry's favorable comparison of Arache to Athena is compounded by the girl's peasant status. Ovid frequently comments on Arachne's humble parentage and how the girl has transcended her low birth to attain high regard throughout the land.

127 Rather than approving of the girl's determination to overcome her baseness and increase her accolades, these details instead fuel the deadly combination of goading Athena to condemnation and Arachne to further boldness that damns her. Arachne seals her fate by responding to Athena's challenge with petulant pride rather than humility, thus further ignoring the goddess' warnings to be grateful. This meeting of egos is so large that each has to set up her loom far from the other, but Arachne, "in her crass determination to win . .. fell to her ruin" (Ovid 212). She compounded her already perilous situation by daring to show the gods as they are rather than in the structured, stylized manner with which the order-driven Athena weaves her family history. Athena is not blind to the deities' shortcomings, but she will not allow a mere mortal to use them to denigrate and thus diminish the Olympians. The artistry with which Arachne portrays the gods' flaws only compounds the insult and magnifies Athena's sensitivity to her perceived humiliation of her family. A clue to the importance of image to Athena, and her denial of the fuller picture underneath the celebrated presentation of the gods, is evident in the self-portrait she weaves. In her tapestry she "characterize^] herself by her helmeted head, her sharp-pointed spear, her shield and the aegis guarding her breast" (213). There is no other image she will allow to be put forth—even the interpretation of one poor, mortal weaver with nothing else to commend her. In order to preserve the order that once rescued the universe from the brutal and destructive acts of Father Heaven and Cronos, Athena must further reject Arachne's harsh, if valid interpretation of Olympus, her father's kingdom, as full of

flawed and petty individuals who take advantage of their inferiors. If a mere mortal can paint such a pretty picture of some rather ugly events, then what might be the price of an honest look from the goddess of enlightenment? Athena's glorious, if sugared tapestry promotes her father and his reign. In this case the truth does not set Arachne free; her unvarnished impression of the Olympians' selfish and irresponsible acts only raises Athena's ire to the point at which she destroys Arachne. Her resurrection as a spider does create a constant reminder to the world of Athena's gift to humanity, but it also serves as a warning for those who might promote themselves as more than divine. Despite her overall success in maintaining order, we cannot fail to see that Athena is also imprisoned by her response and her insistence on an idealized image of Zeus and the family. Athena sees her vision as good and Arachne's as bad. Such sharply drawn divisions can be a negative projection of the animus archetype. So, too, is the physical violence Athena wrecks on Arachne, beating her with the loom's shuttle until the girl wishes to die. This is Athena at her coldest and cruelest, but it is not her ultimate act of revenge. When she turns Arachne into a spider she calls it the creature she loathes the most, which is further evidence of animus-driven, competitive behavior. Arachne will have to live as the loathsome spider, constantly reminded of Athena's superiority. It is interesting to note here that this is not the only instance in which Athena's competitive nature causes a rather unpleasant metamorphosis. In Apollodorus' version of Perseus' adventure, the Medusa "was fain to match herself with the goddess even in beauty" (I: 161). According to Ovid, Medusa was particularly proud of her hair which is why, when

129 it attracted Poseidon's affections and he raped her in Athena's temple, the goddess punished the maiden by turning her tresses into serpents.

Toward Integration

If we recoil at Athena's actions, then perhaps we can learn from this goddess' imperfections and take a look at our life's tapestry, asking if it is an honest picture of our own successes and failings, and determine what we can do to make it a more harmonious work of art. Athena is not perfect and though it is part of her persona to maintain her inviolable front, we can learn much from her strength, including when to emphasize other aspects of our personalities. Ultimately, the Athena archetype risks leaning towards the animus but is clearly aware of and capable of balance. While she does seem to use her cool judgment as an antidote for other's hot tempers, her experiences teach us that order, logic and control are excellent tools for achieving wholeness, and examples of her own failures to adhere to her philosophy—such as striking out at Arachne, Tieresias, or Pallas—are to her as well as our detriment. Luckily for us, whatever potential for imbalance the Athena archetype possesses can be offset by the complementary archetypes of Artemis and Hestia.

Chapter 4 ARTEMIS

The preceding portrait of Athena's qualities, the ways in which they reflect the Great Mother, and the benefits and perils of her dichotomous nature, invite exploration of her sister, Artemis. The "Lady of the Wild Things" has a personality just as strong as Athena, and she can similarly intimidate women with her fearsome devotion to the Dark Goddess aspect of the Great Mother. However, the following chapter will show that Artemis possesses many facets of the Great Mother, and that she is as ruthless in bringing forth and preserving life as she is in facilitating its inevitable end. Artemis' explosive passion ultimately complements Athena's cool and tactical nature, providing energy for life's inescapable trials, particularly through surrendering of old selves in hopes of being reborn. Artemis reflects the Great Mother and balances Athena, engendering growth towards wholeness.

Nurturing Creative Chaos

Artemis and Athena initially appear as different as night and day, especially in the juxtaposition of Artemis' love for the untamed wilderness with Athena's commitment to 130

the structured polis. Yet they are inextricably linked, and by far more than their virgin attributes, as each is synonymous with the Great Mother. Walter Otto asserts that Athena's name is so ancient it suggests she existed prior to the Greek's fascination with her parthenogenic birth, and that previous to the time of Homer, Hesiod or Apollodorus she was worshipped as the Great Mother (43). Jane Ellen Harrison similarly states that The Earth Mother who cared for humans and all living things was called "Lady of the Wild Things" (264), a term that is generally applied to Artemis. While the early history of both goddesses seems to point to their origins in the Great Mother, each possesses different attributes that offer women unique yet equally insightful opportunities to discover what it means to restore completeness in a distinctly personal manner. As parthenoi, their sexual abstinence provides each with a purity of intent and self-sustaining spirit that actually enhances their ability to interact with and nurture others. These sisters illustrate how a strong sense of self that springs from internal wholeness can ultimately help us to intuitively secure what we need despite the trying situations in which we find ourselves. If we are successful in integrating these goddesses, we will undoubtedly increase our potential to relate to others on platonic and romantic levels, leading to greater satisfaction in our lives. They also teach us that our search for the self sometimes necessitates absenting ourselves from specific situations and persons.

132 Fruitful Solitude

None of the three virgin goddesses lives on Olympus, and each makes her own way without much interaction with the other deities, but this should not be mistaken for isolationism. They are more likely to be found with mortals than their fellow Olympians, whose strong personalities can be overwhelming. These goddesses successfully maintain their identities because they interact within the protective filter afforded by their virginity; this enables them to be engaged with others while they simultaneously avoid being forced to compromise their core values, a practice worthy of emulation. Each goddess uses her abstinence as protection from overwhelming intimacy, so that she only enters into relationships that serve her primary need to develop and maintain her archetype. During Greece's Golden Age, "sexual abstinence was often a part of the preparation for war or hunting . .. Athena and Artemis, the goddesses who brought success in these activities, would have served to validate this ban through their own inaccessibility" (Blundell 44). Each has a clear objective she will not sacrifice and, despite their strict personas, their cults flourished and these goddesses continue to hold our interest. We do not necessarily find their chastity appealing; what attracts us is their purity of purpose. Both Artemis and Athena maintain their parthenos by limiting contact with others in all manners of intimacy that would jeopardize each goddess' true identity, which permits us to discover and preserve our own truth. Athena uses both the social structure and her aegis to shield her from threatening emotional and physical contact.

133 She rejects sexual intercourse and childbirth, perhaps because of the emotional abandonment inherent in both situations, yet maintains her commitment to social order as her actions ultimately protect civilization because cultures cannot survive if passion consistently prevails over logic and reason. Athena is the "Mother of Athens" and, as such, protects and nurtures her offspring so they have the best possible chance to thrive.

A Force in Nature

Artemis, on the other hand, embraces all that is wild and untamed and so reacts in ways that contradict Athena's desire for structure. However, no Polis could persist and flourish were there no people to populate it and to put into practice all that Athena teaches regarding the domestic arts that ultimately benefit family and social units. Artemis likewise supports society by presiding over all that is precipitated by or the result of wild abandon, with childbirth a prime example of just such an "uncivilized occasion" (Paris, Meditations 116). The willingness to release all inhibitions and push beyond boundaries is essential to sexual intimacy and birth, and Artemis acts deliberately in her role of ushering young girls through life's early stages. Though she, like Athena, never bears children, Artemis acts as a midwife and mothers young girls and animals. She stays safely removed from conflicting influences by conducting her activities in the forest with only her devoted followers at her side. When a mere child, she already knew her

. 134 calling, telling Zeus that she "will hardly ever go down into town. / I'll live in the mountains, and visit men's cities / only when women, struck with fierce labor pangs, / call my name" (Lombardo 11). Artemis' vocation to maintain the wildness inherent in nature and in individuals mirrors Athena's commitment to cities and to logical thought in that both act in ways that further mankind's development. Artemis, in her role as "Lady of the Wild Things" or "Queen of the Animal World" (Neumann, Mother 275), is an important primordial connection to the Great Mother who personifies all manner of ancient urges that promote survival. The Great Mother has no boundaries, and neither does Artemis. While it seems unlikely that Athena would have carried out the Great Mother's plan to castrate Father Heaven, Artemis might have seen the justice in relieving Father Heaven of the means by which he tortured his wife—unnaturally forcing her to retain her grown children in her body. Artemis' empathy stems from helping Leto to survive Apollo's difficult delivery, one her mother would not have survived without aid. Artemis thus serves as a reminder that energy and decisiveness aid our survival. Artemis' raw emotion and her willingness to act on her instincts comes from her proximity to the natural world, which was originally the Great Mother's purview. Her connection to the Great Mother's primal essence kindles our unconscious memory of being at one with our origin, and that is one reason for Artemis' allure. As was her greatgrandmother, Artemis is totally content in her environment, seeking outside company only when it suits her desires. Again, this does not mean she lives a solitary existence.

135 As a young child she was as sure about companionship as she was about her chastity: "Papa . .. give me sixty dancing girls, / daughters of Ocean, / all nine years old / all little girl seanymphs, / and twenty woodnymphs from Amnisos for maids" (Lombardi 11). While Athena seeks solitude within the social framework, Artemis finds hers in the apparent absence of structure that seems to mirror the chaos from which the Great Mother evolved and which is governed by natural rather than man-made order. Despite being surrounded by followers, these sisters are able to remain emotionally autonomous in their distinctly different yet comfortable environs, feeling a part of their worlds, each taking what they need and in so doing providing women with a model for feeling whole. Athena encourages women to use their minds rather than their bodies in order to solve problems and enhance relationships. Balancing reason with passion enlightens a woman to her intellectual capacities, minimizing overwhelming emotions, and helps her to become aware of her heretofore unrealized capabilities. She does not have to act as Aphrodite's temptress or Hera's harridan in order to assert her presence. Artemis complements Athena by providing a woman with an environment so conducive to powerful self-reflection that she becomes aware of her true self without the clamoring voices and cacophony of the civilized world, for "[t]he frustration of the need for solitude, by overstimulation, can lead to depressive reactions as surely as the inverse frustration, that of the need for intense and significant human relationships" (Paris, Pagan Meditations 135). Communing with nature insulates a woman from the undue influences

136 or demands of others, so her own voice rises above the din. Artemis' charged emotions, sometimes evident in an uncontrollable rush, actually fuel the same passion that facilitates delving into the depths of self-discovery. This search is not for the faint at heart any more than is birthing a child or stalking prey. For a woman seeking wholeness, it can mean bringing forth a new consciousness of our own potential or searching out the memories that will free her from unsuccessful past efforts to integrate her experiences. Venturing into the dark forest of the unconscious, a woman can become aware of the unseen dangers lurking in Artemis' realm. We, too, can summon the courage within if we look to the youthful Artemis who resides inside us, purposefully moving through the forest and making it her own, clearing whatever stands in her way, and listening while she encourages her young charges to be as fearless and ruthless in their own quests as she is in hers. Following Artemis may mean leaving behind what we have previously believed to be our true purpose to make even greater personal discoveries. As we continually learn from the Dark Goddess, transitioning to a new stage of life requires the death of the old. The Uroboros only grows as it consumes its tail. Artemis' followers risk becoming trapped when their commitment to her stands in the way of new opportunities that would facilitate their natural progression. They may suffer abject fear at the loss of the old rather than simply experiencing some understandable reluctance mixed with a healthy trepidation about the future. In order to internalize the benefits of pledging allegiance to Artemis while accepting her inevitable harshness and violence, we

137 need to examine the details of her birth and how her experience shaped her actions towards others, particularly the young.

The Daughter-Mother

Although Artemis was not born physically mature, as was Athena, she certainly arrived emotionally mature. When Leto, pregnant with twins by Zeus, was looking for a place to deliver her babies, no one would take her in for fear of retribution from Hera. When she arrived at Delos, Leto "brought forth first Artemis, by the help of whose midwifery she afterward gave birth to Apollo" (Apollodorous, vol. 2: 25). As with Athena, Artemis' birth has shaped her personality and, correspondingly, her archetypal constellation, which is expressed in the ways in which she resonates in women. She continually honors her mother and the birth experience in many of her actions but particularly in her concern for the young and vulnerable. Paradoxically, Zeus gave her the right to slay any woman she chooses in childbirth (Karenyi, "Mythological" 42). Artemis' seemingly heartless deeds serve to illuminate life's fragility and the tremendous sacrifice required to bring forth the next generation. Women literally prayed for Artemis' "gentle shafts" to end their suffering should she be unable to help them as she helped her mother through Apollos' difficult birth.

138 As Artemis does with Leto, the child replaces the parent in her role as mother and caregiver, and seeing to this is one of Artemis' chief responsibilities. It is a fact that some mothers, like Jung's Yucca Moth, must die in the process of giving life. Artemis reminds us of life's fragility as she prepares girls for the dread potential in the perpetual cycle of life and death. The cult of Artemis is comprised of pre-adolescent females whom Artemis prepares for the imminent sacrifice of their youth, virginity, and innocence as young brides. At approximately age three, Artemis asked Zeus for "an ever-enduring parthenia" (41), which her followers must also honor. In return, Artemis protects and mentors girls from age nine to the point at which they marry, which could be as young as fourteen. From the time they leave the constant care of their mothers until their union with a husband, Artemis provides them with an opportunity to explore their feral natures. These young girls are called "arktoi," which means female bear, because they emulate those creatures even to the point of mimicking their bellowing. This "Artemisial" period gives girls a chance to belong to themselves before their identity becomes that of a wife or mother (Paris, Meditations 150), which requires they forfeit any autonomy regarding their minds and bodies. Though Artemis would never have to surrender her youth or her life, she was conscious of the joys and difficulties inherent in the life cycle. The "arktoi" who revel in the rush of physically pushing their bodies to their limits must eventually face the cruelty inherent in Artemis when they cross the threshold into adulthood. Many will come to embody the ultimate sacrifice demanded of

. 139 the goddess when they die in childbirth and their garments are consecrated to Artemis Brauron. Women can find Artemis appealing precisely because she encourages us to accept the inevitable rather than bemoan life's passages. We come to realize our inherent power, so we might view death as transformative. Her energy derives from her perpetual youth, embodied in the Great Mother's Kore aspect, which encourages women to incorporate the divine child and the mature feminine archetype into an overarching presence in their lives. Though Artemis projects the maiden archetype's youth and purity, also embodied by Persephone prior to her abduction, Artemis remains the Kore. Persephone ceases to be the Kore in the moment she becomes Hades' wife—as do the arktoi upon marriage. Artemis, on the other hand, shows us what we left behind when we became women and offers us the chance to consciously reintegrate our pure, uncompromised maiden aspect into our adult selves.

Maiden Lost and Found

This tendency for women to pragmatically resign themselves to personal losses also highlights the Artemis-Persephone split. There are no stories in which the married Persephone reappears in the earthly realm. Many of us were similarly cut off, denied, or otherwise separated from our Kore selves. The Artemis archetype, however, remains a

140 fully formed model which we can integrate; we do not have to surrender our past, as does Persephone, nor it is not in our best interests to do so. We must, instead, integrate the Kore aspect into our adult lives by incorporating her energy and purity. Should we doubt this is part of our commitment to wholeness, there are lessons in the myths that illustrate the resultant consequences of refusing to bridge the maiden and the mother. The "arktoi" know that their service to Artemis is finite. They will eventually reach marriageable age, become wives and, if they survive childbirth, mothers. In Artemis' care, these girls learn about themselves and their physical potential in their only opportunity to prepare for adulthood. But each will reach a time when she must move on in a way in which Artemis will never be compelled. In all but a few circumstances, it is unnatural for people to live solitary lives, without human companions to provide physical and emotional intimacy. Three young people who suffer the consequences of refusing to transition into mature relationships are Daphne, Arethusa, and Hippolytus.

The Consequences of Refusing Transcendence

Daphne and Arethusa each find themselves the objects of unwanted male affection. Artemis hears the distress calls from both maidens and rescues them from their suitors—not by safely restoring them to her band but instead by releasing them from their human forms. Daphne had lived her life emulating the goddess in every way, even

141 convincing her father to allow her to remain a virgin by arguing that if Zeus sanctioned Artemis' chastity, then it was a small concession for Daphne's father to acquiesce to his daughter's wish (Ovid, Metamorphosis 29). Apollo, driven by Eros' arrow, chases Daphne although she ". . . ran from the very thought of a lover" (29). Artemis transforms her disciple into the laurel tree, which becomes sacred to Apollo, so in a sense he is able to attain her while she is able to remain part of the natural world to which she had devoted herself—the type of compromise that is part of many relationships. Yet it is hard to imagine swift-footed Daphne feeling content to watch others freely run past or welcoming her role as an integral part of every ceremony devoted to her tormenter. The maiden Daphne no longer exists, nor does she transform into a woman. Arethusa also suffers from her failure to integrate her Kore and Mother aspects. Arethusa is also one of Artemis' consorts, preferring hunting above all activites and claiming her beauty brought her no pleasure. Like Daphne, she takes flight at the first sign that her life as a maiden might have run its course. Seeking to escape the river god, Alpheus, she summons Artemis: "Help! I am caught—your own dear nymph, who carried your weapons . .." (204). Although Artemis enshrouds Arethusa in a cloud, Alpheus is undeceived and dives into the water he notices accumulating beneath her. Artemis further aids her maiden by creating a deep chasm that temporarily permits Arethusa's escape, but as waters naturally resist containment so Alpheus eventually reunites with his would-be lover (205).

142 Both Arethusa and Daphne have sacrificed their futures as mature women in order to retain the Kore archetype. Without even considering the possibilities or consequences of their actions they single-mindedly entreat Artemis to keep them untouched by men. Ironically, they act like the beasts of the forest that were once their prey, running madly without thought of anything save their escape from imminent danger. In so doing they surrender the opportunity to live a complete human existence, full of incremental deaths that lead to rebirth into lives we could never fully anticipate and can only fully appreciate if we are willing to die to our old selves. Neither of these adolescents is willing to even consider the possibilities that lie outside maidenhood and thus act in ways that preclude the gifts of mature womanhood, particularly the integration of the masculine and feminine that leads to wholeness. By refusing to relinquish their Kore aspect they instead sacrifice their humanness. Arethusa and Daphne share an imbalance that derives from their identifying too strongly with the goddess' chastity; in choosing sexual abstinence they surrender their humanness. They do not see their devotion to the goddess as a transition between two stages of life, instead acting rashly to preserve their status quo and deny the opportunity to form new relationships that would necessitate transcending to the next level. Artemis rebukes those who act too swiftly in willful disregard of any detail or extenuating circumstance that might force them to reconsider their hard-held beliefs. Although most of Artemis' followers were female, Hippolytus was a young man who preferred hunting to any romance. In order to reinforce his commitment to Artemis,

143 Hippolytus went so far as to reject Aphrodite who, at least according to Euripides, exacted revenge for such rejection. In Euripides' Hippolytus, the goddess of love complains that Hippolytus and Artemis are inseparable; "When he's tracking wild beasts in the forest with his hounds and men, she's there, his tutelary spirit, right beside him" {Collected Works I: 161). It is most likely that Artemis views Hippolytus with the same brotherly affection with which she sees her twin, Apollo, for there is neither suggestion of nor preparation for any romantic complications. Thus Hippolytus is completely blindsided when Aphrodite curses Phaidra, Hippolytus' step-mother, with lust for her husband's son. Hippolytus, like Arethusa and Daphne, runs in fear from Phaidra's affections. His cold rejection combines with Phaidra's shame to drive her to suicide. Her husband, Theseus, unquestioningly accepts her suicide note claiming that Hippolytus raped her—for she cannot admit her lustful feelings. Unable to face his father, Hippolytus runs off, only to be mortally wounded by a combination of his horses and Poseidon's monstrous wave. Only at this point does Artemis force Theseus to realize that he wrongfully rejected his son: "You confirmed no facts; you consulted with no prophet; you refused to investigate or allow Time to make an inquiry. You acted with undue violence and hurled at your son this curse that has destroyed him" (212). Despite what must have been her understandable sadness at her losing her "heart's favorite among men" (213), Artemis sounds surprisingly similar to Athena as she calmly points out to Theseus that he acted without validating Phaidra's accusation. He allowed wild emotion to rule his head, and Artemis only deflects the blame to Aphrodite once

Theseus comprehends how his rashness has compounded his family's disaster. Artemis is also willing, as Athena is with Odysseus, to see her champion suffer for his benefit. Artemis instructs us in the danger of too strongly identifying with only one aspect of the archetype. Artemis' passion can be a tremendous asset in our lives, balancing any tendencies to be too rigid and connecting us to the tremendous gifts of physical strength and endurance, but even the goddess herself understands her limits. For as Arethusa, Daphne, and Hippolytus illustrate, holding on too tightly to one archetypal trait to the exclusion of others can inhibit our realizing our full potential. We must be able to consider the various tools the Artemis archetype provides and, after careful consideration—and perhaps channeling the appropriate aspects of Athena for good measure—decide which of them will help us in the particular situation in which we find ourselves, for no one response will fit every circumstance. Thus we cannot underestimate the implications of integrating the Artemis archetype's untamed passion and its accompanying energy into our lives as we attempt to re-create the Great Mother's wholeness within ourselves.

Life, Death and Renewal

That Artemis remains a maiden throughout her life, untouched by men—mortals and gods alike—and free from the accompanying burdens of maternity and motherhood,

145 allows her to more fully represent the Great Mother's governance of life and death, as she once single-handedly managed the universe in its totality. The maiden Artemis symbolizes one aspect of her fractured whole, with Erich Neumann asserting that her name "may have derived from artamein, which means 'to slaughter' " {Mother 275); in this case she can be seen as the result of slaughtering the Great Mother's wholeness, as well as her protection of cruel but necessary aspects of birth and death. The wildness of youth has always been a time for testing boundaries and rejecting the present to discover what is possible. The transition from childhood to adulthood also requires a tearing apart of the child, perhaps even the slaughtering embodied in Artemis' name, as the pressures of adolescence stress the body and spirit. Bringing Artemis into our lives may require a personal rending so that we can make sense of our fractured pieces before re-integrating them into a healthy whole. To facilitate this, we must examine our own experiences and our reactions to them—which can be seen as their constellating in our psyche—then consider the ways in which they have been transformative. We accept this task by invoking Artemis' fearlessness, sensing that we might discover some very unsettling memories. We may have to become willing to assume the role of Acteon and allow our own hounds, in the form of our histories, to tear us apart so that we might restore balance and move, unencumbered, to a greater sense of self. While the potential for a violent dismembering might make us reluctant to undertake the challenge, Artemis' demanding spirit will reward us with a more balanced self than we now possess.

146 Each woman's progression from any one point in life into the next is unique from her sisters, with even shared or similar experiences giving rise to myriad outcomes based on the cumulative effects of all life's events. If we accept Jung's assertion that our personalities are always "becoming," it follows that women are perpetually in different stages of cultivating wholeness. At times some will respond to more of one archetype than another, and thus no one woman can fully embody a static Athena, Artemis or Hestia. Like the Great Mother, a woman is an ever-changing blend of the three goddess archetypes and their components, and depending on previous experience she may project more of one aspect or another in a given situation or stage of life. How these projections influence the effectiveness of her relationships is crucial to attaining self-fulfillment. For example, in the process of examining her internal Artemis, a woman probably benefits from invoking Athena's gift of illumination so that she might be mindful of what she requires to balance her psyche and how best to attain contentment through integrating the virginal aspects of Artemis and the other goddesses. In addition to her previously presented Kore aspect, Artemis possesses several other personality attributes that descend from the Great Mother's complete nature and serve to balance the archetype. Her role of shepherding maidens and young animals into the world and across the boundary from childhood to adulthood appeals to our sense of compassion and desire to nurture, but Artemis' association with death may make us seek to remain at what we perceive to be a safe distance. We might fear identifying with the women who pray that Artemis' "gentle shafts" will release them from physical or

147 emotional pain, but a death that relieves suffering is actually evidence of the nurturing and compassionate Artemis. What we really fear is the Artemis who brings seemingly cruel and indiscriminate death to those same creatures she gently ushers into and through life's early stages of life. Callimachus presents an Artemis who plagues "wicked" lands by rending animals and fields barren, killing sons, and having women either die or bring forth cripples in childbirth (Lombardi 15). Sue Blundell calls Artemis merciless for her participation in the festival at Halae, Attica, where her followers used a sword to spill blood from a man's neck. She also points out that in Sparta, at "the festival of Artemis Orthia, young men had to run a gauntlet of other youths wielding whips in order to grab some cheese from an altar" (29). These acts, committed in Artemis' honor, seem arbitrary and antithetical to the image a woman would want to project. Their barbaric details also seem farremoved from social norms; indeed such behavior would be illustrative of the world's worst sociopaths and subject to condemnation by all but the most cynical and hardened persons. Yet Artemis attracted followers despite her proximity to death. Erich Neumann called her "one of the alluring and seductive figures of fatal enchantment" and he further claims that her stories invariably present the resultant doom as inevitable {Mother 80-81). As these bloody doings are such an integral part of Artemis' archetype, we must explore the important ways in which they resonate within us. Humans embrace ambivalence, at once drawn to and repulsed by danger and admitting to feeling life's urgency when we forced to confront death. Thus it is unlikely

148 that we could choose to assume only those character attributes which we find admirable. We cannot embrace Athena's shrewdness and reject her coldness and seeming disdain for women. Likewise we cannot wish to enjoy the energy and spirit that accompanies Artemis' youth while rejecting her abject brutality, particularly when directed towards women. There is undoubtedly, as Neumann intimates, a benefit to our identification with her rougher aspect, and thus we must find a way to integrate its pure intent into our lives. To dissect Artemis' archetype and selectively pick out which elements we believe will complement out nature is to willfully reject the Great Mother's wholeness. It is also tantamount to splitting Artemis, which will not help us to remember the primordial wholeness in our fragmented selves. There is no denying that Artemis embodies the raw emotion inherent in the natural world's indiscriminate brutality, for she truly personifies the Great Mother's Dark Goddess aspect as the violent and demanding taskmaster who forces women to face life's difficulties, and its unavoidable end, even while she ushers in new life. Her followers, well aware of Artemis' desire for human sacrifice, repeatedly assert in Euripides' Iphigenia in Aulis that "Great Artemis . . . delights in this human slaughter" {Complete Works IV: 286), while Callimachus proclaims "she roams all over destroying the brood of wild beasts" (Lombardi 58). So while the Great Mother has a clear, universal purpose, an Uroboros-like balance in the give and take of life and death as they unite to bring forth subsequent life, Artemis seems to be labeled a rash and somewhat arbitrary perpetrator of gratuitous violence, such as when she dooms Acteon to the fate of being devoured by his

• 149 own hounds because he innocently stumbled upon the naked goddess. She obviously felt his breaking the boundary of her carefully delineated remoteness required such a bloody response, but with the Great Mother as the source for her archetypal aspects, we must realize the greater purpose behind his sacrifice, the balancing act Otto hints at when he asserts that Artemis "aroused madness, and, as a gentle goddess, healed it" (86). Again, perhaps only the distance of time and the inculcation of social mores allows us to find Acteon's mutilation and Artemis' authorization to slay mothers-to-be at will as equally distasteful, but we must remember that".. . it is inherent in the mysteries of the Great Goddess and her spiritual character that she grants life only through death, and development toward new birth only through suffering—that as "Lady of the Beasts and Men" she confers no birth and no life without pain" (Neumann, Mother 279). Herein lies a significant difference between the Great Mother and her offspring as well as a lesson for women who seek her completeness: the mother's apparent cruelty is necessary to perpetuate the cyclical nature of life on earth, but it has been passed down through the daughter in a fragmented state. Just as Athena sometimes takes her inheritance, manifest in the absolute capacity for self-fulfillment, too far in her aloofness and rigidity, so too does Artemis embrace her wild nature in a willful rather than willing manner.

150 A Question of Balance

If we view the complete picture rather than individual examples, then Arachne's metamorphosis, Athena's preference for male companionship to the near total exclusion of females, and Acteon's dismemberment as but one of many of Artemis' bloody sacrifices illustrate how both goddesses achieve an overall balance that is complemented within her own archetype and by her sister goddess. Artemis is the harsh reminder of the danger inherent in the natural world and the paradoxical role women must play as lifegivers to that world: "As a female, Artemis can get close to women; but as a virgin she can assume a dominant position and cause the wounds through which women give birth. These wounds are the price which women have to pay to a goddess whose own espousal of virginity means that it is only with reluctance that she allows women to bear children" (Blundell 45). That reluctance is evidence of Artemis seeing the entire picture of a woman's life, including her death. In "Sacrifice in Analysis," Jungian analyst G. Dreifuss discusses the necessity of relinquishing old ideas, such as attachments and beliefs, lest they hinder the self archetype from being fulfilled. He asserts that while the loss of an old belief or situation causes pain, it also brings joy and facilitates a conscious feeling of the "self." New birth is dependent on the death of the old, and thus the two must be seen as psychologically intertwined. If we do not sacrifice when it is demanded of us then we cut off the energy that permits the desired "transformation of the personality" (264). Absent psychic

151 energy, there can be no change and we risk entrenchment and become burdened by our current situation, painfully unable to release ourselves to a new existence. The sacrifice Artemis demands can act as a model so that women who identify with her may become willing to let go of the old and familiar that no longer satisfies their desires, instead reaching out for the new challenges that will fuel their growing sense of self. However, Artemis' bloody nature can give us pause, raising realistic fears of total annihilation, when we recognize, but fail to integrate, the Dark Goddess aspect of the Great Mother inherent in her character. Iphigenia's story is one which illuminates Artemis' Dark Goddess aspect, one that is deceptively inexplicable and contrary to nature in that she brings pointless destruction to the very innocent creatures she is charged to protect. In many accounts, the unfortunate Iphigenia is sacrificed at Aulis so that her father, Agamemnon, might appease Artemis who is, according to the resident prophet, Kalchas, restraining the winds that would fill the Greek army's sails on their way to Troy. Artemis is supposedly angry because she was slighted by Agamemnon, yet in Iphigenia in Aulis there is no supporting evidence that Artemis wishes the maiden sacrificed. Only Kalchas promotes the idea and nearly everyone appears to accept his proclamation because it seems impossible that the Greeks would be restrained from leveling Troy. There is no mention of Atreus' failure to sacrifice the golden lamb to the goddess, or of Agamemnon having boasted that he bested her hunting skill. Egged on by Menelaus, whose pride has been injured by Helen's abandonment, and the restless warriors, Kalchas reiterates the need to "sacrifice

152 [Iphigenia] to Artemis, Agamemnon, and the winds will come!" (Euripides, Collected Plays 244). The fair and innocent Iphigenia is juxtaposed against this excessive display of machismo. Iphigenia's innocence is further amplified by all who variously blame Priam, Kalchas, Odysseus, Menelaus, Paris, and especially Helen, for the situation in which the Greeks find themselves, with Iphigenia canonized for having to sacrifice her life for that of a whore (273). At no time does any character, save Kalchas, assign responsibility to or plead for an explanation from Artemis. That the situation appears hopeless and her inevitable death completely unjustified illuminates the enigma that is the Dark Goddess. And yet, Iphigenia's disappearance at the moment of sacrifice speaks to Artemis' dichotomy. The bleeding female now lying on the altar is a doe, and there is no trace of Agamemnon's daughter. In the same moment that Artemis spares her life she severs Iphigenia's ties to the house of Atreus. Had Iphigenia married Achilles or any other husband, she would have presided over her personal bloody sacrifice in marriage and childbirth. In restoring Iphigenia's physical life, Artemis relieves her of her maidenhood, hence a doe rather than a fawn, and installs her in Taurus as the supervisor of the bloody sacrifices of men, not women. Iphigenia's myth reminds us that there is no passage from one stage of life to the next without some personal sacrifice. But there is no sense of rebirth; in freeing Iphigenia, Artemis seems to condemn her to a life in death. In the subsequent play, Iphigenia at Taurus, the heroine who saved Greece has had plenty of time to consider her losses: her house; her brother, Orestes; her family; her

153 life (Collected Works III 99). Iphigenia expresses disgust towards her role and considers the sacrifices in which ". .. the virgin daughter of Zeus, / Artemis, / spatters her altars and porticoed temples / with human blood, the blood of human sacrifice" (108) to be "an abomination" (110). But in this play, Euripides provides clues to the equilibrium restoring Artemis. When Orestes and his companion, Pylades, are attacked for being Greeks in Taurus, none of the Taurians' stones harm them. It must be the gods, Artemis in particular, who have ensured that these young men will reach Iphigenia unharmed, and their presence suggests that they will afford her some peace. Orestes reveals that he is conscious of Artemis's larger plan when he muses about the incongruity of his being sent to rescue the goddess' statue only to be made her sacrifice. Iphigenia also reinforces the theme of balance when she prays: "Artemis, lady, who waved me from a murderous father beside the bay at Aulis, save me now too, as well as these young men" (130). With Apollo's help, divine sister and brother collaborate to send the "innocent" sister and brother, and their trusted friend, Pylades, back to their rightful home back in Mycenae. They return to the center of their world prior to its destruction. Good has triumphed over evil, for as Artemis proclaims at the end of Iphigenia in Taurus: "There is no rejoicing among the gods at the death of pious men. It is on the evil that we call down destruction—themselves, their children, their house, all" (217). Thus Artemis is not indiscriminately punishing Iphigenia and the others; she is, rather, evening the scales. In Artemis' illumination of life's mysteries, particularly the interplay of life and death, we see that "In the classical figure of this goddess, the wildness and the terrors

154 meet at a border-line: they are in equilibrium. . . . The border-line [lies] between motherhood and maidenhood,y'o/e de vivre and lust for murder, fecundity and animality" (Jung and Kerenyi 105). Euripides' Iphigenia Among the Taurians clearly shows this "dividing line" is not sharply delineated but rather a dreamworld in which Artemis, Iphigenia and, by extension, all women exist in the murky nature between life and death, compassion and vengeance, the Dark Goddess and the life-giving aspects of the Great Mother. Iphigenia was forced to kill in order to return to life. Bringing fertility to fruition requires acting in an animalistic manner, and the very motherhood that produces life most definitely requires the death of the maiden and sometimes even the mother. Despite their seeming senselessness, these kinds of sacrifices occur every minute of every day somewhere on this earth and have since life began. If the sacrifice is not a literal death then it is figurative in the sense that life is a series of compromises, each one a surrender of part of the psyche that eases the internal conflicts that would stop us in our tracks. In some cases the sacrifice bears fruit, such as when we cut off some damaged part of ourselves and healthy tissue, or psyche, regenerates in its place. At other times the sacrifice is forced upon us or we feel resigned to accept the lesser of two evils. But there is a price to be paid for such resignation in that when we release something cherished, we mourn our loss, but sometimes find that preferable to experiencing the joy of healing, that "transformation of the personality" (Dreifuss 264) that brings fulfillment. We tend towards the familiar, even if its comfort no longer provides any benefit, and our refusal to relinquish our grasp impedes our continued growth. Here we would do well to

155 embrace Artemis' unequivocal modeling of sacrifice, emulating her ruthlessness in order to save ourselves from the harmful patterns to which we cling. She shows us the gains derived from losses just as she nurtures life that will progress with certainty towards death. Her inscrutability teaches us that we will have losses and that in some cases we will never completely comprehend our suffering. It takes a leap of faith to continue making the sacrifices Artemis demands, hoping they will lead towards the unity of the Great Mother.

Toward Integration

Artemis' duality as giver and taker of life projects the Great Mother's primal nature and our potential to be controlled by violent forces. Here Artemis first appears as enigmatic as does Athena in her presentment of her Great Mother aspects, denying maternal needs and even women while at the same time promoting structure and reason that ultimately serve to support her gender. We do exist at that crossroads of our feral nature and fear its terrors, with the result often the disavowal of our passions. But no one can truly live without the energy such emotions produce. Humans frequently fear that which they cannot control. Artemis seems uncontrollable; her rashness and cruel nature are qualities that women have attempted to ignore or repress for as long as there have been "civilized" societies. For those who do not believe in a predestined fate, an

156 existence designed by outside forces or a higher power, life can seem an overwhelming series of inexplicable and absurd events. An unseen tidal wave can take over 200,000 lives and a tornado can destroy an entire town save three or four structures that, bizarrely, show little or no damage. Attempting to explain such occurrences can be mind-numbing; what can help alleviate the insecurity is to see such events, particularly their randomness, as part of a greater whole. This is a situation which the nurturing Artemis can clarify. Artemis fills the role of assister, even if she never bears children herself. She possesses the capacity to bring life into the world and she does, even though it is never through her own body. She is cruel in her taking of women in childbirth, but that is the nature of life, particularly in those living close to the natural world. Persephone, in her Kore aspect, has her maidenhood taken from her while Artemis prepares her followers, through their service to her, for adulthood. They come to appreciate the earth, the cycle of life and death. If the Great Mother is the Uroboros, then Artemis comes closest to that archetype. Likewise, the dark aspects of the great mother are far more evident in Artemis than they are in Athena. The horror of birth, that wrenching from the inside of the next generation who will, paradoxically, ultimately return us to the earth, is one of women's great fears. Childbirth certainly was even more frightening until the last century, when medical advances helped women to survive the deadly process of giving life. The Greek women who would have worshipped Artemis would have had that fear as an integral part of their lives, yet they persisted in their roles.

157 Artemis is the most outwardly fearsome of the virgin triad. Her energy has the potential to overpower, and she demands of us the most fear inducing sacrifice, that we surrender our old selves through utter destruction in order to be reborn into our next life stage. Her dichotomy draws us to her as we are simultaneously repulsed; thus she must offer us wisdom and understanding that we cannot attain without willingly relinquishing any part that might impede our progress. Perhaps Walter Otto encapsulates our attraction to Artemis when he describes her as "the divine spirit of sublime nature, the lofty shimmering mistress, the pure one, who compels delight and yet cannot love, the dancer and huntress who fondles cubs in her bosom and races the deer, who brings death when she draws her golden bow, reserved and unapproachable like wild nature, and yet, like nature, wholly enchantment and fresh excitement and lightening beauty" (82). It would seem to me that many, many women would assume the burdens of integrating Artemis if that meant we would live unburdened in the light of her spirit.

Chapter 5 HESTIA

While Athena and Artemis form a delicately balanced pair, the third virgin goddess, Hestia, completes this strong triad. Unlike her virgin nieces, Hestia appears mild and gentle and thus acts as a balm for their sometimes outsized actions. As with Athena and Artemis, she embodies similar qualities of the Great Mother, especially by bringing forth new life and returning it to the earth when its time is done; yet, despite her grave responsibilities, Hestia does not have a strong persona and thus her presence can be easily missed. To increase our awareness of this gentle goddess, the following chapter provides details of Hestia's origins, her symbolic formlessness, and her critical importance to the family and social group. Such consciousness of the ways in which she resonates in lives promotes integration of her virgin nieces as a final step towards greater wholeness.

Hestia: Alpha and Omega

This dissertation has thus far illustrated the ways in which Athena and Artemis are complementary archetypes, in that Athena has become the distillation of the 158

159 Universe's order while her sister has come to represent the unbridled energy necessary for the maintenance and perpetuation of life. Athena promotes society through structure, justice, and the rudiments of technology, sponsoring artisans, and as the inventor of the bridal and other tools that help man benefit from nature. Artemis provides the raw materials and skills necessary for survival while she keeps us conscious of the transience and fragility of our existence, ever exhorting us to live mindfully. The potent and opposing forces in this sisterhood call out for a third that will keep them from repelling each other, uniting them instead in the Great Mother's wholeness. This force is Hestia, a goddess to whom the great poets dedicate only a few scattered lines, but whose presence is known and revered by all. Despite her infrequent mention, this dissertation will show why she is, in actuality, a most important deity and a key to our integration through the virgin triad. Hestia is the most enigmatic of all the Greek deities. At once completely unassuming while also arguably the foundation of Greek social structure in the Classic Period, she is even more fundamental than is Athena. Hestia, unlike her two virgin nieces, is not the inciter of any actions or movements; she is, instead, a stabilizing force that instilled in the Greeks, and can likewise imbue in us, the freedom to act on our needs and desires secure in the knowledge that our home, both literally and metaphysically, is always within our reach. Hestia represents a life force which originates in the Great Mother and subsequently flows through every person, binding us to our origins and to each other with the promise that we are connected to a larger world and thus are not

160 alone. As the first born to Rhea, the progenitor of the Olympians, Hestia inherited the all-encompassing nature that mythologists and psychologists ascribe to the Great Mother. As Rhea's eldest, she is the first swallowed by Cronos and, correspondingly, the last expelled from his belly—making her the Alpha and the Omega of the Olympians. Likewise, her life-giving attributes begin the process that ends with interment in the womb of the earth which the Hestia hearth also represents. Hestia perpetuates the very cycle of life that begins and ends with the Great Mother. Hestia can be seen to represent the "prima mater" that she brings forth from the Great Mother and in turn offers to her followers—especially women today. As "the source contains and reflects all; beginnings are also endings" [which makes Hestia embody] the central paradox of all human life. Thus she is, as Hesiod states, the chief of all Goddesses not only because she is most venerated day-to-day, but because she is the source of all things" (Demetrakopoulos 72), and the place to which they, and we, return upon death. Because of Hestia's genealogical proximity to the Great Mother, women who integrate Hestia will increase their internalization of the Great Mother and achieve greater wholeness. The classical poets greatly respect Hestia, highlighting her elemental nature as unique among the Olympians and Titans. In The Eumenides, the priestess at Apollo's oracle invokes a blessing by exclaiming "First of the gods I honoilr in my prayers is Mother Earth. / the first of the gods to prophesy" (Aeschylus 231). Hestia also becomes synonymous with her grandmother in the Euripidean "Fragment 973," as the poet terms

161 Hestia "O Mother Earth" (Macrobius 150) and Ovid refers to her as "the same as the earth" (Ovid, Fasti 339). These allusions celebrate Hestia's direct descent from, as well as her analogousness to, the Great Mother, while Hestia's two nieces, Athena and Artemis, instead project individual parts of the primordial whole that bring energy to Hestia's tranquil nature.

Subtle Potency

Artemis' protection of procreation among humans and animals and Athena's unwavering commitment to maintaining cosmic order represent individual, identifiable aspects of the Great Mother. Hestia's attributes are more ambiguous than her nieces; she cannot compete with the other strong, easily identifiable archetypal images that constellate in our personal unconscious, and this is precisely why she complements the others. In the absence of defining elements such as Artemis' iconic tunic or bow and arrows or Athena's Medusa-embellished shield or impassive visage, we are free to imagine Hestia's quiet presence in the borderlands of our psyches, where we sense her rather than see her, and where we are drawn to her instead of actively seeking her quiet and centering presence. In essence, we surrender to her and in doing so release our grip on the search for Hestia and instead invest that energy in our search for ourselves. Her serene nature mitigates the potential for us to become lost among the circulating images

162 of her more active nieces. Hestia provides the space in which we can remember our true selves, aware of our myriad parts in the quietude necessary for their assimilation into a whole which leaves us free to embrace their energy without becoming overwhelmed. With the gentle light and warmth of a hearth fire as her defining image, Hestia blazons no celebrity persona. In her few appearances in the myths is she not connected to any scandalous or barbarous acts. Hestia is the only deity to not take part in a conspiracy against Zeus that was initiated by Hera (Graves, Myths 54) and, in keeping with her philosophy of avoiding unnecessary confrontation, she "resigned her seat at the high table" upon Dionysus' ascension in the knowledge that she ". . . could always count on a quiet welcome in any Greek city which it might please her to visit" (106). Her decision to absent herself from the spotlight on Olympus is evidence of her seeming resistance to all attention, and this facilitates our understanding of why there are few artistic renditions of her figure. However, this very absence of absolute representations cultivates her mystical aura and draws us to a spirit that is so ancient as to not be easily categorized and, for some, is synonymous with the original life force. Hestia's ambiguous iconic representations serve to facilitate her acceptance by women. Robert Bell paints a decidedly nondescript portrait of Hestia as: ". . . stately but not formidable, pretty but not beautiful, sweet faced but distant" (260). There is no' difficulty identifying an untitled statue of Athena, fearsomely sturdy and accoutered with shield and sword, or mistaking Artemis' lithe figure clothed in a short tunic with bow and arrows slung across her shoulder. Hestia's lack of a definitive image or group of images

163 is actually to our benefit as it frees each of us to imagine our own impression of the goddess to fit our individual needs, and we are heartened that in her ambiguity lies acceptance of each of us as a part of her. Absent a clearly defined physical form, Hestia's amorphous nature combines with her elemental stature, as the oldest and most primary of the Olympians, to readily reflect our individual natures. We can now view ourselves as women made in this goddess' image. Our "at-one-ness" with Hestia is also evident in her awe-inspiring, yet unintimidating attributes that reveal an innate quiet and grace that engenders reverence for one who is arguably the most important deity in the everyday life of the Greeks—and who can be so for us as well. As she was the mother of the household for the ancients, she can be the mother of the interior home for which each of us is searching. She appeals to women, both in classical times and in the present, because of her power to unite; she lacks Artemis' outward intensity and her warm nature is antithetical to Athena's projected, deliberative indifference. We will permit Athena or Artemis to guide us precisely because their strength illuminates a clear path, yet their intensity sometimes threatens our ability to fully integrate their archetypes as the risk of following their path might require us to confront or even to embrace their dangerous energy. Hestia, on the other hand, gently tugs us along on an invisible thread, requiring only that we trust what we feel is true and right for us. We willingly surrender to Hestia, while Athena's and Artemis' forceful natures can engender anxiety. Thus, integrating Hestia may seem easy, as there appears no overt threat, yet there is always the tacit

164 understanding that she might draw us into her fire to be annihilated and then reborn. Nonetheless, her passive persona entices us willingly, perhaps permitting us the useful denial that brings us to the edge of her purifying flame. Sometimes Athena's spear at our backs or Artemis' incessant footfalls can spur us to necessary action, while at other times they can overwhelm. We appreciate the quiet goddess who can softly evoke the deep need within to return home to the mother of our spirit that eschews coercion in favor of allowing each of us to set our own pace on the personal journey towards serenity, unencumbered by strong archetypal images, in hopes of regaining the Great Mother's original wholeness. According to Hesiod's Theogony, in the beginning of the world the Great Mother was the universe, as well as its individual parts, as she gave birth to the mountains and streams as well as the race of Titans, all the while serving as "a sure standing place for all" (Hesiod 27). This vastness enables her to imbue each of her offspring with individual attributes as well as interact with them as an entity unto herself, such as when encouraging Cronos to castrate Uranos, though she is stationary and her progeny reside upon or within her. Hestia is also rooted in the earth that is her and our primordial ancestor but she also simultaneously exists everywhere; her important duality lies in this concept. Because she is not a concrete entity, she cannot be represented by a single statue or even a static group of archetypal symbols. "The house that Hestia inhabits provides the boundaries for our soul, protecting it from intrusion by external chaos. Hestia, the guardian of our homecoming, nourishes the depths of our being, leavens our

165 lives and provides a center in which to contain our disconnected experiences" (McSherry 28). Therefore, we each are the house that Hestia graces with her presence. She is primarily an idea whose archetypal symbols become specific to the woman who integrates her as they facilitate the projection of the highly personal imaginings of safety and security that resonate differently within each of us but are essential to our serenity.

Freedom in Formlessness

The artists who might have rendered their image of her to a physical model were likely hindered by the paradox of how to give form to a force which, like the Great Mother, simultaneously envelops itself. Similarly, our dilemma is to concurrently look both inside and outside of ourselves so that we might gain insight into the ways in which our interior life shapes our relationships with others and, equally as importantly, discover how we respond internally to our interactions and reactions. The particular aspect of any internalized archetype governs our responses. For example, it might be Athena's war cry or her domestic creativity that resonates in one particular moment. Correspondingly, figures of the Great Mother are so varied as to suggest the ancients understood that her depth and her transcendence could not be encapsulated. Some carvings or drawings show her as exclusively maternal, soft, round and many breasted and sometimes accompanied by children, while in others she is the harsh and bloody Dark Goddess, exacting the price

166 of life from her victims, and in still others she is only slightly more defined than an ambiguous mound similar to the shape of a hearth (Neumann, Mother Plates). The many and varied impressions of the Great Mother arguably point in the same direction as the absence of definitive representations of Hestia: they suggest that the Earth and Hestia are "one in the same deity" (Ovid, Fasti 355) and this is why they encompass the entire range of feminine archetypal symbols—including its most basic form, that of the rounded mound in the earth, the hearth. In addition, these many representations engender Hestia's resonance in every place in which she is worshipped; precisely because she is disembodied, a spiritual presence, she assumes " . . . a particular aspect of the world which is 'nobody' (without body). . . [and] which gathers men together and enables a soul to have a place. It is as if when we gather we are in her body and so cannot see her as a body; place becomes her body" (Kirksey 104), and we in that place can choose to surrender to her harmony and seek to replicate that harmony within ourselves. In describing the concept of the hearth fire, Hestia's most well known archetypal symbol, Robert Graves reveals how Hestia's indeterminateness serves as a conduit for the Great Mother to the betterment of Greek society: "The archaic white aniconic image of the Great Goddess, in use throughout the Eastern Mediterranean, seems to have represented a heap of glowing charcoal, kept alive by a covering of white ash, which was the most cosy and economical means of heating in ancient times; it gave out neither smoke nor flame, and formed the natural centre of family or clan gatherings" {Myths 75).

167 Graves views the Great Mother, through the hearth of Hestia, as forming the core social group. As the central focus of the individual family, Hestia naturally becomes our interior focus as we turn inward towards our center rather than outward towards icons. Thus while Hestia is certainly worthy of alabaster sculptures or other works of art, women do not need them in order to integrate her energy as she transcends these forms by virtue of her all-pervading spirit. We first feel, and then are drawn to, the enveloping warmth from her fire—even more so because it is not visible to us. Athena and Artemis offer us clearly delineated attributes which we internalize in order to complete the arduous task of integrating their elements. For example, we hear Athena justifying Orestes' acquittal in Aeschylus' Eumenides^ and we wish to project her confidence when professing our own ideas. However, we also empathize with Clytemnestra's anger at Agamemnon's betrayal. Athena's seeming devaluation of maternity through her denial of Metis serves her immediate purpose: to retain the gods' authority at Delphi. Yet Athena's argument also personifies the risk inherent in being single-minded of purpose as her agenda prevails over motherhood's elemental nature. With Hestia's assistance, we see the value in Athena's pragmatism and are aware of its costs; we have allowed the goddesses to work together in harmony for our greater good. There is further evidence in Orestes' story of the benefits of such collaborative efforts. As Athena tempts us to embrace the absolutes of her archetype in the guise of her determination so too does Clytemnestra with disastrous consequences. Though her anger was justified, Clytemnestra sought annihilating revenge through an uncontrolled rage

168 which she had stoked for ten years. Both females, goddess and mortal alike, illustrate the dangers of rigidity and the identification with one strong aspect of the female archetype, in this case an unfiltered animus attribute of the Dark Goddess. Though her destructive energy is a boon in that it helps women—perhaps facilitating Artemis' rending—to destroy parts of themselves that are no longer beneficial, we must also learn how to judiciously use her power and not allow it to consume us. In these situations we can kindle Hestia, who can encourage us to look inward and examine how our choices and actions affect ourselves and others. Hestia allows us to identify the elements of the other two goddesses we have integrated and ensure a balance between Artemis' passion and Athena's cool logic. The absence of a strong symbol representing Hestia facilitates our ability to sift through the many constellating archetypes already occupying our psyches without casting her shadow upon them and obscuring our vision. The hearth itself, with its low, rounded, unobtrusive form, serves to support the family and the social group without making a strong impression of its own.

Oikos

The structure of the hearth and its purpose in unifying and sustaining the family and social groups forms the basis of understanding Hestia's deliberate inexplicitness. According to some scholars, Hestia does not personify the hearth in the ways Artemis

personifies the untamed and Athena the civilized, aspects of human nature. To these mythologists, Hestia is the hearth and her name even becomes synonymous with " . . . the circular hearth in the ground . . . which rooted the house to the earth" (Benvenuto 101). Through Hestia, just as through the navel by which a baby is rooted to its mother, "... . the home and the family—in Greek oikos—is rooted in the earth" (Songe-Nteller 92). "Oikos" means both the literal residence and the family as a repository of its ancestral and present members. It is "through the generations [that] the family belongs to the earth on which it dwells. . . [and] Hestia . . . symbolizes the stability, the closure of the oikos on itself, i.e. the unity and identity of the family, not simply in space but also in time" (92). By virtue of the family's relationship to the Hestia, the individuals attain permanence with their ancestry all the way back to the primal creatrix, the Great Mother. As the origin of and the connective tissue uniting the family with its ancestral roots, Hestia embodies all aspects of the social group and its relationship to companion groups that form a compete community. She is—like the Great Mother—the whole whose individual parts, when broken down, actually represent her whole. Thus the importance of the hearth to sustaining all aspects of society, from the individual to her family to the community and ultimately to the government, cannot be overemphasized. "The center of Greek life—even at Sparta, where the family had been subordinated to the State, was the domestic hearth, also regarded as the sacrificial altar; and Hestia, as its goddess, represented personal security and happiness, and the sacred duty of hospitality" (Graves, Myths 75). Visiting officials would be entertained at the

170 public hearth, which in part explains the origins of Greek hospitality, for it would insult Hestia to ill-treat guests (125). While the idea of welcoming literal strangers into the home today is impractical, the idea of welcoming people to share our warm and nurturing spirits is a concept women can put into practice in any relationship and in any environment in order to integrate the goddess' accepting and open nature, despite the risk of emotional vulnerability. If we have integrated Athena and Artemis, then each of us will be able to judge the appropriate level of openness and adjust our willingness to be unguarded commensurate with a specific situation. In this way we can avoid viewing isolation and loneliness as prerequisites for security and will not need to forgo relationships in order to protect ourselves from hurt. Permanence is also a component of security. Hestia embodies a permanence that is sought by women today despite, or perhaps because of, their living in a culture which seems to promote and value transience. Jobs come and go based on uncontrollable economic issues, and the difficulty in maintaining physical proximity to extended families can leave a woman longing for the stability inherent in a Greek society that was centered on rootedness to the home and community. Though a woman often has little influence over maintaining familial and community ties, the anxiety such separations can engender can be ameliorated by cultivating, through Hestia, a personal permanence. Fortunately, Hestia's dual nature fosters a permanence that is not limited to the surrounding hearth space. The Hestia archetype offers women the dual gifts of being rooted in the hearth that springs from the ground beneath the home while simultaneously

171 encouraging them to internalize that same hearth by being conscious of Hestia's presence in any moment. Hestia is ". . . the ancient source of all things, the earth, the great round, the container. Hestia as earth means that she is the matrix, the material, the sine qua non of all differentiation, of self-realization, without which spirit remains suspended and never comes down" (Demetrakopoulos 72). Hestia's essential nature is woven through women and links us inextricably to her and through her to our own origin, the Great Mother. Though her hearth is firmly rooted in the Earth, Hestia is not static but rather radiates out in the form of heat and light which enable us to be present on both physical and spiritual planes. Like Hestia, each of us exists in a specific location, rooted to our histories, while our experiences radiate out through our connections with others before circling back to inform our personal and world views. The Uroboros is again the appropriate metaphor, as old experiences serve as nourishment for greater understanding that then facilitates subsequent relationships. Hestia's closeness to the Great Mother mirrors the inherent connectivity between the individual and the universe, a link that is visceral and redolent of the archetype constellating in our unconscious, similar to the "scents" Doniger claims hang about the atmospheres of our psyches. We must first learn to sense Hestia and then to use her as a conduit linking us to the universe as we develop our relationships—first with ourselves and, only afterwards, with others. This supports not only the concept of the virgin goddesses' self-sustaining quality, but further emphasizes the etymology of "virgin" which is the "courage to be and the flexibility to

172 always be becoming" (Cain 41). Hestia's rootedness enlightens our sense of self as she frees us to recognize ourselves as human beings rather than "human doings." Movement towards our centers occurs only when we are mindful of our own capacity for stillness. Therefore, only when we are content with our inner selves are we able to take the pure energy generated from our personal hearths and share it in communion with others.

Into the Fire

Hestia's purity, derived from her cleansing flame, makes her uniquely suited to serve as a medium for this quiet and reflective portion of our interior journey. Of the three goddesses, she is most available to us, for she is always within and around us. She also appears to pose the least apparent threat to our journey toward self-discovery. We find her virgin status comforting in that she is focused inward, and we wish to emulate her ability to remain undistracted by the emotional clutter that scatters our concentration and sometimes overrules our best intentions. We would sometimes rather win the argument even if it means losing our objective. It might be easy for Athena to walk away from Arachne, or Artemis from Acteon, without a second thought, but we, mere mortal women, must not ignore the consequences of our actions. Should we forget our accountability, we need only revisit the sad fates of Clytemnestra and her daughter, Electra, who lose everything when they surrender to their overly-developed animas.

173 Neither pauses to look inward to uncover the balanced approach that might have satisfied their sense of justice without their coming to embody vengeance. Athena's desire for justice is generally tempered by her need to maintain order; both Clytemnestra and Electra create chaos in their wakes. Artemis possesses the temperament to carry out the bloody deed most of us might dream of but never bring to fruition. Each teaches us to stand up for ourselves, but Hestia provides us with the medium to gain insight into just what aspect of ourselves we are defending and reminds us to consider the emotional cost. Hestia shows us that we can, if we avoid gratuitous arguments with others, be as at peace with ourselves as she is with herself. She also helps us, through her fostering of internal clarity, to intuitively know which battles are worthy of our pure passion. This threepronged approach of these virgin goddesses leads us to wholeness even in a world that seems bent on rending us to pieces. Women can only attain their deepest desires, as varied as justice, power and love, if they first study themselves as exclusive embodiments of the spiritual world, as complete entities under the care of the Great Mother. As she was self-sustaining and pure in her intent and in her nature, so must a woman see herself as a reflection of the Great Mother's wholeness and the authentic spirit of Athena, Artemis and Hestia. Zeus granted Athena her parthenos because he saw her as a child of his own creation. He granted Artemis her parthenos because she so beguiled him, even at three, indeed offering to give her more than she asked. He agreed to Hestia's request to remain unmarried, however, because she had no argument with any of the other deities and in this way preserved the

174 balance on Olympus—no small feat considering its strongly drawn personalities. Athena and Artemis are often motivated by their innate, and thus unconsidered, desires to bring the Great Mother's balance to the world, and their self-supporting natures facilitate their actions. Hestia's parthenos complements that of her nieces' in that her very virginity brings harmony to Olympus and, in that sense, it becomes the primordial link to the balance the Great Mother bestowed on the world and which radiates out to every person and social group on Earth as does the warmth from the Hestia fire. Hestia was worshipped in every large city, small village and individual home, which granted her recognition, acceptance and importance surpassing any other deity. A communal hearth was the obligatory center of the social group, and anyone leaving to start a new settlement would carry fire from their hometown and use it to create the fire in the new village. Even warrior kings took their own hearth coals into battle (14). So important was the hearth as the heart of the home that newborns were not considered a part of the family until they had been walked around it accompanied by prayers invoking their protection and care. In one of the most striking examples of this ritual Demeter placed the infant Demophon in the hearth to make him immortal. Demophon's family raised a temple to Demeter at this location, Eleusis, which became the center of her cult and the site of the sacred Elusinian Mysteries. Demophon's story further illustrates Hestia's prominent role in maintaining connectivity between the earth and humans, as well as our need to reunite with our source in order to bring about change. The Greek phrase "pais af hestias" translates to "the child

175 of the hearth," and the ceremony connects the child to the ground from which she springs, just as Greeks, Athenians in particular, considered themselves "earth-born" in that Erichthonius grew from the earth and later went on to found Athens (Songe-Nteller 94). In Athens, the Hestia koin was the political center (Goux 92) which united the community and drew the people nearest its center. The hearth's purpose therefore extends far beyond its service as the provider of life in the form of food and heat; it becomes the essential link of each person, through the Hestia-hearth, to the goddess and her origins in the earth which ultimately lead to the Great Mother. Similarly, planet Earth survives by means of an internal fire buried in its core (Paris, Meditations 175). Though we rarely glimpse that fire, we are well aware of its unseen, though essential nature. That same essentiality is evident in Hestia's physical representations and literary and historical references. Although her image graces only a few Greek statues and just a handful of temples are dedicated to her, none in any way as grand as Athena's Parthenon, she is present in every temple fire that burns in honor of a god. In Delphi, where the priestess projects Apollo's words through the hot steam emerging from the ground, the very oracle is "the Hestia;" furthermore, Homer claims that "from your tresses flowing oil ever drips down" (Athanassakis 57) to signify her personification with a perpetual energy source. At Delphi she is worshipped alongside Apollo and Poseidon, who once vied to marry her, in a location that is considered the world navel, or "omphalos," the place at which a man could be closest to the spiritual center of the universe. Apollo usurped this most sacred location from the Great Mother herself, slaying its protective

176 serpent, and began issuing prophecies—a skill he learned from Pan (Apollodorus I: 27). "At Delphi the charcoal-heap was translated into limestone for out-of-doors use, and became the omphalos, or navel-boss, frequently shown in Greek vase paintings, which marked the supposed centre of the world. This holy object, which has survived the ruin of the shrine, is inscribed with the name of Mother Earth . . . [is] about the size and shape of a charcoal fire needed to heat a large room" (Graves, Myths 75). This is most certainly a fitting tribute to the goddess Euripides called "Mother Earth," but the Greeks did not need to travel to Delphi, Greece's communal hearth (Thompson 42), in order to worship Hestia; for she was present in every communal hearth as well as in every hearth in every home, making every home her temple.

Journey to the Self

It is thus easy to see why some would even credit Hestia with the concept of a home (Graves, Myths 75). On a literal level ancient peoples needed a communal place to express gratitude for the earth that sustained them, and these gathering places drew them back for daily sustenance as well as for the ceremonies with which they marked the passage of time in a manner similar to the ways in which contemporary generations journey "home" for holidays. On a metaphysical level, all people need to feel at home, no matter their geographical location. Home is a concept we can carry with us just as the

177 Greeks carried elements of the hearth fire with them to new settlements or on long trips. The archetypal hero's experience, as described by Joseph Campbell, epitomizes the elemental journey home to the self which this dissertation proposes is partially embodied by Hestia. The hero's goal is, according to Campbell, the "ultimate boon" or key that the hero needs to unlock the secrets within. This "key" may have a physical manifestation, such as Jason's Golden Fleece, but it also contains information vital to the hero's personal journey as she attempts to return to her fundamental nature filled with the knowledge of herself and of the world which will enable her to transcend her previous existence. Recognizing Hestia is but the first step in this portion of our journey. We must continue our efforts by being mindful of maintaining our conscious commitment to developing our spiritual center. Hestia, at the center of the house, is the internal fire whose slow flame warms us to the process of becoming. Within the hearth, itself immobile, Hestia remains rooted to the earth. In both home and communal sites, and as we allow ourselves to embrace her gentle but constant presence, we realize that this is a different kind of energy from what we receive from Athena and Artemis. Relinquishing her seat on Olympus to her flashy nephew, Dionysus, emphasizes Hestia's serene nature and serves as a model for our own actions. She embodies the stillness and equilibrium craved by the soul that is fundamentally contrary to the wild emotional swings inherent in his dichotomous nature (Kirksey 107). While the passion a Dionysus or an Artemis embodies can be exhilarating, it can also be uncontrollable, which is why a balanced

178 integration of all three goddesses is fundamental to our ultimate goal of a secure sense of self. The paradox inherent in the archetypal heroic journey is that the hero already possesses the boon prior to her quest; it takes the full journey with all its dangers for her to discover the keys to living that lie buried under the soot and dirt and ash of her interior hearth. Deceptively barren and cold, it yet hides the spark of life. This theme of rebirth is consistent throughout the classical period, with The Odyssey providing the prototypical example of a hero who must die to his old existence in order to achieve selfhood. Though Hestia is not directly mentioned as a guide for Odysseus' voyage home, the metaphor of her hearth as a symbol of home and the ceremonies that enrich the home runs throughout the poem and, in one of Odysseus' most dramatic transformations, Homer actually portrays Odysseus as a hearth. In Book V, the exhausted hero has finally come to rest on the shores of Scheria. Seemingly void of life's energy, he seeks shelter for the night deep within a dense olive grove. Once he covers himself in enough dead leaves to protect him "even in the wildest kind of winter known to man" (Homer 166), the great Odysseus burrowed down "As a man will bury his glowing brand in black ashes, / off on a lonely farmstead, no neighbors near, / to keep a spark alive—no need to kindle fire from somewhere else" (166). This spark of life is, and always has been, Odysseus', so there is no need for anyone else to fuel his fire. Likewise, women have their own creative sparks lying dormant under heaps of metaphorical "old leaves" that obscure their deepest memories of their pure self. The

179 spark smolders in the Hestia until the time is right for it to rekindle light and heat. When Odysseus stirs the next morning, he reveals his transformation by asking the young princess, Nausicaa, for help. He risks choosing to ask another to do for him what he has been thus far unable to do for himself: to complete the journey home. However, he has only gained the capacity to act by drawing on the inner strength of his Hestia fire which, though he might not have thought it possible after ten years of wanderings and many days spent struggling in the ocean, could never be extinguished. As Odysseus sheltered his hearthfire, so too did the Greeks design protection for the physical hearth that sustained their families and towns as well as the shrines to the gods in whom they placed the care and protection of their loved ones and social groups. As the fire was to burn in perpetuity, the hearth had to be protected from weather just as Odysseus protected his own internal flame. Over time, structures were built around the hearths—particularly those devoted to other deities—and became their temples. Buildings erected to protect a personal hearth-fire eventually became homes that sheltered not only the Hestia but the family as well. The communal hearth was seen as essential to the life of the town, while the personal hearth was essential to protecting the family from cold and hunger. In light of each house's serving as a temple to Hestia, she became the most frequently worshipped goddess. Should Hestia, in the form of her hearth, be unable to sustain the family, it would, in turn, be unable to properly honor the deities as all energy expended would be to protect the family's survival. Hestia serves as

180 the crucial connection between humanity and the gods; without her there would be no human life, and without humans there would be no one to worship the gods. It seems the classic poets from Aristophanes through Sophocles recognized the goddess' primary importance. This unassuming goddess, infrequently mentioned in the myths, is actually the goddess of primary importance at every meal and all other domestic ceremonies that were so important to the Greek culture (Goux 92). It seems unconscionable that later civilizations have ignored her or taken her for granted. Perhaps her undemanding nature gives us leave to disregard her. Yet in ignoring Hestia we either lose or fail to develop our sense of self. If we do not tend a fire, it ceases to produce energy; we need Hestia's energy in order to maintain both our inward and outward focus. A woman lacking an interior hearth and, by extension, the goddess who is its embodiment, are spiritually homeless, diffuse and purposelessly wandering (Goux 97): without Hestia, we lack our very essence (Mc Sherry 29). Even almighty Zeus was not blind to her critical importance, granting her the "choicest boon and [the seat] in the middle of the house" (Athanassakis 43). Zeus respects Hestia above all others, despite her residing with mortals rather than on exalted Olympus. Zeus could have ignored her or been insulted by her rejection, but the god who bowed to no one honored her above most others. In the Homeric Hymn cited above we can infer "house" to mean not just an individual home but also the houses of the gods, the temples which each included a hearth. Jung saw the house as a symbol of the self, and it is not a great leap to see the

181 body as the temple of the self which houses Hestia at its center. She is, in fact, the self, "the shadow persistently present in the dark corners of a dawning consciousness, of something older than time, greater than the still fragile, fledgling . . . spark of ego consciousness (Cain 40), and we would do well to remain conscious of her in order to hear her wisdom and integrate it to attain the balance this centered goddess personifies. She will provide us with the capacity for self-reflection that will enable us to integrate all that the virgin triad offers us in our search for wholeness. She both connects to and surrounds Athena and Artemis, mirroring the Great Mother's ability to simultaneously reside within and encompass each deity. Homer's hymns not only recognize the goddess so essential to and most honored by mortals, they also provide evidence of Zeus' reinforcing this universal reverence by referring to her as the alpha and the omega. For without Hestia, "there can be no feasts for mortals, if at the beginning / yours is not the first and last libation of honey-sweet wine" (Athanassakis 59). She must be acknowledged first and last or nothing else exists. There is no life without Hestia, no nourishment of the mortal body or spirit, no sustaining energy, and thus no humanity. We cannot ignore this gentle goddess who has been indispensably woven into the life of the community, home and individual, without ignoring ourselves. Her warm and nurturing fire lulls us into a sense of comfort and quiet that permits our souls to hear the archetypes—particularly Athena and Artemis—call us, for Hestia's " . . . guardian presence [frees us] to feel safe in [our] explorations" (Cain XXVII) towards spiritual wholeness. Here she embodies the primordial nature of the

182 Great Mother, her " 'first and lastness' [connecting] her symbolically to the dreamline of ancient life (8). As the eldest organism, she brings all that went before them to be present among them. In her eternal nature Hestia stores in her hearth the sum of all that has been and this provides the spark for creating all that is to come. Recognizing Hestia is but the first step in this portion of our journey. We must further continue our efforts by being mindful of maintaining our conscious commitment to developing our spiritual center. Hestia, at the center of the house, is the internal fire whose slow flame warms us to the process of becoming. Within the hearth, itself immobile, Hestia remains rooted to the earth in both home and communal sites, and as we allow ourselves to embrace her gentle but constant presence, we realize that this is a different kind of energy from the kind we receive from Athena and Artemis. While their energy is critical to our cultivating a more complete sense of self, we cannot do this without listening to what is continually developing deep within: "The inner voice is the voice of a fuller, of a wider, more comprehensive consciousness (Jung, Personality 184). Hestia is our inner voice.

Chapter 6 A LIVING VIRGIN TRIAD

Our Inner Voice

We all possess an inner voice that both affirms the actions that enrich us and warns us about impending danger. This voice, which for the purposes of this dissertation I will define as intuition, weakens when systematically ignored, but gains strength when we become increasingly attuned to its message. With practice, we can act in harmony with that voice, making choices that we instinctively know are right for us because they feel natural and do not incite internal distress. Moreover, in the wake of resolving complicated or significant dilemmas, we feel peace rather than anxiety over the appropriateness of our actions. A concerted effort to live mindful of the three constellating archetypes can heighten our intuition and engender serenity. This gradual process requires patience as well as a willingness to be vulnerable, a state that many, particularly those with fragmented psyches, only reluctantly enter. Women have historically risen to the challenge of being true to their inner voices, completing arduous undertakings that expose them to harsh judgment. This is true not only of celebrated females such as Joan of Arc, Clara Barton or Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who were able to effect social change because they acted, despite the dangers, in a 183

184 manner consistent with their beliefs—be they faith, compassion or justice. Our personal struggles are no less noble because they do not involve proclaiming a new savior, nursing battlefield injuries, or promoting women's suffrage; prevailing over internal strife is often an individual's greatest challenge. As we confront our personal trials, we benefit not only from the mythic accomplishments of all those who have struggled before us—for as Campbell says the hero path is well trod—but also from the understanding of why the these individuals and situations resonate within us. Humans have always sought to find meaning in their lives, or else ancient cultures would not have felt the need to explore the inner workings of their deities which, in turn, helped them understand human nature (Armstrong, K. 2-5). Myths provide a means for people to discover why particular persons or events affect them strongly, enabling them to see their personal experiences in a larger framework. Viewing myths as single events that also recur across time and cultures (7) helps put them in perspective, which explains why stories of heroes and gods can represent one experience while simultaneously appearing metaphorical. For example, the general definition of an "odyssey," which derives from Homer's epic, is a long trip with many twists and turns. We intuitively understand the difference between Odysseus' larger-than-life journey and our own difficult experiences, but in relating the two stories we see success primarily comes with the surrender of an outdated mindset. Further, we recognize specific myths as individual stories solidly set in time and place while also internalizing their relevance. Arachne's confrontation with Athena, ostensibly a warning against hubris, can also represent the

185 risks inherent in failing to see the larger picture, as well as for speaking an unpopular truth. Tieresias' blinding and Acteon's rending reveal the dangers of stumbling upon more knowledge than we can handle and the powerful's sometimes arbitrary dispensation of justice. We each internalize specific elements of the myths, depending on our previous experiences and our recognition of the potential for archetypal images to constellate in our psyches, allowing us to be more purposeful participants in our own "becoming." The wonderful benefit of enhanced archetype consciousness is that we do not have to rely solely on ancient myths for inspiration towards psychic balance. As myths have recurred over time, they are also evident in our own lives. The elements inherent in the classic stories are now recognizable in the people around us, and we only need to consciously observe our companions to intuit their Athena, Artemis or Hestia attributes. We have all known individuals who are so genuine and full of life's energy that people seem drawn to them. There are others who suffer multiple hardships and yet maintain their dignity, even radiating grace that seems to offer solace to those who would be the comforters. We find ourselves longing to be more like these women who, though they still struggle through life's difficulties, do so with an acceptance born of their understanding of their place in the world. We can attain their feeling of wholeness if we follow the path to the Great Mother that Athena, Artemis and Hestia have laid out for us. As Karen Armstrong advises, "Mythology will only transform us if we follow its directives. A myth is essentially a guide; it tells us what we must do in order to live more richly" (10). Now, aware of the virgin goddesses constellating harmoniously within, we

186 listen to their call and become willing to embrace all of life's gifts so that we, too, can live in harmony.

The Willson-Lowther Family

One of the earliest concepts I envisioned for this dissertation was a contemporary example which would illustrate my thesis and strengthen my assertion that emulating the virgin triad would engender wholeness. I selected three generations of women in one family, whom I admire as much for their genuine and mutual affection as for their seemingly absolute security in who they are as individuals and as part of a group. I believe they were unaware, until my interviews, that they project cohesiveness and symmetry, and this further reveals their successful, unconscious integration of the goddesses. The family matriarch, Vivian Lowther, age 92 at the time of the interview, seems the paragon of stability at this point in her life. This state has not been achieved by complacency or acquiescence, but rather through her willingness to make choices that were anomalous for females in the first half of the Twentieth Century. She intuitively understood that moving and forming new relationships were necessary to sustain her and her family, beliefs that are in line with Artemis' urging women from one stage of life to another, Athena's promotion of intellectual growth, and Hestia's cultivation of the family

187 center. The mother, Vivian (Vicky) Willson, age 62 at the time of the interview, also explored as a method discovering wholeness. While she ultimately settled close to her parents' permanent residence, she did so only after mirroring her mother's example, thereby integrating her experiences and developing a foundation for herself and her family. Vicky's daughter, Kate, age 27 at the time of the interview, has followed in her mother's and grandmother's footsteps, embarking on a journey that she hopes will lead to stronger sense of purpose and serenity. These three women have consistently acted in ways that enlarged personal consciousness and, as a result, have nurtured a palpable internal harmony. Their success can be measured by their friends and colleagues who admire and would emulate their adventurous, compassionate and centered natures. With secure foundations, they become the embodiments of Hestia's hearth, gently attracting others to their warm and welcoming embrace. The Willson and Lowther women willingly participated in my study with very little prior knowledge of my dissertation concept, and I believe that their comfort points to the balancing influence of the virgin triad. Further, my subjects spoke honestly about their experiences, as if being interviewed was a service they could offer without concern about its effects on them because each is, for the most part, quite comfortable with her life choices. Though they were curious about my fascination with their familial relationship, it was enough that Vicky and I are friends and that my effort was academic, an important detail for a family of educators. What I ultimately realized is that all three

188 women enthusiastically participated because of their similar beliefs and the trust they have in each other, which also indicates their psychic harmony as representatives of their internal and shared goddess triad. I interviewed the women on different dates in 2005 and 2006. I asked each woman a series of questions (the complete list is in the appendix) that I hoped would illuminate the ways in which their myriad attributes reflect the virgin goddesses. I began each interview with the same question: You are stuck for hours in a pleasant, but unfamiliar location. You meet a stranger whom you will never see again. What would you want him or her to know about you? Their responses were completely different, yet when synthesized they represent the triad's balance. Mrs. Lowther replied: "If he were interested, I'd talk. But it depends on the person and what he is seeking in life . . . his life plan." Vicky charged ahead, pronouncing her life's most important details: "that she was married with a daughter, an English teacher for 34 years, a lover of the arts, and of travel. And like to color outside the lines." Kate responded that she would "ask the stranger about him and not talk about myself; there isn't one thing I would be so burning to say" and thereby let him "lead the conversation." Removing their ages and associated life experiences from the analysis, the women seem to reflect all three goddesses simultaneously, albeit each with a different goddess at the forefront. Mrs. Lowther's relaxed reply suggests Hestia's patience and reserve; but it also represents Artemis' propensity to let others seek her out, as well as Athena's guardianship of the personal journey. Vicky's first comment, her marriage and family, also indicates Hestia's

189 influence on hearth and home. But she also emphasizes her Athena inspired career and her adventurous, Artemis nature. Kate's response seems the most ambiguous in that it equally incorporates the goddess' virgin nature by redirecting the spotlight onto her companion, while she remains mysterious. This suggests that Kate is content to do some preliminary investigation before committing to any relationship, a reluctance perhaps engendered in the triad's propensity for self-fulfillment. Additional interview questions were designed to delve further beneath the more obvious goddess connections. Their teaching careers provide Vicky and her mother with strong connections to Athena, and their present ages and histories facilitate the identification of Hestia's constellations. Kate, 27 and single, outwardly projects Artemis. To reduce any conclusions based on such overt associations, I asked each woman about the others. For example, I inquired of Kate: which trait did you inherit from your grandmother that seemingly skipped a generation? Kate's reply of her vocal qualities elicited confirmation from her grandmother and a chortle from Vicky. I asked Mrs. Lowther what she identified with in Kate and what evidence she saw of Vicky in her granddaughter. Mrs. Lowther's responses centered on her daughter and granddaughter's love of theater as well as their willingness to take risks. In these and all questions, each woman confirmed her relatives' responses; they were absolutely synchronized even though I interviewed them on different days and in isolation. These questions helped me to ascertain with objectivity not only the virgin attributes each woman embodies, but also validated their complete honesty.

. 190 Vicky Willson

I will begin in the genealogical middle with Vicky Willson, as she was one of the triggers for this dissertation concept and because she is the central link between her mother and daughter. The way in which I met Vicky also provides evidence of the virgin triad inherent in her psyche. I was in my first semester of a Master of Arts in Teaching program and Vicky was to serve as my "master teacher" for two months at Morristown (NJ) High School. Vicky sat at a cluttered desk in a study hall with bags of student papers at her feet. After introductory pleasantries she apologetically offered that she did not want a student teacher. That I was more curious about than slighted by her comment I now see as my first recognition of the balanced archetypes evident in Vicky; she seemed completely disorganized yet curiously in control of her situation and, most importantly, she was without artifice. Despite her reluctance we began working together and in a few days it was clear we would become good friends. I would later come to understand why she wanted to say no to mentoring anyone, which was a virtual impossibility for this woman whose very essence is nourished by helping others learn. Vicky is a teacher in every sense of the word. She clearly possesses the intellect and creativity necessary to instruct honors classes, overt Athena attributes, but during her tenure she operated in a system that defied organization. Piles of paperwork threatened to entomb her, yet she could always find exactly what she was looking for, an Artemis skill that reveals the order inherent in the natural world's seeming chaos and which derives

191 from the Great Mother's genesis. As a novice teacher, I was looking to follow fool-proof formulae, but they were not what Vicky was offering. She was showing me that teaching is composed more of philosophy and intuition than pedagogy and planning, and that balancing knowledge with empathy is the best way to engage students; she recognized their uniqueness in a manner analogous to an archetype that constellates in their unconscious, and she developed individualized instruction around that knowledge. In short, she taught by balancing Hestia's thoughtfulness, Artemis' energy and Athena's wisdom. Additionally, she knew that all students, regardless of age and experience, would often learn most effectively when left to independently consider our experiences— opening us to Hestia's influence. I intuitively embraced this frightening concept, feeling sure of myself for the first time in my professional life. Vicky was exactly the master teacher I needed in that she created a safe environment in which I could be open to new experiences; by blending the three goddess' archetypes she radiated the balance to which I was instinctively drawn. Her students, who at this time included her daughter, might not have been able to quantify their learning experience, but I believe Vicky's archetypal balance was also integral to their capacity to learn: She embodied Athena's thirst for knowledge, Artemis' energy and guidance through life's passages, and Hestia's reflective gifts. Vicky's multidimensional approach facilitated her students' self-discovery as it reflects her tripartite archetypal constellation.

192 The overarching theme consistent in Vicky's interview responses mirrors one in the virgin goddesses: dichotomy. In fact, Vicky twice used that term to describe herself, first when admitting that she wanted to become a writer but instead entered teaching to secure reliable income, an unfortunately familiar female compromise. The second instance was when she recalled a professor at Vassar who termed the class of 1965: "such bright women who would become president of the PTA." During the interview, Vicky consistently defined herself by what she is and what she is not, often two sides of the same coin. She majored in political science, because "politics should be important in everyone's life," but she claims she never did anything with it because she came from "a long line of marchers who [she] didn't join." Her one self-declared "rebellious act" was to follow a man to New Orleans, an activity antithetical to the virgin goddesses. Ultimately dissatisfied, she abandoned her pursuit after one year, which may point to the goddesses' efforts to secure and maintain serenity through their intricate balancing act. Neither New Orleans nor this man represented personal contentment for Vicky, as neither could fully satisfy a woman whose subsequent decisions solidly reflect the virgin goddess archetypes. Athena and Artemis would never chase any man; Athena made Odysseus wait ten years before returning home and Artemis let Hippolytus die. Hestia could not rest easily amid internal or external conflict, which is why she left Olympus and its family squabbles behind. Likewise, when Vicky's rebellious pursuit of romantic adventure did not lead to serenity, she abandoned that avenue and sought balance by reconciling her various, and, at times conflicting, aspects.

193 This dissertation has illustrated the goddess' dual natures in order to show that Athena, Artemis and Hestia—and by extension all women—are comprised of antitheses which are reconcilable. Vicky recognizes her personal paradox, embodied in her desire to "color outside the lines but not be the rabble-rouser." She previously felt inadequate in comparison to her undergraduate classmates. While the culture promoted the idea that these women of the class of 1965 could achieve anything, Vicky was asking herself: "Can I do anything?" Though she vowed to never go back to New Jersey, she would eventually accept a teaching position ten minutes from her parents' Boonton home. Following graduation, she certainly did not appear to be headed towards a future PTA or any other presidency, initially working retail in New Orleans to finance her romantic pursuit. Upon realization that this was not her heart's true desire, she maintained her flair for the dramatic by becoming the social director at a Vermont ski lodge. But then, without conscious memory of the application process, she was accepted to graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania and found herself drawn to become the teacher she vowed she would never be. The woman who wanted to throw parties came to nurture the passionate energy in others; for 34 years, as a teacher of English and History, she helped adolescents organize their own chaos by fostering integration of the opposing forces of introspection and creativity. Though she left teaching for a year in 1970 to work in marketing, she could not deny the constellating archetypes in her unconscious that called her home to the vocation that became integral to her fulfillment. Ultimately, she imbued her career with the energy inherent in the political activist, the justice seeker,

194 the romantic adventurer, and the dramatic performer, employing all of the dreams of her youth to teach her pupils to search for their true selves. Vicky found a way to balance the intellectual life instilled in her through her parents' academic careers with her creative and social desires. Her animated classroom often exuded a party atmosphere around the more traditional academic endeavors. Her philosophy of building relationships in order to encourage intellectual curiosity was omnipresent. She used food to entice reluctant students to class because they could not possibly learn if they were not at least physically present in the classroom. She encouraged them to identify with the archetypal struggles so often reflected in classic literature, but in ways that would resonate in their particular situations. Vicky's students would write a one-woman show for Hester Prynne, absolving herself on a stool in a dark, smoky room full of strangers and backlit like Edith Piaf. Others composed and performed "The Ballad of Holden Caufield" and feasted on cherry pies in Ethan Frame's honor. Vicky's classroom only seemed bereft of the Athena influence; rather it was artfully woven within an Artemis whirlwind that kept students from realizing, and perhaps resisting, how much they were learning. Here the Athena and Artemis archetypes influence Vicky complementarity, one laying the foundation for order and structure through intellectual pursuits, and the other permeating the process with intense energy. Further, the tension created by Athena's and Artemis' different energies actually allows Hestia to ascend as students intuit order in the outward chaos and embrace the

195 process. Rather than being compelled to hew to the instructor's rigid map, they became free to develop a greater understanding of themselves as they recognize that which holds meaning for them—the very insight Hestia encourages in us all. The Athena and Artemis archetypes are most useful when they are grounded in Hestia's contemplativeness, because she helps us realize our deeper purpose and connectivity to the world. While I am certain of Vicky's positive influence on her students, through observation as well as student commentary, the greatest beneficiary of Vicky's integrated archetypes is most definitely her daughter, Kate.

Kate Willson

Kate was influenced by the virgin goddesses as they continuously balanced her mother both within and outside the classroom, and Kate's interview responses suggest that her mother's dichotomy provided stability. Vicky encouraged Kate to seriously pursue academic achievement while developing her theatrical talent. There were voice and dance instructions along with Italian lessons. Kate witnessed her mother's devotion to theatrical matters; Vicky drove into Manhattan twice in a day—once to purchase halfprice tickets and again to see the show—and spent countless hours designing the lobby display for the high school dramatic productions while schoolwork accumulated under her desk. Vicky considers this a mixed message at best, but what Kate recognized was

196 that while Vicky termed her approach haphazard, Kate internalized the inherent balance in her mother's activities. Vicky managed to complete her tasks, even if it meant hiding the debris in the nearest closet or under the ticket booth as the show was opening, or arising at 2:00 AM to grade papers and then snatching an hour's sleep before her first class. Kate values Vicky's ability to navigate the creative storm, which has facilitated her work with artistic professionals. In addition, Kate appreciates her mother's organizing various aspects of her personal life, actions she would not have embraced as an adolescent, nor would most people her age. Kate now understands that the balance necessary to live successfully comes from blending the dramatic with the practical. Theater has been an important element in the Lowther-Willson family. Mrs. Lowther acted in high school and college, Vicky performed in high school, and her parents took the family to professional performances. Though Vicky has few regret's, refusing to look back "because every time in your life has something to offer," she would have liked to have been involved in "some aspect of the theatre, the arts." However, she supported her daughter's artistic endeavors, resulting in Kate's majoring in theatre only to consciously reject that aspect of show business. Because of her mother's encouragement, Kate is not focused on what might have been and has discovered many more interests that perhaps were dormant in her acting years. Theater uses fantasy to inspire the audience to new realizations, allowing them to feel a part of something they might never otherwise experience. Similarly, the Lowther and Willson women have employed drama to enhance their reality and gain greater

197 personal understanding and satisfaction. Kate is following a well-trod path that began with her grandmother who, as a child, acted the role of teacher and continued performing throughout much of her life. Vicky also acted in her youth and regularly employed dramatic techniques in her classroom. She nurtured Kate's dramatic persona by sending away for scripts which Kate would then perform. As an only child, Kate cast friends and family members in the plays she directed, devised stories about the characters in scenes outside the plays, as well as created additional characters. As her grandmother and mother did before her, Kate pushed beyond traditional boundaries to create a new reality. Kate's acting experiences, originating in the whirl of outsized creativity that surrounds the stage, have informed her present serenity. Her first formal performance was a ballet recital, during which she became lost backstage; her mother thought she had been abducted. Months of planning and practice lost might seem a prescient metaphor for Kate, but this early experience prepared her to accept her current situation. While she "started out thinking she would be on the performance/creative side of the [entertainment] business, adult things like lifestyle and a stable schedule and financial security [became more] important to me, more so than acting." In her process is evidence of Athena's calm reasoning and Artemis' creative energy in harmony with Hestia's fostering of the acceptance—in Kate's case releasing old dreams so as to be open to new possibilities. Her acceptance is similar to her mother's seemingly unconscious decision to apply to graduate school, which meant Vicky's releasing one view of herself, that of a solely social force, and incorporating that same energy into all aspects of her life,

198 including the teaching that provided stability for her and her family. Mrs. Lowther's ability to make the most of life during the Depression and World War II certainly influenced subsequent generations to see beyond what might otherwise be seen as limitations. Being given the opportunity to envision anew her youthful dreams is but one way in which the effects of Vicky's integrated goddesses have allowed Kate to freely seek her own balance freely. After earning her B.A. from University of Pennsylvania, Kate made multiple attempts to fulfill her passion for the stage. When professional acting did not bear fruit she formed a small company which directed and produced plays, enabling her to learn the business aspects of entertainment. As she moved from one stage of her career to another, similar to Artemis urging her followers from one stage of life to another, she simultaneously increased her business knowledge, which reflects Athena's encouraging intellectual and strategic growth. When she exhausted these opportunities, she followed the family tradition and left the East coast for Los Angeles, where a public relations position servicing the entertainment industry provides stability, such as her mother derived from teaching, but also keeps Kate close to her passion. Additionally, Los Angeles is far enough from Morristown that she has had to assume more personal responsibility. The checks from home might still arrive in the mail, but it is unlikely Vicky will be driving to Los Angeles to leave Kate groceries as she had when Kate lived in New York. As did her mother, Kate has considered teaching as well as law school or another advanced degree, but she still holds onto her dream, albeit from a different

199 perspective, while freely admitting this path may end. Kate is finding her own way, secure in her ability to remain open to possibilities. She is also willing, as was her mother, to let go of the old, be it a long-held but now impractical dream or the man who does not settle her heart, confident that another situation will bring true satisfaction. The balance of Athena's confidence and logic, Artemis' creative energy, and Hestia's contemplativeness fuel her continual quest for knowledge of the world and of herself. Two of the constants in Vicky's and Kate's lives are their willingness to take risks and their ability to extract the most from a particular moment or experience, both of which originate in self-contentment and thus suggest archetypal balance. Vicky regrets little, even viewing the fire she survived as positive because the settlement allowed her and her husband to purchase the house in which they raised Kate. Her daughter also tends to see the glass as half-full, recognizing the opportunities generated by not fulfilling her dream of acting. Both of these women's mindsets were strongly influenced by Mrs. Lowther, who faced the hardships of the first half of the Twentieth Century with grace and strength, and who assuredly seized opportunities that enriched her life and the lives of her family.

200 Vivian Lowther

Mrs. Lowther came of age during what is arguably the most difficult era in America's history. The depression and six siblings ensured there would not be an abundance of wealth or opportunity. She most admired her mother for being able to do so much with so little, and she refined and imparted this skill to her daughter and granddaughter. Mrs. Lowther left home at 16, when a scholarship enabled her to fulfill her dream of attending college. This was no small risk in 1931, but she had "always wanted to be a teacher," equipping her play school room with blocks of wood when there were not enough books for her "students." She met her husband, Bill, at Thiel College, and their life was typical of the period. She could not work once they married because he was employed, which was a loss for a woman who "had such a good time teaching that I hope I taught them something!" Bill enlisted in the Navy at the start of World War II, and though she was offered a chance to stay in Doylestown with Pearl S. Buck, whose children she had cared for, she went with her husband because their future was uncertain and she was determined to be with him. Time and again difficult situations resolved themselves with what some might call good luck but can be seen as evidence of her patient and secure nature. She followed Bill to Massachusetts, then to Virginia and then to New York, where they marched in the Easter parade with thousands of servicemen but could not find a hotel room. A sympathetic clerk offered to put them on a lengthy waiting list, but when he was

201 informed their name was Lowther they were given a room because it was the same name as their manager. Kate might term her grandmother "Pollyanna" because if the house were burning down "everything would be ok" as long as they had all escaped safely, but everything did seem to work out despite tremendous hardships. The following anecdote clearly illustrates Mrs. Lowther's confidence in herself and her abilities: When Bill was going to be stationed in California for six months, I wanted to be with him. He couldn't find a place for us to live since all the building was going into the war effort. But I wanted to see California and be with Bill so two of my sisters and I and Vicky took a ten day car ride across the country. We went slowly and stopped to see everything. I wouldn't drive over 50 miles an hour. We had to conserve due to gas rationing. And each time I called Bill he said to go back because there was no place to stay. But I said "We're coming!" The night before we were to arrive in California I called Bill and he said he'd found a place. Then I got my first flat out in the desert, about fifty feet away from a gas station where we could get help. We were lucky again. It cost me exactly $100 for food, gas and lodging for three women and a baby for ten days travel. That was pretty good. The trip was arduous; it was wartime and they were three women and a baby traveling across the country in unfamiliar surroundings. Yet Mrs. Lowther recalls each step of the way with wonder and appreciation of the moment. On the way home through

202 Arizona they passed a convoy of 100 trucks carrying soldiers who were shipping out. "They hooted and hollered at us—three blonds driving alone—and we bowed to them!" Yet what Mrs. Lowther remembers most vividly about the trip, aside from a tour of the newly completed Pentagon, was that the weather had been perfect both ways and a snowstorm waited until the day after they returned to Pennsylvania. In an era known for its dearth of opportunities, particularly for women, Mrs. Lowther's story is unequivocally remarkable. From the perspective of this dissertation, the ever-balancing goddesses are truly evident. The ties to education and culture, through teaching and encouraging theater and music in her children and grandchildren, strongly point to Athena's influence—one that has not waned for she recently helped a Russian family learn English. The ability to accomplish much with few resources also reflects Athena's creative and pragmatic nature, a skill which did not skip generations. As a result, Vicky could turn the high school lobby into Grumman's Chinese Theater with pizza boxes, black paint, and crepe paper, and she inspired her students' creative efforts which overfilled her classroom's walls. Further, Artemis' energy and independent spirit is represented in Mrs. Lowther's willingness to leave home to attend college in an unfamiliar place, not to mention driving cross-country with a baby. The family moved at least four times until Bill earned his Ph.D. and settled in Boonton. She told her daughters the moves were beneficial "because they would need to know how to meet people." Finally, Mrs. Lowther's lifetime of service in the schools, community organizations and churches is evidence of her

203 integrating Hestia in order to strengthen all aspects of her home, both private and public. Mrs. Lowther's successes have enabled Vicky and Kate to feel confident in taking risks, living in different locations and seeking various work opportunities until they can ultimately settle into a situation that provides the greatest fulfillment. Mrs. Lowther reflects on her long life with satisfaction and gratitude, knowing that "when my life is over I'm ready to go and I don't want them mourning me." Vicky, likewise, "wouldn't change anything, except maybe I could get some more money somehow." Each woman lived in the moment, making rather than seizing opportunities, as evidence of Hestia's patience and willingness to release the old in order to accept new possibilities. While Kate's journey has been relatively short in comparison, she, too, exhibits a sense of serenity in an era that is as decidedly unsafe as the Depression, World War II, or the social upheaval of the 1960's. Many young people cling to what they once believed as if there are no other possibilities, remaining in jobs or relationships that never truly fulfilled their passion. With her mother and grandmother as models, Kate has taken a creative approach to her career and life and thus remained open to possibilities she might otherwise miss. Mrs. Lowther, her daughter, and her granddaughter exhibit contentment because they have been able to intuit what would make them happiest overall, and their dearth of regrets indicates that they have been right more often than not. They have remained true to their beliefs and have not invested energy in creating situations that could not possibly support their intellectual and spiritual selves. Their interview responses consistently

204 indicate the presence of the virgin goddesses in the areas that matter most to them: secure family relationships and passionate commitment to work and life. Such a stable family and, by extension, its community, is fostered by Athena, who protects the social group and promotes justice, by Hestia, whose hearth provides comfort and security, and by Artemis, who nurtures youth, including not only Kate but all the young people Mrs. Lowther and Vicky have mentored in their classrooms. Vicky also taught many of Kate's friends, which blended her home and community into one extended family. These lively and energized females' embrace of intellectual pursuits, as well as each woman's clear focus on bringing her goals to fruition through effective planning, strategizing, and improvisation, speaks to their integration of Athena's gifts of logic and intellect. These women's accomplishments and commitment require tremendous energy, which Artemis' contributes. Most importantly, when Mrs. Lowther, Vicky and Kate rest following an arduous undertaking, their reflections on what has passed and what might come occur in the presence of Hestia, who unclutters the mirid to help us all to see what else is possible.

APPENDIX A INTERVIEW QUESTIONS

Kate Willson You are stuck for hours in a pleasant, but unfamiliar location. You meet a stranger whom you will never see again. What do you want him or her to know about you? What makes your life worth living? What are your absolute truths? Who or what do you think most influenced your thinking? What qualities of your mother are you most envious of? What traits did you inherit from your grandmother that seem to have skipped over your mother? What do you miss most about being a child? You haven't settled on a career yet—have you changed your professional image of yourself? How did you become started in drama? When? Do you remember your first performance?

Vicky Willson You are stuck for hours in a pleasant, but unfamiliar location. You meet a stranger whom you will never see again. What do you want him or her to know about you? What makes your life worth living? What are your absolute truths? What were they at Kate's age? Who or what do you think most influenced your thinking? What do you see as Kate's strength? Your mother' s ? What traits did Kate inherit that you did not?

Vivian Lowther. You are stuck for hours in a pleasant, but unfamiliar location. You meet a stranger whom you will never see again. What do you want him or her to know about you? What makes your life worth living? What are your absolute truths? What were they at Vicky's age? At Kate's age? Who or what do you think most influenced your thinking? What similarities do you see in Kate and Vicky that they are blind to? What traits did Kate inherit that Vicky did not?

What do you miss most What do you miss most about being a child? about being a child? Did you always want to What was your chosen teach? What else did you profession? What were the want to do? Do you have advantages? Were there any any regrets? negatives? How did you become Did you ever want to do started in drama? When? drama? How did you feel Do you remember your first about your daughter's performance? interest? Your granddaughter? 205

206 Kate Willson If you had the power to change anything in the world, either your own or the greater universe, what would it be? What is it like to be an only child? What do you consider the pros and cons? What is your wish list? What is the best wish you ever had come true? What was your favorite daydream as a child? What do you think your mother's was? What is your favorite color? Is it different now? Why do you like it? What was your favorite fairy tale as a child? Why do you think it resonated with you? Does it still? Who would play you in a film? In a drama? Who wouldn't you want to play you? What is the one existential question you've always wanted to know the answer to? What was your favorite

Vicky Willson If you had the power to change anything in the world, either your own or the greater universe, what would it be?

toy?

toy?

Favorite book? What is the story behind it? Favorite food? What is the story behind it?

Favorite book? What is the story behind it? Favorite food? What is the story behind it?

What is your wish list? What is the best wish you ever had come true? What was your favorite daydream as a child? What do you think your mother's was? What is your favorite color? Is it different now? Why do you like it? What was your favorite fairy tale as a child? Why do you think it resonated with you? Does it still? Who would play you in a film? In a drama? Who wouldn't you want to play you? What is the one existential question you've always wanted to know the answer to? What was your favorite

Vivian Lowther If you had the power to change anything in the world, either your own or the greater universe, what would it be? In your generation, what was it like to postpone having a family? What is your wish list? What is the best wish you ever had come true? What was your favorite daydream as a child?

What is your favorite color? Is it different now? Why do you like it? What was your favorite fairy tale as a child? Why do you think it resonated with you? Does it still? Who would play you in a film? In a drama? Who wouldn't you want to play you? What is the one existential question you've always wanted to know the answer to? What was your favorite toy? Favorite book? What is the story behind it? Favorite food? What is the story behind it?

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VITA Full name: Cynthia Laudadio-Celano Place and Date of Birth: Newark, New Jersey Parents Name: Marie A. (nee Erba) and Joseph F.

Educational Institutions: School Secondary: Bloomfield Senior High School Collegiate: Boston University Graduate: Fairleigh Dickenson University Drew University

Place Bloomfield, NJ Boston, MA Teaneck, NJ Madison, NJ

Degree Diploma B.A. M.A.T. D. Litt.

Date June, 1977 May, 1980 May. 1997 May, 2009

I understand that the Drew University Library may have this dissertation reproduced by microphotography and made available by sale to scholars and othei