This is not written by me. It’s a take on the myth of Persephone re-told by Irene Faivre
In the world of the dead there is no time. Yet every autumn, as the days grow shorter, the spirits of the underworld sense that Persephone must soon return. They grow restless and call to her in lost, hollow voices. In the world of the living, the sound of their cries is echoed in the wind sighing in the dry grass and moaning through the bare trees. For many of the living, it is a sound that speaks to them of the frailty of life and the ultimate, unknowable void of death. They draw closer to the fire and to one another, and they cherish the warmth of life.
When Persephone hears the first faint sighs of the dead in the cooling autumn winds, she is filled with dread. “They call to me, they call to me”, she thinks as she gathers the harvest. “But how can I leave this life? It is so beautiful. The sky is too blue, the sun too warm, the air too sweet to leave behind. The spirits of the dead cannot understand. They are cold and remote. They have forgotten their love of life.” Still, the wind grows cold and the cries of the dead become more insistent. Her promise to return to them weighs on Persephone’s heart. Her blood slows. Her steps falter. It is inescapable. She knows she must make her farewells to the people and pleasures of the upper world, and descend to her appointed place in the realm of the dead.
She gathers the last sheaves of wheat and baskets of fruit to take as gifts to the departed souls, so they may remember, if only briefly, the taste of life. When her preparations are complete, she spends one last day gazing on the beauty of her world, drinking in its colours and sounds and fragrances, so she will not forget it during her long sojourn in the dark. Finally, at dusk, she stands on the edge of the world and weeps as she watches the sun touch the horizon. In her hand she holds a pomegranate, the symbol of her promise to the souls of the dead. The sun drops behind the great bulk of the earth, and she lifts a single pomegranate seed to her lips.
The light shifts and ripples. The crash of thunder rips through the world. A screaming wind tears at her hair and stings her eyes. Before her, a chasm appears where the sun had been only moments earlier, and Persephone cries out in horror even as she leaps into the emptiness. For a moment that seems like an eternity, she forgets who she is, where she is, and why.
Then, darkness… silence… warmth. The spirits of the dead surround her. They speak without voices. They sing without a sound. They cry and laugh as she presents her gifts from the realm of the living. And they welcome her with gifts of their own. The gifts of the dead are those of wisdom and mystery and paradox. In this world of darkness, their eyes see patterns of incredible beauty, yet the patterns have neither colour nor shape. Their ears hear rich, complex musics, yet the music has neither pitch nor duration. Here, every thought, every perception, has endless variations. Persephone is fascinated, and she begins to remember…
In the world of the living, days pass, weeks pass; in the world of the dead there is no time. Persephone measures her hours in terms of insights and explorations. In the world of the living, autumn turns to winter and the nights grow long; in the world of the dead, day and night have no meaning. Persephone and her subjects traverse the endless labyrinth, winding ever inward. In the world of the living, the winter solstice approaches, and the people call forth the light; in the world of the dead, light and dark are one. There are no dualities. Persephone and her subjects are at the still, silent centre, in an infinite darkness suffused with supernal light.
In the world of the living, the solstice passes by. The storms diminish. The bears and squirrels stir in their sleep. And, suspended in her timeless void, Persephone begins to feel the stirring in her own blood. The voices of life’s children are calling. These voices are like the buzzing and chittering of troublesome insects. Persephone hears their first faint cries and she is filled with dread and sorrow. “They call to me, they call to me”, she whispers as she floats in the vast emptiness. “But how can I leave this? The mysteries are too intriguing, the wisdom too profound, the intimacy of death too sweet to abandon. The living are mere children. They cannot understand the depth of this realm.”
Still, the days pass and, as the winter wanes, the cries of the living become more insistent. In the world of the dead, these create grating, discordant undertones in the patternings of silence and sound. Persephone’s promise to return burns in her heart. It is inescapable. She knows that she must make her farewells to the souls of the underworld and ascend to her appointed place among the living. She gathers gifts of intrigue and serenity to take to the living, so they might remember, if only briefly, the richly textured beauty of the dark. At the dawning of the spring equinox, Persephone weeps as she drifts in the ecstatic dark. In her hand, she holds a stalk of wheat, the symbol of her promise to return to the land of the living. For a single, timeless moment, she listens once more to the impossible music that sings to her. Finally, she raises a single grain of wheat to her lips.
The darkness shifts and ripples. The crash of thunder reverberates through the world. The wind shrieks around her. The void explodes with jarring colours and a cacophony of dystonic sounds. Persephone cries out in terror, even as she leaps into the blinding light. For a moment that seems like an eternity, she forgets who she is, where she is, and why.
And then, gentle laughter… the cooing of birds… the cool mist of morning’s breath. She is surrounded by the children of the upper world. They bring her gifts of iris and apple-blossom, the scent of rain on the ocean, the sighing of lovers. She hears the whisper of the crocus at her feet, welcoming her and spreading the word along the grassy hills: “She returns, she returns, Persephone returns.” And, as the sun rises, she is filled with joy and the wonder of life, and begins to remember…
(Art: Quebec artist Sophie Wilkins who combines realism with the magical and mythical in women and animals. This is “L’Oracle: from 2011. www.sophiewilkins.com