Cyberia - The City of Ladies

The rising sun came streaming in through the partially drawn curtains, as I slowly opened my eyes to greet the dawn of a new day. Today was the first day of my retreat in the City of Ladies and I couldn’t wait to get started on the initiation rites that were forming a major part of this spiritual experience. As I lay back, sinking deeply into the plumpness of the goose feather bed and pillows, wondering what lay ahead, there came a gentle knock upon the door. Sitting upright I called out to whoever it was to come in. A beautiful Lady appeared in the doorway. She was tall, with long hair all down her back, and she wore a flowing white gown. Around her neck she wore a set of crystals and beads, and in her hand she carried a small bowl. Walking over to the edge of the bed she smiled graciously and told me that the time to begin had come. She directed me to arise and wrapped a simple pale blue gown around me. Then she took me by the hand and led me into another room, through a doorway that had not been evident the previous evening. The room was dark and empty, apart from a stone structure resembling a table of sorts which was up against the furthest wall. The floor itself was wooden and covered with a light sprinkling of red clay, similar to the clay that was in the bowl she carried. The Lady instructed me to sit on a small cushion that she pulled out from behind the table. She told me to make myself comfortable as I would be meditating here for some time. Placing the bowl of red clay on the floor in front of me, she told me to close my eyes and breathe long, slow, deep breaths .After some time and when I had settled into a rhythm, she placed the bowl in my hands and directed me to run my fingers through the clay. This I did. As the cool earth touched my skin, I found my inner being began to respond to the feel of Mother Earth’s riches.

The carved stone high cross stood outside the scriptorium, my favourite room in all the monastery because here I worked alone for hour after hour, with none to disturb the writing and decorating of the manuscripts. I loved everything about this job — the parchment and vellum backgrounds; the goose feather quills; the coloured inks mixed from berries, crushed acorns, metals, and even African beetles. The manuscripts which are carefully worked copies of the gospels, epistles and prayers are all written in Latin. The page borders and capital letters are elaborately decorated in colourful Celtic designs. As I finish the books I sew them together and bind them with leather covers. Time passes by quickly up here in this room, where my cat Pangur Bán, and I spend as much of the waking hours as we possibly can away from the rest of the monastery work. Still sometimes the close work and copying becomes a little tedious. It was on a night such as this that the restlessness entered my bones and there was no way in God’s heaven that I could concentrate on the work at hand. So I began to write the following poem, something I did more often than I should. But on this night I forgot my self and found later that the entire poem had been written in the margins of the manuscript. Ah, as long as my superiors didn’t discover the lapse of attention and the consequent irreverence, no matter.

I and Pangur Ban my Cat

Tis a like task we are at;

Hunting mice is his delight

Hunting words I sit all night

Better far than praise of men

‘Tis to sit with book and pen;

Pangur bears me no ill will,

He too plies his simple skill.

‘ Tis a merry thing to see

At our tasks how glad are we,

When at home we sit and find

Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray

In the hero Pangur’s way;

Oftentimes my keen thought set

Takes a meaning in its net.

‘ Gainst the wall he sets his eye

Full and fierce and sharp and sly;

‘ Gainst the wall of knowledge I

All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,

O how glad is Pangur then!

O what gladness do I prove

When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our tasks we ply,

Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;

In our arts we find our bliss,

I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made

Pangur perfect in his trade;

I get wisdom day and night

Turning darkness into light.

(“Pangur Bán” This poem was written by an Irish monk and was found in the margins of a manuscript which was written sometime around the 8^th or 9^th century.)

Original Irish version:

Mise agus Pangur bán,

Ceachtar again lena shan-dhán; Bíonn a mheanma-san le seilg,

Mo mheanma féin i mo shain-cheird.

Caraimse fos, forereach clú

Ag mo leabhrán, ag tuiscint go dícheallach;

Níl sé faradic liom, Pangur bán:

Carann sé féin a mhac-dhán.

Nuair a bhímid, scéal gan scís,

Inár teach, sinn araon go haonarach,

Tá cluiche éigríochta again,

Rud a dtugaimid ár mbeartaíocht dó.

De ghnáth ar uairantaibh, tar éis greasaibh galacha

Gleanann luch ina líon-san;

Agus mé, titeann i mo líon féin

Dlí doraidh is deacair a tusking.

Greamaíonn sé i bhfraigh fáil

A rosc geal comhlán;

Greamaín féin i hedge an fheasa

Mo rosc réil, cé go bhfuil sé an-lag.

Tá átha air a dhul go tapa

Nuair a ghleanann luch ina chrúb ghéar;

Nuair a thug aim ceist dhoraidh dhil

Tá átha ormsa féin.

Cé go mbeimis go deimhin ar uaireantaibh

Ní bhodhraímid a chéile:

Is maith le ceachtar a dhán;

Subhaigh gach aon fúthu.

Is é féin máistir dó

Na hoibre a dheineann sé gach aon lá;

A thabhairt doraidh do shoiléireacht

Is í m’obair féin.

This is an illustration from a very famous old Irish manuscript called The Book of Kells. (Although Pangur Bán did not appear in this book!)

Entering the City of Ladies was like coming home after a long, long sojourn in a dry, dusty and unwelcoming desert. For many years I had been searching vainly for springs of water to quench my thirst. As soon as the gates swung open I knew that this was home. The sense of relief and happiness was palpable and completely infused my being from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. So this is what heaven feels like! A group of gracious ladies descended from the stairs and one of them kindly relieved me of the burden of my baggage. Then another gently steered me up the marble staircase and along the fresco lined corridors until she came to a large wooden door. She removed a bunch of keys from the folds of her dress and with them opened the door, pushing it back so that almost the entire room became visible. And what a splendid room, or rather apartment, it was. The wooden window frames held decorated glass within, some of it stained glass panels. Huge draperies hung from the sides, swathes of plush red velvet that called one to reach out and touch its softness. The bed was a large four poster bed with numerous pillows and cushions strewn across its back, and satin and silk coverlets and sheets upon it. The carpet underfoot was so thick that immediately upon entering I threw off my travelling shoes in order to feel it’s comfort, warmth and softness. The walls of the room were almost completely covered in a series of tapestries, all of which illustrated the lives of women. But these were women the kind of which I had never met yet, women whose lives were obviously not circumscribed by the desires and whims of any male. One wall was covered in book shelves rather than tapestries. My lady informed me that any book I desired to read would be provided for me at a moment’s notice. In one corner of the room was a dressing table on which lay small porcelain bowls and jugs, silver candle holders and gold combs and hair brushes. A tiny bowl was filled to brimming with precious gems and crystals. In another corner was a most exquisite writing table, and chair, upon which were placed a pile of empty writing journals and notebooks. Alongside these lay pens, pencils, quills and ink. The table was set up so that a small turning of the head would reveal the activities of the courtyard below. Directly under one of the tapestries lay a very simple little wooden bench. Instantly upon seeing this I realised that this would be where I would set up my altars. It was perfect, being nothing more than a simple, unadorned piece of wood lying across four simple undecorated legs. A perfect base from which to begin to build a series of altars to the Sacred Feminine.

This was originally in Baba Yaga’s House, but I felt it really belonged here in my rooms in The City of Ladies, so she very kindly allowed me to borrow it.

As the product of an Irish Catholic upbringing I have been well steeped in the lives of virtuous female saints whom I and every other girl was supposed to emulate. Years later and with many feminist theological and spiritual books read in the interim I have finally realised that sainthood is not, and never has been about perfection. Instead the common link between all the saints has been the simple one of seeking the face of God/dess wherever that may be found. It is about facing our shadow side, and acknowledging it’s presence, and then learning from it so that we can extend the compassion we show ourselves to others. Sainthood is about illuminating the face of God/dess in the manifestation unique to the individual. Saints are role models, heroines if you like. And that is what my ‘circle of beauty, and wall of strength’ are to me — my own very particular and special group of female heroines who are always there for me. All I have to do is to call their names and I can feel their presence hovering nearby.

My initial study of this group of female saints, mostly medieval mystics, was to read as much as I could possibly find about them. The more I read and discovered, the more I loved them. The next stage was to incorporate them into my daily meditations and visualizations, and this practice has been invaluable in bringing them to life for me, so that I can feel them resonate in my soul. These are real cool gals! They are the original feminists, although of course they didn’t realise that themselves! They are strong, authentic, courageous, independent, hope- and faith-filled women who continue to inspire — priestesses in a long line of holy and whole women. These women are enthusiastic, that is they are filled with the love of the sacred (the original meaning of enthusiasm). When I call on them they join me in a circle and sit nearby as I meditate. They smile much, but never speak, or rather as yet they have not uttered a word. I wait….

Recently I began to work a series of embroideries that I call my ‘reclaiming series’, as in reclaiming the voices of the lost dimensions of these women saints. In this vein I think it especially important to recognize that they oughtn’t to be confined within a narrow religious understanding. These women are bright stars in the sacred firmament and have much to teach us all, whether we consider ourselves religious or not. They are manifestations of the goddess, each one shining her own particular light into my soul. They have much to teach me, and I have much to learn. But to learn I need to first open myself to hear their voices. It is this practice that I will be focusing on here in Cyberia.