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A Personal Encounter with Winter: The Night I Swallowed the Moon

In the early 1980s I received, as part of a beautiful ceremony at my home in Oakland, California, a sacred vessel (an Ikoko Olokun) for the spirit of the power at the bottom of the Ocean. The ceremony consisted of gathering all the gifts of the Ocean, such as fish, seashells, seaweed, and sand, as well as many gifts of the Earth, such as grains, fruits, vegetables, spices, meat, oil, and eggs. These Ocean gifts and Earth gifts were placed on plates and, intermingled with blue and white candles, lined both sides of a long palm mat. We said prayers of thanksgiving, played drums, sang, and danced while passing the contents of these plates over our heads and around our bodies. We made a commitment to feed the hungry and give all these things back to the Ocean and the Earth at the ceremony's end.

The elders explained to me that there were “greater secrets” to this Ocean ceremony than what I had witnessed and experienced, but they had been lost during the slave period. They also told me that in the Caribbean Islands (Cuba and Puerto Rico, but not Haiti), this force was considered “too powerful” to be fully ritualized, and, consequently, initiation ceremonies on the islands were not performed for people who dedicated themselves to this layer of the Ocean.

Nobody knows what's at the bottom of the Ocean!

—Yoruba proverb, The Holy Odun Irosun

Nine years later I attended an initiation for Olokun in Benin City, Nigeria, where the ritual has remained intact for centuries. The Moonlight ceremony was an event I shall never forget.

The initiate was a man of Latin American descent and a member of my small travel party of five people. The five of us had had high adventure from the moment our plane landed in West Africa. In Dakar, the capital of Senegal, we were met at the airport by lepers—mostly children—who made their living by begging. We survived a taxi ride that resembled a chase scene from an Indiana Jones movie. And, at the hotel, we were greeted by a vulture that took a nosedive into the windowpane of my hotel room. A few days later, after having settled in and then gone lusting after fabric in the Gambia (as part of my travel ritual of purchasing cloth from the countries I visit), we managed to fly across Ghana to Nigeria, eventually arriving in Benin City.

Before this trip, I imagined my part in the proceedings to be that of a mere “go-for.” My intention was to deposit the members of my travel party—a daughter of the River at Oshogbo, a son of the thunder in Oyo, a diviner of destiny in Ode Remo, and a child of the deep—at their respective ritual sites, and then I'd go-for food, go-for cloth, and go-for items of personal necessity. I intended to support the others, but I did not intend to participate in any of the rituals myself.

In Benin City, this man of Latin American descent went through the full initiation for Olokun, which consisted of many things yet unknown to me. But, at his request, I was allowed to visit him at the end of his fourteen days of solitude. The officiating priestess housed the initiate in a small room with a floor of pounded earth covered with palm mats. The mats were covered with immaculate white cloth. During my visit, the initiate was covered in efun (white chalk) from head to toe—including his eyeballs! He was unfocused, spoke slowly, and said he had been dreaming nonstop for an eternity (although in actuality his nonstop dreaming lasted seven of the fourteen days).

I sat quietly and listened to him talk about his dreams—dreams of being in the Ocean and on the bottom of the Ocean. He spoke of scales, gills, and fins, of movement and colors, and of the smell of salt. I painted pictures in my mind as he spoke. After I had been there awhile, I sneezed. A priestess entered the room carrying a broom made of an herb (I think it was SeaGrape). She promptly cleaned the initiate by sweeping the area around his head and down the outline of his body. Then she swept the corners and the center of the room and threw the broom out the back door of the little room. She informed me that my visit was over, but she invited me to attend the drumming ceremony that was to take place outside the next night.

I arrived at the drumming ceremony late in the evening, my head was covered in a gele, a wrap made of white eyelet. I wore the traditional regalia for such a ceremony: white shoes, white dress, white purse. My driver proudly led me to a seat of honor that had been reserved for me. I sat quietly, determined to observe and remember every aspect of the ceremony.

The ritual participants began to gather. As I recall, four drummers came carrying small tub-like drums similar to the East Indian tabla but producing a distinctly different sound. The drummers were followed by at least thirty shekere (hollowed-out gourds decorated with beads) players—all women—who began immediately to make rushing sounds like the hum of the Ocean with their instruments. The congregation, a cast of hundreds, made a circle around a swept-dirt center. Everyone's body had been painted with white chalk.

After about half an hour, a priestess entered and blew white powder around the circle. She raised her arms as if lifting weights, then pulled them down sharply and leaned left and right as part of the invocation to the four directions. She was establishing the boundaries of sacred space. Once they were established, she let out a high-pitched call, and a procession began. The priestesses who had officiated over the initiation led the procession. They were dressed in red and white garments and hundreds of cowrie shells, the symbols of wealth. Instruments of divination were sewn on their clothes. The initiate was finely dressed in white cloth, and he walked unsteadily in the middle of the procession. The drums started, and the women began to display the initiate and to teach him to dance. I tried to watch the steps.

Eventually, the first priestess walked over to me and blew a handful of white powder directly into my face. Unwillingly I began to tremble from the inside and tears rolled down my cheeks. I became aware of my driver tugging at my purse and shoes. “You must go and dance,” he said. I shook my head no in an attempt to clear my blurring vision. “Yes,” my driver said, “this thing is happening to you, and you must go and dance now.” I wanted to sit and observe, but the priestess returned and blew another handful of powder into my face. Then I whitened out (the opposite of blacking out, I suppose).

I remember a resounding cry and a bolt of energy as if lightning had struck me in my spine. I still have no memory of moving from point A to point B, only of being there in the center of the circle, feeling my legs moving beneath me and my chest and hips gyrating. I heard my own voice above my head ask, “Who is that dancing?” I lifted my eyes to the night sky, then I saw and felt the Full Moon descending into my mouth, squeezing itself down my throat and into my belly.

I became aware that I had been moved to an inner chamber, a place where life-sized figures made of white chalk were somehow painted or inlaid with gold. I looked around, trying to identify the sculptures. I recognized Shango, the God of Thunder, in male and female form, erect and pregnant. Before I could see much more the priestess grabbed my face and pushed my lips forward into a “fish mouth.” I knew what this meant, as this is the way I'd been taught to give medicine to babies. With my lips pursed in this manner it was almost impossible to reject the substance now being poured down my throat. Oh, but I tried. Water and leaves, little seashells and grit found their way into my belly.

Then they removed my gele, and again there was a great cry. They called the name of the Thunder deity, because a few days before the women of a distant village had braided my hair in the style worn by devotees of Shango (He is my Father, by the way). I was washed from head to toe; they then smeared me with chalk and drew lines on my face and body. My crisp white eyelet clothing was now streaked with chalk and bits of green leaves. As I looked around me, people moved in the dark, their black faces covered in white chalk, their eyes fully opened, staring at me. I felt as if I were in a Fellini movie or a painted mime drama, and these people seemed to be hovering somewhere between the worlds.

Then the priestesses began making predictions for me. Some of them were worrisome, some of them wonderful. All have proved to be true.

As a result of all these rituals, I feel that my consciousness has been enhanced. My dreams are often prefaced with an image of me running through a house, chased by a great Ocean wave. At the point that I allow the wave to wash over me, my dreams for the night begin. I have found these dreams to be prophetic, symbolic, and instructive. I call them my Benin dreams.

An Introduction to Winter Blue Mother Moon

Night comes early in Winter. At Moonrise the Earth is quiet, and Nature sleeps beneath Her blanket of snow. She dreams of the coming of Spring, the return of the Sun, a time when She will blush and blossom and birds will sing in Her hair. Tomorrow. Soon. But tonight She embraces the stillness; tonight She exalts the Dark. In the Dreamtime the Blue Mother Moon illuminates the sky. Trees stand shamelessly naked, exposing their branches to the wind. The Moon's light casts deep shadows. Humans gaze at Her in wonder and take refuge in their homes.

There, before the fireplace, we gather. Frosty clouds of breath escape from our mouths. Reverently we lay oak logs and strike a match in honor of the Sun. And comforted, we warm our hands as Blue Mother Moon smiles. We gather our family around us, embrace friends, and make peace with our enemies. We cook life-sustaining porridge and bake breads made of wheat, oats, and rye. Those who can afford it will flock to warm climates, to Florida or Jamaica, to bask in the Sun. The unfortunate ones, the homeless people, will wander in the streets. They will freeze, starve, and die, and Blue Mother Moon will cry for Her children.

The truly fortunate, who possess a kind heart, will open their doors and their pockets. Soup kitchens will flourish, and the sad eyes of needy children will be brightened by holiday gifts sincerely given. Through mutual help we will survive the Winter.

The Winter Solstice

The symbols of Christmas—the Nativity scene, the tree with its lights, the gift giving, and nearly all the songs of the season—have their roots in the pre-Christian tradition of the Winter Solstice.

The Wheel of the Year charts the movement of the Sun. The Winter Solstice (December 21) is the longest night and the shortest day of the year. Now, when the Sun is at its weakest point (in the astrological sign of Capricorn), humans turn inward to sleep and dream Gust as Demeter weeps for the lost Persephone). We make appeals to the Sun to return to us, to bring us through Winter's Darkness into the Light of Spring. We make these appeals in the symbolic language of myths and rituals by creating celebrations of Light that reflect our hopes and dreams. Some of these celebrations begin in the darkest part of Autumn, before the Solstice, and continue throughout the Winter season. From the point of the Solstice onward, the Sun increases in strength, and we declare that “He (the Son of the Sun) is born” from the virginal womb of the Great Dark Mother.

Bring us through Winter's darkness into the light of Spring.

The Sun represents the male God, and its death and rebirth on the Winter Solstice is seen as the death of the old solar year and the birth of the new, or the birth of the Divine Child, the Sun God of the new solar year. To the Egyptians he was Horus, the Divine child of Isis and Osiris; to the Greeks and Romans he was Apollo, son of Zeus and twin brother to Artemis, the Goddess of the Moon; to Norse and Anglo-Saxons he was Balder; to the Phoenicians, Baal; and to the Celts, Bel.¹

The Christmas Tree symbolizes the Tree of Life, and the traditional holiday wreath and Yule log both represent the Wheel of the Year, the travels of the Sun. They are evergreens, plants that maintain their powers in winter; they are decorated with symbols of increase, plenty, and light. Tannenbaum, from the popular song “Oh Tannenbaum,” which is sung when the tree is lit, is a Celtic word that means “sacred tree,” and yule is a German word that means “the wheel.”

The ancient roots of Christmas become even clearer when we consider the Roman holiday of Saturnalia (December 17-24). During this time the rules of society were relaxed and social positions were reversed. The king became a pauper, masters served their servants, and little dolls were given as gifts in honor of Oops, the Goddess of Opulence. December 24 was the Night of the Mothers, when the power of birthing was celebrated. (At one time the church declared this Adam and Eve Night.) On this night women were exalted for their ability to produce and nurture human life. (Later we will explore the celebrations of the Mother Goddess that occur this time of year in Brazil and West Africa.) The next day, December 25, was Juvenalia, Children's Day, when the youngsters were given wonderful food and warm things to wear, especially socks, which became the present-day Christmas stocking. It seems the mothers of my childhood retained this custom, whether they knew its origins or not. Giving warm clothing is a practice I'd like to see reembraced during the time of the Winter holidays.

The practice of kissing under the mistletoe gets risky—depending upon who is in the room! This covert courtship ritual comes from the Druids, who saw symbols of fertility in this evergreen plant with white berries (semen) and golden roots (sunlight).

At midnight on December 31 our ancestors made great noises to chase away the Spirits of the old year. Sometimes a doll made of old clothes was buried at midnight. Today Old Father Time, who is bearded, robed, and carrying a blade, yields to a bouncing baby boy wearing a crisp new diaper, blowing a horn, and throwing confetti, and everybody cries out joyously, “Happy New Year.” The old pagan rituals live on in Christian clothing.

And in the second half of the twentieth century, the African American holiday of Kwanzaa was born, and the cycle of new traditions birthing from old lives on.

Christmas

The story of Christmas is probably the most well-known myth of origin in Western culture. The short version goes like this:

Mary, the daughter of Anne and Joachim, was a virgin. The Angel Gabriel visited her and informed her that she would be “overshadowed” by a dove. God, her Father, who made her without the Original Sin of Eve, would impregnate her (by blowing in her ear) so that she could give birth to Him as her son. Her widowed fiancé, Joseph, agreed to the plan without question. But they had to deal with the government like everybody else, so they went to Bethlehem to register for the census. While there, she gave birth to a baby boy in a stable. Three wise men (one of them Black) followed a star from a great distance to come visit the child, who was born on December 25 (an arbitrary date). That was the first Christmas. His birth gave the Western world its division of historical time. From then on, Western history would be measured as occurring before (B.C. and backward) or after (A.D. and forward) the birth of her little boy, the illustrious ancestor supported by and identified with or as God.

—Luisah Teish

Celebrants recount the story by constructing a nativity scene with Mother, Father, Child, and Visitors all in their places on the front lawn. Their homes are adorned with beautifully colored lights, and Yule logs crackle in the fireplace. They decorate a green tree with delicate glass bulbs, hovering angels, drizzling snow, candy canes, and on the very top a guiding light…a star. Songs are sung, a delicious meal is consumed, and people kiss under the mistletoe. When the glowing embers of the Yule log turn to ashes, and as children sleep through the midnight hour, the Flying Dutchman arrives.

Santa Claus: The Flying Dutchman

Santa Claus is an American adaptation of Sint Nikolaas (Saint Nicholas), the Flying Dutchman. He is also known as Père Noël, Grandfather Frost, and Kris Kringle. He is believed to have been a 3G bishop from Anatolia who wore a red suit trimmed in white fur. His flying reindeers, Rudolph and Company, may have come from Scandinavia. In Northern and Eastern Europe, the feast of Saint Nicholas, known for the generous tossing of sacks of money through the windows of poor homes, was celebrated on December 5 or 6.

The American Santa Claus is more of a secular folk character than a sacred one. He is “saintly” in that he judges the behavior of children (“He's making a list, checking it twice, gonna find out who's naughty or nice”) and rewards good behavior with toys and sweets.

A Black Christmas

I am a country girl at heart and usually spend most of my time in the countryside outside of whatever city I visit. I guess you could call my need for the country an “Earth Jones.” I just have to be in the greens. When traveling I always buy a piece of cloth indigenous to the area and a book of the regional folklore so that I can take a piece of the “real people” home with me.

I'd been in Holland a few weeks one November and needed another travel bag to accommodate the books and clothes I'd bought and the gifts I'd been given. Until this day I'd spent most of my time in the countryside, but I was coming to love the city of Amsterdam with its waterways and tulip gardens and free spirit. I was enchanted by the statues of Hermes and Poseidon overlooking the canals, seduced by vendors selling cheese and Belgian lace, and flattered by an occasional flirtatious smile. I found the sugar beets, windmills, and old castles intriguing. I still wasn't accustomed to the flatlands of Amsterdam and all of Holland (the source of the name “the Netherlands”), and I did find myself missing the beautiful hills of the San Francisco Bay Area.

My companions agreed to escort me through the major department stores in Amsterdam. We turned a corner and suddenly I was confronted by Dutch Christmas decorations. (The sight of Christmas decorations in November has always irritated me. The effort to project a Winter holiday into the Fall season feels unnatural to me. In the United States some stores begin their Christmas advertising as early as the day after Halloween! The rush to the mall (spell that m-a-w-1) and its buying frenzy makes me dizzy. It is, for me, “the nightmare before Christmas.”)

As I walked with my friends from one store to the next, I became aware of the presence of a Black figure in holiday decorations. I'd met many Black people from Suriname living in Holland, but this figure did not reflect any of that culture. Some displays depicted a stylish Black high-fashion mannequin, whereas others used the image of a pollywog—a bug-eyed black doll with big white or red lips. These made me think of black-faced minstrels. In the minstrel shows of the American theater, White men put burnt cork on their faces and acted out outrageous stereotypes of Black people. In these shows Blacks were always depicted as lazy, fearful, and ignorant. In the post-slavery period, when African American performers sought the stage, they were forced to blacken their natural faces and perform an imitation of an imitation of themselves.

Curious and a bit insulted, I began taking pictures of the Black figure. Eventually my companions noticed my interest and unrest and introduced me to this character. His name is Black Peter, and he's Santa Claus' hit man. At first I thought they were pulling my leg, but a little research confirmed this piece of information.

In much of Europe, and particularly in Holland, the main fun takes place on St. Nicholas Eve, December 5. According to the story, St. Nicholas, who was a Bishop, comes each year in a ship from Spain, riding a white horse, to visit every child. To those who are good he will give a gift of sweets or biscuits, and those who have been bad get a light smack with a bunch of birch twigs. Children set out a clog or shoe beside the fire-place containing some hay, bread, and a carrot to reward the saint's horse, in the hope that his assistant, Black Pete, will leave a present, rather than delivering a smack or, worse still, wrapping the really bad children up in the empty sack he carries and transporting them away to Spain as captives. ²

I found this character interesting but also disturbing.

In Europe and the United States, Christmas is a time of drama, music, and pageantry. The Nutcracker ballet and the Mummers' plays are performed in this season. Traditionally, the Mummers' theme is a battle between a White Knight and a Black Villain, usually depicted as being of Turkish (Moslem) or Moorish descent. Of course, the White Knight always wins. I ponder whether this is a reenactment of the “battle between Day and Night,” or is it an emotional response to the Moorish conquest dramatized? In any event, I am not enamored of this holiday as it is celebrated in popular American culture.

I have attended Christmas parties where a Black man shows up as Santa Claus. Sometimes this works for the children, whose imaginations allow them to accept the essence of the folk character without knowledge of the true history. But it just doesn't work for me personally. And, as we shall see later, many African Americans have made the choice to celebrate Kwanzaa instead of, or in addition to, some of the Eurocentric festivities like the one described previously.

The Meaning and Joy of Christmas

Many times I have seen children who are disappointed because “Santa” did not leave them a disco Barbie Doll or that plastic helicopter that cost $39.95 and is guaranteed not to fly. I've also tried to assuage the pain and frustration of hard-working, well-meaning parents who feared losing the respect and affection of their disappointed children. And I've seen other families where expensive gifts are given in lieu of love.

The humility, warmth, and joy of the original Holy Family and their Visitors are what this season is all about. At the end of this chapter I will share information that anyone, of any ethnicity, income level, or location, can use to create meaningful and joyous j.0 celebrations for family and friends.

Kwanzaa