REFLECTIONS ON THE GODDESSES

Renate Sharples

 

At the Ben Lomond Conference on Religion and Psychology, Christine Downing pointed out how closely each of the great goddesses of classical Greece corresponds to a particular phase of feminine development. Indeed, Hera goddess of marriage, the domestic hearth, Aphrodite, goddess of love and the two great virginal goddess figures, Athena and Artemis seems to encompass woman’s common life experience here on earth. Chris explained how identification with these divine figures at various stages of one’s development lifts common human experience to the larger-than-life state, the divine, infusing one’s life with the powers of the collective human unconscious, that which is “above.”

However, as Chris stressed repeatedly, each of these goddesses, however glorious, imposes limitations upon her followers in that they are partial aspects of life, stressing one type of being and relating at the expense of all others. Excessive identification with any one of these archetypes brings with it not only one-sidedness but danger of archetypal possession. Examples: the woman who is jealous and possessive wife or lover and nothing else, the recluse who lives for her cats and shuns all human contacts, the scientist who exists for her research 24 hours a day and knows nothing else. All of these are possessed by one of the goddesses and their awful restrictive powers.

It is interesting to contemplate that these female divinities who seem rocklike in their absoluteness, their inflexibility, are actually the result of a long development, a melting together of different cults and originally vastly dissimilar goddess figures, that they encompassed a vastly greater realm of human experience before they became restricted and restrictive as we know them.

One example of this process of simplification or partial vision is the goddess Artemis. We think of her as the virgin huntress, sister of Apollo, the protectress of wild forest creatures and of women in childbirth. This is a strange combination to say the least. One begins to wonder and upon closer investigation discovers that Artemis is descended from a chthonic earth mother goddess, akin to Cybele in that she demands human sacrifice, a goddess in whose service young males castrated themselves, an all embracing figure, benevolent and fearful bringer of life and of death as well as a moon goddess, ruler over the night time self, the unconscious realm.

This all-embracing divinity is a far cry indeed from the shy woodland creature in whose steps we wander in search of solitude. Each of these great goddesses has undergone a similar process of narrowing down, of restriction of sphere and influence. Certainly male gods have been defined as to influential spheres and functions, but there seems to be more overlapping, a larger area of action. Apollo is one example which comes to mind, god of light and wisdom, the muses, that is arts, a healer-god, a god of oracles and sharp far-reaching arrows as well as a superb sounder of his famous lyre. Compare these far flung accomplishments with, for instance, Hera, first goddess of Mount Olympus, whose function it is to keep marriages together and to keep an eye on her amorous spouse. And that is it, absolutely. A pathetic and somewhat ridiculous figure.

Why are the great goddesses perceived in this partial, restricted fashion? I believe they reflect the way in which man, the male, sees woman here on earth, a perception which the arrival of patriarchal religions has imposed upon the goddesses as well. Woman has always appeared as a somewhat magical creature to the male, belonging to one of three distinct categories: virgin, mother, love-object. All of these seem imbued with slightly larger than life qualities, both positive and negative, in other words they are burdened with archetypal projections from the male psyche.

It is fascinating to observe how these woman archetypes persist to this day in literature as well. When does one ever encounter a female character on the stage who is “just one of the guys?” Everlastingly it is either the Virgin Mary, a semi-divine figure of love and inspiration, a selfless, self-sacrificing Saint Joan or conversely a Lady Macbeth, an Edward Albee-type “mom,” a psychological castrator and devourer. Even female authors who should know better seem to follow the male-established pattern; Lillian Hellman and her Little Foxes comes to mind.

It is of course vitally important, not just for the individual but for society as a whole that we overcome the limitations inherent in viewing ourselves and the “other” as archetypes rather than individuals, that we identify with a divinity large enough to encompass the whole range of human experience and one who is common to all, not just male or female.

To what extent the restrictive vision is responsible for strife is shown in the myth of the Trojan War. A young male is confronted by a tripartite vision of the great goddess as wife, virgin and lover and is told to hand a golden apple to the “fairest.” Naturally enough he chooses love and immediately general dissolution of society ensues. A wife is abducted, a city put to siege for ten years and then burned to the ground amid scenes of plunder, murder, and rape. On his long and arduous journey home, Odysseus, one of the heroes of the war, in turn encounters each of the great female archetypes, the motherly nymph Calypso, Circe, the seductress, Nausikaa, the innocent maiden and of course Athena, virginal goddess of wisdom, his protectress. Odysseus interrelates in meaningful ways with all of these; they are in turn helpful and dangerous, inspiring and destructive, clearly showing the extreme ways of viewing woman which archetypal projection brings about. But the Trojan War and its aftermath are not laid to rest altogether until Odysseus, after ten years of wandering and having grown through suffering beyond the purely heroic ideal towards true humanity, reaches his home Ithaka, once again and, in the person of wise and faithful, chaste and loving Penelope, embraces the tripartite Great Mother goddess in her wholeness. Now the great split is healed and peace can ensue once more.

One can, perhaps, most readily understand what the Odyssian voyage is all about if one tries to see it as an inner journey, a growing towards self-realization and maturity, a balance of masculine qualities with more feminine ones and such universal human virtues as self-restraint, faithfulness and loyalty. It is only when Odysseus has attained this balance that he is allowed to come home, for he has finally, through much suffering become a fully realized human being; he has overcome the partial, splintered way of viewing his inner and outer world.