And so the Goddess sprinkled a sweet liqueur
over her lover's blood, something magical known
only to her, something sacred and mysterious.
And then the miracle occurred; the blood of Attis
stirred like a fountain in a storm of rain,
and from the pool came forth a flower, crimson
and the young man's blood, as beautiful as he had been,
and as briefly blossoming. The goddess named it
anemone, after the wind, for spring's winds come
and shake its petals off - too soon, too early,
too brief, like joy, like youth, like love.
last part of the ancient Roman festival was called the Hilaria, for it
was a hilarious day of laughter and joy. It affirmed that life rises
out of death, that good times follow bad. The myth behind the festival
is that, faced with the loss of her lover, the goddess turned his blood
into a springtime flower so that he would always spring forth and
remind her of her love for him. He was reborn, reunited with her, each
spring in this way.
the same way, the cycles of life bring us good things after periods of
difficulty. There is no life which is perfect, no life which has not
endured some loss. We may have love, but not enough money; we may have
family, but no partner; we may have work, but no love. Like a garden,
we find different parts of our life blooming at different times. The
wisdom of our foremothers permitted sharing grief for what is missing,
with the knowledge that even the sharpest grief is ultimately healed.