Artemis, Great Lady, steward of the wild, protector of the young, hunter, mountain dancer, torch-bearer, guide.
We ask your protection this month and every month: guide our hands in the work we have dedicated to your service, watch over our families’ children, our friends’ children, all children in danger of hunger or harm. To you we offer evergreen cedar of the land we care for in dedication to you and to the earth. We ask that you accept these offerings and grant us your blessings.
I had, at the time, been a dedicant to the god for over a decade. The coven of which I was a member regularly performed Dionysian ritual, including a fully-fledged Dionysia every two years; I was part of another group devoted exclusively to Dionysus; and that group had grown out of longstanding service to a regional pagan festival in which Dionysus played a major role.
I had also just the month before decided to end my involvement with said festival, for a variety of reasons that aren’t relevant here. Since my relationship to the god of wine had largely been forged out of my association with that festival–I still remember the first private Dionysian ritual I participated in there, and there were many others over the succeeding decade–it perhaps shouldn’t be surprising when the god stopped talking to me.
It happened around the time I went to China during the run-up to the festival. The two-week trip meant that I missed a preparatory ritual being led by my priest, who was also the priest of Dionysus for the festival. My phone worked in China, sort of, so we texted back and forth during the ritual prep. Most of the texts didn’t go through.
They didn’t go through because online access in China is strongly curtailed and the ritual was taking place in a remote location with poor cell service, but nonetheless it’s hard not to look back at that and not see it as a harbinger of what was to come.
And at some point, I think it was during the festival itself, I realized that Dionysus no longer spoke to me.
This would have been difficult enough, considering that my best friend was serving as the god’s priest, that the ritual called for both of us to undergo a ritual death, that a deity I had heard and served for over a decade was suddenly silent, that there was a hell of a lot of turbulence around the festival itself that year, and that at the time it seemed like no one understood what I was going through. (Probably not true, but when one’s religion calls for relationships with deities that are by nature intensely personal, it’s easy to feel this way.) But the show had to go on, and I felt myself facilitating energies in which I could not partake.
Somewhere in all of this, a particularly observant friend pointed out that Dionysus is
called “the god who comes,” and in order to be that, He has to go away at some point. Indeed His myths and stories are full of strange and sudden arrivals and departures; His arrival brings chaos, upends local order, drives people to ecstasy or to madness depending on whether they embrace or resist Him.
The chief thing that connected us would do so no longer. I was departing the festival. Much as it hurt at the time, Dionysus withdrawing from me made sense. The decade-plus of engagement with Him in a particular way was over, and I had to come to terms with it.
A couple of months later, Wild Gods had our annual camping retreat. Prior to welcoming our participants, the friend who had been Dionysus’s priest at the festival, before and since my working partner in Wild Gods, did some ritual work to see whether the connection could be mended. The whole experience had somewhat strained our friendship; when you have an entity in your head that isn’t speaking to your priestess, it makes things a little awkward. I never blamed him, but there was discomfort between us.
We did the ritual, and Dionysus deigned to speak with me again. And He asked me what the nature of my dedication was to Him.
I couldn’t answer.
For years it had been about the things we usually associate with Dionysus: wine, dance, ekstasis, resurrection and rebirth, divine madness, joy. But suddenly that wasn’t enough anymore. For years I had been tasked with preparing festival priests and participants to encounter the god, and when I walked away from the festival, I walked away from that task.
It was awhile before Dionysus spoke to me again after that. That year I lost an important and beloved mentor, and began a creative writing program. A great deal in my life shifted in spiritually catastrophic ways. Slowly, I began to rebuild the connection.
Last weekend, Wild Gods performed a spring rite, and my friend once again served as the priest of Dionysus, and told me that I was once again and always His child.
I don’t rave at the Dionysian rituals in the way that I used to. I’m older now and no longer have the physical resilience that I did. It’s not really about the partying, anyway–Dionysian revelry is and always has been the vehicle, not the goal in itself. That goal is collective ekstasis, collective joy, something increasingly at risk in these days of isolation, deprivation, and fear.
It took Dionysus leaving and returning for me to begin to understand that, and to build my own path back to Him through reflection, creativity, dance, and ritual. I hear His voice again, but it’s different now.
I have now been dedicated to Artemis for over 15 years. Dedication is an ongoing process: not only does one learn more about the appropriate rituals and devotional activities to one’s deity, but the gods progressively reveal themselves to be more complex and multifaceted, the longer one associates with them.
Artemis is no exception. In the beginning I understood her as fans of Greek mythology often do: Apollo’s twin, exclusive to women, ever virgin yet paradoxically concerned with childbirth. Yet the more I engage with her, the more work and research I do, the more I find that these apparently straightforward characteristics possess subtleties that aren’t readily evident. What’s more, they didn’t hold in every place the goddess was worshiped in the ancient world, or were understood differently in different places and times. Artemis being Apollo’s twin, for instance, seems to have been a particularly Athenian notion.
Artemis Orthia is a particularly (perhaps peculiarly) Spartan take, an evident syncretism of the great Greek goddess with a local deity, perhaps due to the latter’s association with animals and initiation–these are two areas where the association with Artemis seems to have been universal, if differently applied in different places.
The diamastigosis was an initiatory ritual for Spartan youth, who would attempt to approach the altar (delightfully, laden with cheese) while being driven back by priests wielding whips. The idea wasn’t so much to avoid the whips as to endure them in order to reach the reward. A most Spartan ritual, to be sure, and at root not all that different from rituals to Artemis in other contexts, which often involved endurance of a physical challenge or some sort of athletic or other physical contest. Then too, initiatory rituals on the whole generally involve some sort of privation or danger as a test before welcoming the initiate into full membership in a group. One distinguishing feature of the diamastigosis is that it seems to be something initiates underwent together, rather than individually.
At this stage of my practice I have begun focusing on work with the different aspects and expressions of Artemis that I encounter, either through personal experience, the development of devotional work, or research. The gods of ancient Greece are not monoliths, any more than any other gods are. Though ancient Greece was a very different place from the societies we live in today, understanding how they thought of and interacted with their gods reveals exciting possibilities for present-day devotees.
An interesting and challenging aspect of taking on responsibility for stewardship of land if you’re a nature-worshiping polytheist is the necessity of entering into communication with the entities and spirits in residence in that land. As I embark on such an enterprise, an acquaintance’s observation that as Americans, the land we live on is not necessarily in alliance with us resonates deeply. Not only is the land of which I’m proposing to take stewardship recently clearcut commercial timberland, but it has some earlier prior history of which I am ignorant, because that history has been erased. Did other people whose relationship to the land ran along different lines once live there? Almost certainly.
Wild Gods has a fairly set ritual structure and specific deities with whom we work, inspired by the work of Labrys in Greece and other reconstructions of ancient Greek religious practice. Yet at the same time we are aware that we are engaging in these practices in a time and place outside their origin. There is a wide-ranging and contentious discussion to be had on this subject; right now I’ll say that given how concerned ancient Greek religion was with place, we likewise engage in our practice conscious of the place in which we do it in both specific and general terms: where are we right now, and what entities reside here that might be gratified or offended by what we’re doing–and, more generally, what is the historical, cultural, and spiritual context in which we are operating?
Every full moon I perform a ritual termed the dadiai, based on a historical full-moon offering of cakes to the goddess Artemis. For this full moon, I wanted to open communication with land of which I propose to take stewardship, and of which I have necessarily obtained legal ownership for that purpose. (How the concept of land ownership plays into all of this is yet another large and contentious topic.) How to adapt my practice, the means I possess for attempting this task, to a respectful and meaningful end that will help accomplish its purpose? Especially since I don’t know what the historical and potentially pre-historical inhabitants would have done?
One must start somewhere. For this ritual, I chose to address first the aspects of the deities I work with that I wished to evoke. I wasn’t just calling on Artemis, I was calling specifically on the aspect of Artemis which cares for and stewards wild places. I wasn’t just calling on Pan, I was calling specifically on Pan as the spirit of wilderness that endures against incomprehensible opposition. I wasn’t just calling on Dionysus, I was calling specifically on Dionysus as the spirit of rebirth and renewal. Incorporated into all of this was explicit acknowledgment of the spirits of the place I was in, an element I brought with me from the witchcraft Tradition in which I was trained.
Thus this communication was also an introduction. Hello. I’m new here. I know you have been abused and much has been taken from you. Here is what I’m proposing to do about that, and here are the the names in which I do this work.
There’s something in us that goes for the quick fix, and polytheists and witches are as susceptible to this as anyone. In this work, however, there is no quick fix. You cannot expect the spirits of a damaged land to take your word for anything. The most optimistic interpretation I have of the response I got was: We’ll see.
Lady Artemis, we ask your protection for the children of our families, and of our friends’ families; for those suffering the upheaval of displacement, by choice or by force; for those harmed by thoughtless politics and cruel policies. Aid us in the stewardship of the air and water, of the forests and the mountains, and all the creatures who live thereon. So mote it be.