An Ode to the Ghosts: The Myth of Persephone & Demeter
“Ghosts / Take shape under moonlight, / materialize in dreams. / Shadows. / Silhouettes / of what is no more.”
Our 9th full moon of the year rises on September 17th, and with it comes ghostly muses and ghostly women, pomegranates, grain, and a few mysteries harvested from nature. As this week's full moon falls just a few days shy of the Autumn Equinox, it's sometimes called the Harvest Moon.
In agricultural societies, land tenders work late into the night to keep up with autumn's bounty. People use the moon as their lantern and helpmate, a seasonal torch known intimately by the reapers. The reaper's job was not purely physical; land tenders were also seen as agricultural mystics. In much of the world, people harvest corn during the second harvest to feed their families and animals, as well as their ancestors—the ghosts of seasons past.
I mentioned this to Caitlyn over a series of voice notes one afternoon. I was recapping The Unforgivable by Christina Campo, sharing a few passages from the woman who translated Virginia Woolf into Italian while also writing several poetic creations of her own. Afterward, Caitlyn and I returned to my earlier realization. Many of our muses were ghosts.
I suppose it's not surprising that Beatrix Potter is a spectral muse. We are firm believers in Nostalgia Magick, and Potter's first book, The Tale of Peter Rabbit kept us company during our 90s childhood. It's a memorable story, cozy and nostalgic, yet it almost never existed. Potter faced rejection by six publishers before deciding to continue her book-making ventures solo. Since she couldn't find a publisher to work with her, she used her personal savings to self-publish 250 copies of Peter Rabbit. Her book caught the eye of one of the previous publishers, who reached out and struck a deal with Potter. One year later, Potter had sold over 20,000 copies.
The women writers of yesteryear are potent influences here at Pointy Hat Press, and in a broader sense, the matriarchy is our muse.
She is our grandmothers and the garden-keepers and the Gorgon-shaped heroines. Her voice is the same as the forests and forest protectors, witches and poets, and the serpents that guide our pen. Built from the underworld yearnings that tumble through our dreamscapes, this muse is a keyholder of memories. She takes us back to our first altars (our mother's vanity, a sandbox, the floor of the local library). She speaks to the birds that follow her home, she edits her memoir, and she models how to wear hand-me-downs (be they perfectly worn jeans, jewelry, or advice) in a way that inspires the wyrd girl within.
When we say wyrd, we mean weird, but we also mean wyrd. “Wyrd” has etymological ties to the concept of fate and the act of twisting or becoming. The wyrd girl is a guiding light. A muse. She's the inner little witch, and she's writing the chapter where we realize who we're destined to be.
But in our youth, we're often too curious for an eternal anything. And that year, Kore was impossibly restless.
It will pass, said Artemis, looping daisies around her crescent bow. Artemis was a huntress who ran barefoot in the woods. Kore was younger than she but knew Artemis preferred her coven of witches and nymphs to the harsh gleam of an Olympian picnic.
It's a phase, said Athena. Her breastplate glinted silver, nearly obscured beneath a curtain of flowering vines. Athena was a warrioress and wisdom keeper, and instead of a basket, she carried her harvest atop her shoulders. Despite her assurances, Kore knew Athena longed to be elsewhere, perhaps in her library or overseeing the training grounds of justice.
Kore had never told anyone what she wanted (because she wanted many things), and she felt the weight of this conundrum as she moved through the gardens of spring. Gaia had decreed ages ago that all the unwed were required to pick flowers. Serving as a priestess and pollinator of stories was their price for freedom.
And so, on that day that didn't seem different from any other, the goddesses foraged for purpose and prophecies amidst the poppies. The work was easy and familiar, yet Kore was plagued by unease.
She pushed further into the meadow, searching for the source of her unrest around the dandelions and hellebore. Kore's footfall began straight and orderly but spiraled as the wild roses waved to the pansies, the pansies gestured to the crocus, and the crocus pointed Kore toward a patch of narcissus. Compared to the flowers dressed in deep reds and pinks, the narcissus rose from the earth like a ghost. Pale and delicate, the flower's heart was a sun, her petals tiny moons.
Kore had met many flowers over the years, but none quite like the narcissus. She decided not to cut the blossom but transplant it. Kore got down on her hands and knees, the ghost flower watching as she loosened its grip on the earth. She tugged at the narcissus, pushing her toes into the soil and pulling the roots from the Below. Eventually, the flower broke free from the earth with a gentle pop, followed by a hot breeze.
And because Kore's friends were busy foraging, the solar gods feasting, and Demeter casting lots with the elders, nobody noticed when a team of fire-breathing horses burst forth from a hole in the meadow. Nobody realized when the Underworld came for the goddess of spring.
In retaliation for her daughter's disappearance, Demeter summoned a storm of grief. She left Mt. Olympus on foot, looking for Kore in all her favorite haunts—the apple orchards and the mountain temples.
But neither human nor creature had seen the goddess, so the mother walked on. On the ninth day, Hecate suggested Demeter speak with Helios.
A Titan of the Sun sees all during an eternal spring, she said.
Demeter's grief was a storm, but it didn't compare to the winter fueled by her rage. Because when Helios informed Demeter that Kore was in the Underworld, and that Zeus had arranged her marriage to a god of the Below, Demeter countered with spells of drought and world-ending famine. She hurled wind and ice at the land she loved and ensured that nothing would grow. She reaped and reaped, but did not sow. Soon, humans began to starve, and with fewer prayers and offerings, the gods' powers dwindled.
Demeter was unyielding. Zeus knew Hades would be unhappy to lose his bride, but he bowed to the mourning mother. He sent Hermes to retrieve Kore, but it was a woman named Persephone who fell into Demeter's waiting arms. Persephone, Queen of the Below. She looked like Kore and sounded like Kore, but Persephone was different. She was not plagued by indecision and restlessness. Her curiosity was not a phase but a friend. She had bloomed, happily. And, she was in love.
Persephone explained to her mother that she'd made a home with the ghosts. She'd also eaten a handful of pomegranate seeds, so her visits to the garden of childhood would be temporary.
Demeter ignored the specifics of her daughter's return. She thawed the earth and cast away the rain clouds. She called the birds home and welcomed back the flowers. She handed Persephone an empty basket. Spring had returned.
As the story went, after Demeter reunited with Persephone, she built a temple to immortalize her daughter's transformation and the grief she felt over her loss. The temple stood where mother and daughter reunited each spring and where they parted ways in autumn. The Temple would also be the home of their annual rites, the Eleusinian Mysteries.
The details about this Mystery cult remain murky, but those who took part in the Rites of Demeter claim greater spiritual understanding. Many initiates claimed that they no longer feared death because, according to the goddesses, the soul endures.
When speaking about the cult of Demeter and Persephone, the Roman philosopher Cicero, who was initiated into the Mysteries during the 1st century, said that “they seem to be in recognition of the powers of Nature rather than the power of God.”
As our mythical grain mother and reaper, working with Demeter and her stories yields material and spiritual abundance.
She tends to the fields of our grief and endings. She's also a muse, and one of the ghosts haunting our September altars.
Right now, Demeter is on her way to meet a new group of initiates at Eleusis. She and Persephone will reenact the maiden's descent and share secrets harvested from the Underworld. And so, beneath this full moon, we invite you to also harvest meaning from the unexpected. May we welcome back the dark months with story and mystery, lighting candles for our muses and the ghosts of autumn.
