Tuesday, October 14, 2025

"The Decline of the American Empire" - Commentary by Chris Hedges


In the famous 1976 BBC series I, CLAUDIUS, based upon the novel by Robert Graves,  which featured  Derek Jacobi as Claudius, John Hurt as Caligula, and Patrick Stewart and other dignitaries of the British Theatre, we encounter Claudius,  a reluctant, timid, and uniquely sane  Emperor of Rome in its decadent, declining years.  Claudius, born into the Royal family with a club foot and a stutter,  was made Emperor when the mad and sadistic Caligula was deposed.   Claudius was regarded by the Pretorian Guard, who forced him onto the throne,  as a joke.  And yet, he proved to be a very good Emperor indeed,  struggling to be as just as possible.  Claudius dreamed of the return of the democratic Republic that was once the noble foundation of Rome,  in a time of  decadence, endless scheming and murdering for power, and corrupt excess.  

We encounter Claudius towards the end of his life, having a private conversation with the mythic, and rather cynical  divine Sibyl,  as he composes his Memoirs for future times.  He is forced to admit that although he has so far survived all the plots and conspiracies of his time,  the ethics, nobility and unity of the Rome he desired was long, and irretrievably, gone.   

I try to keep this journal free of politics, but it's not always possible for me.  As a "boomer" who grew to young adulthood in the idealistic, optimistic,  and affluent, Kennedy years,  I sympathize with Claudius. I thought of that film series after reading the article I take the liberty of copying here by Chris Hedges.  And  I reluctantly agree with him too these days  - it is the end of the American Empire (even though it was never overtly called an "Empire", one has to admit it was).  And it looks quite possible that it's the end of the once robust  American Democracy as well,  which for all its flaws, I and most of my fellow citizens assumed was a certainty, a stable backdrop in spite of the difficulties of our tumultuous time.  Now...... people like myself don't know what to do. 

Yes, various friends and colleagues write that not just the U.S. but most of global industrial civilization,   and the medievil patriarchal systems that support it, along with capitalism........ are not sustainable, and a collapse has been inevitable.  And that in order for new worlds and ways that are more appropriate to the world now will arise, phoenix like, from the ashes.  I hope so,  I believe it probably is so, although I do not think I will see it in my lifetime.  That's the theme I'll explore in a future article, a more hopeful article.  

But right now, here we are.  As a U.S. citizen, I daily see that the Barbarians have arrived and are tearing down the temples and knocking the noses off of every statue, and grabbing all the loot as do so.  How do we re-organize ourselves, survive, how do we live in what is happening to that certainty that is no longer certain?  Rome is burning.

We are watching the destabilization, and deconstruction, of the U.S.,  which is composed of  states that are not all that "united" any more.  Daily the laws and system of the Constitution, which I remember having to make a Pledge of Allegiance to every morning as a school girl,  is broken by a regime that is becoming more authoritarian all the time.  And Climate Change brings bigger and more ominous storms, and AI deconstructs our notions of even what is "real" on the sidelines, becoming smarter, bigger, and more dangerous.  And in the closing words of  Chris Hedges,  like Nero before him: 
  
"Trump the pyromaniac entertains us as we go down."

 
Puppet Theater of the Absurd - by Chris Hedges

 "Like the late Roman Empire, our republic is dead.  Our constitutional rights — due process, habeas corpus, privacy, freedom from exploitation, fair elections and dissent — have been taken from us by judicial and legislative fiat. These rights exist only in name. The vast disconnect between the purported values of our faux democracy and reality means our political discourse, the words we use to describe ourselves and our political system, are absurd.

         Trump the pyromaniac entertains us as we go down."

The last days of dying empires are dominated by idiots. The Roman, Mayan, French, Habsburg, Ottoman, Romanoff, Iranian and Soviet dynasties crumbled under the stupidity of their decadent rulers who absented themselves from reality, plundered their nations and retreated into echo chambers where fact and fiction were indistinguishable.

Donald Trump, and the sycophantic buffoons in his administration, are updated versions of the reigns of the Roman emperor Nero, who allocated vast state expenditures to attain magical powers; the Chinese emperor Qin Shi Huang, who funded repeated expeditions to a mythical island of immortals to bring back a potion that would give him eternal life; and a feckless Tsarist court that sat around reading tarot cards and attending séances as Russia was decimated by a war that consumed over two million lives and revolution brewed in the streets.

In “Hitler and the Germans,” the political philosopher Eric Voegelin dismisses the idea that Hitler — gifted in oratory and political opportunism, but poorly educated and vulgar — mesmerized and seduced the German people. The Germans, he writes, supported Hitler and the “grotesque, marginal figures,” surrounding him because he embodied the pathologies of a diseased society, one beset by economic collapse and hopelessness. Voegelin defines stupidity as a “loss of reality.” The loss of reality means a “stupid” person cannot “rightly orient his action in the world, in which he lives.” The demagogue, who is always an idiote, is not a freak or social mutation. The demagogue expresses the society’s zeitgeist, its collective departure from a rational world of verifiable fact.

These demagogues, who promise to recapture lost glory and power, do not create. They only destroy. They accelerate the collapse. Limited in intellectual ability, lacking any moral compass, grossly incompetent and filled with rage at established elites who they see as having slighted and rejected them, they remake the world into a playground for grifters, con artists and megalomaniacs. They make war on universities, banish scientific research, peddle quack theories about vaccines as a pretext to expand mass surveillance and data sharing, strip legal residents of their rights and empower armies of goons, which is what the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has become, to spread fear and ensure passivity. Reality, whether the climate crisis or the immiseration of the working class, does not impinge on their fantasies. The worse it gets, the more idiotic they become.

Hannah Arendt blames a society that willingly embraces radical evil on this collective “thoughtlessness.” Desperate to escape from the stagnation, where they and their children are trapped, hopeless and in despair, a betrayed population is conditioned to exploit everyone around them in a desperate scramble to advance. People are objects to be used, mirroring the cruelty inflicted by the ruling class.

A society convulsed by disorder and chaos, as Voegelin points out, celebrates the morally degenerate, those who are cunning, manipulative, deceitful and violent. In an open, democratic society, these attributes are despised and criminalized. Those who exhibit them are condemned as stupid; “a man [or woman] who behaves in this way,” Voegelin notes, “will be socially boycotted.” But the social, cultural and moral norms in a diseased society are inverted. The attributes that sustain an open society — a concern for the common good, honesty, trust and self-sacrifice — are ridiculed. They are detrimental to existence in a diseased society.

When a society, as Plato notes, abandons the common good, it always unleashes amoral lusts — violence, greed and sexual exploitation — and fosters magical thinking, the focus of my book “Empire of Illusion: The End of Literacy and the Triumph of Spectacle.”

The only thing these dying regimes do well is spectacle. These bread and circus acts — like Trump’s $40 million Army parade to be held on his birthday on June 14 — keep a distressed population entertained.

The Disneyfication of America, the land of eternally happy thoughts and positive attitudes, the land where everything is possible, is peddled to mask the cruelty of economic stagnation and social inequality. The population is conditioned by mass culture, dominated by sexual commodification, banal and mindless entertainment and graphic depictions of violence, to blame itself for failure.  Søren Kierkegaard in “The Present Age” warns that the modern state seeks to eradicate conscience and shape and manipulate individuals into a pliable and indoctrinated “public.” This public is not real. It is, as Kierkegaard writes, a “monstrous abstraction, an all-embracing something which is nothing, a mirage.” In short, we became part of a herd, “unreal individuals who never are and never can be united in an actual situation or organization — and yet are held together as a whole.” Those who question the public, those who denounce the corruption of the ruling class, are dismissed as dreamers, freaks or traitors. But only they, according to the Greek definition of the polis, can be considered citizens.

Thomas Paine writes that a despotic government is a fungus that grows out of a corrupt civil society. This is what happened to past societies. It is what happened to us.

It is tempting to personalize the decay, as if ridding ourselves of Trump will return us to sanity and sobriety. But the rot and corruption has ruined all of our democratic institutions, which function in form, not in content. The consent of the governed is a cruel joke. Congress is a club on the take from billionaires and corporations. The courts are appendages of corporations and the rich. The press is an echo chamber of the elites, some of whom do not like Trump, but none of whom advocate the social and political reforms that could save us from despotism. It is about how we dress up despotism, not despotism itself.

The historian Ramsay MacMullen, in “Corruption and the Decline of Rome,” writes that what destroyed the Roman Empire was “the diverting of governmental force, its misdirection.” Power became about enriching private interests. This misdirection renders government powerless, at least as an institution that can address the needs and protect the rights of the citizenry. Our government, in this sense, is powerless. It is a tool of corporations, banks, the war industry and oligarchs. It cannibalizes itself to funnel wealth upwards.

“[T]he decline of Rome was the natural and inevitable effect of immoderate greatness,” Edward Gibbon writes. “Prosperity ripened the principle of decay; the cause of the destruction multiplied with the extent of conquest; and, as soon as time or accident had removed the artificial supports, the stupendous fabric yielded to the pressure of its own weight. The story of the ruin is simple and obvious: and instead of inquiring why the Roman Empire was destroyed we should rather be surprised that it had subsisted for so long.”

The Roman emperor Commodus, like Trump, was entranced with his own vanity. He commissioned statues of himself as Hercules and had little interest in governance. He fancied himself a star of the arena, staging gladiatorial contests where he was crowned the victor and killing lions with a bow and arrow. The empire — he renamed Rome the Colonia Commodiana (Colony of Commodus) — was a vehicle to satiate his bottomless narcissism and lust for wealth. He sold public offices the way Trump sells pardons and favors to those who invest in his cryptocurrencies or donate to his inauguration committee or presidential library.

Finally, the emperor’s advisors arranged to have him strangled to death in his bath by a professional wrestler after he announced that he would assume the consulship dressed as a gladiator. But his assassination did nothing to halt the decline. Commodus was replaced by the reformer Pertinax who was assassinated three months later. The Praetorian Guards auctioned off the office of emperor. The next emperor, Didius Julianus, lasted 66 days. There would be five emperors in A.D. 193, the year after the assassination of Commodus.

Like the late Roman Empire, our republic is dead.

Our constitutional rights — due process, habeas corpus, privacy, freedom from exploitation, fair elections and dissent — have been taken from us by judicial and legislative fiat. These rights exist only in name. The vast disconnect between the purported values of our faux democracy and reality means our political discourse, the words we use to describe ourselves and our political system, are absurd.

Walter Benjamin wrote in 1940 amid the rise of European fascism and looming world war:

A Klee painting named Angelus Novus shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned towards the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe, which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.

Our decay, our illiteracy and collective retreat from reality, was long in the making. The steady erosion of our rights, especially our rights as voters, the transformation of the organs of state into tools of exploitation, the immiseration of the working poor and middle class, the lies that saturate our airwaves, the degrading of public education, the endless and futile wars, the staggering public debt, the collapse of our physical infrastructure, mirror the last days of all empires.

Trump the pyromaniac entertains us as we go down.

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Friday, August 29, 2025

Aurora, and the Roman Matralia


 "In practical terms, whenever one invokes the aid of a God or Goddess, what is asked is that the deity will project His or Her special numen so that whatever task is to be attempted shall succeed in accordance with the Gods. The two most basic prayers in the religio Romana are Do ut das"I give so that You may give," and the formula: bonas preces precor, ut sis volens propitius, "I pray good prayers in order that You may willingly be propitious."*

It was my great privilege to participate in a Ritual Performance using Masks of the Goddess,  organized by Annie Waters and  and in Collaboration with Mana Youngbear,  Meredith Melvin, Diane Smalley,  Christy Salo, Kara Hagedorn,  and  Brianna Wunderlin at the INNER EARTH TEA HOUSE in Willits, California in July.  I apologize that it's taken me this long to write about it in the Blog.  I know we all felt the presence of the Divine, dancing with us. 

My part was to create the Introduction, which would also be choosing the mask that Annie would use.   So weeks before the event, I tried to imagine what aspect of the Great Mother we were celebrating and calling upon,  what masked image and story  came to mind from the many years, and many Colleagues performances, behind Annie and I.  Surprisingly, what came to mind was the photo above of the Roman Goddess of the dawn, Aurora,  performed by Annie in 2013 in her play The Awakening.   

And so I did a little research about this Goddess, and found there was a great deal I did not know about Her, importantly, that She was not only the bringer of Dawn, but She also had another evolved aspect:  She was Mater Matuta, the Great Mother in her form as the evolved, mature and freeborn Queen, celebrated on June 11 each year. 

I have sometimes felt, when working with the masks, that I joined a mysterious network of invisible collaborators.  Synchronicities occur in that creative field,  synchronicities that seem to be are part of that grand mythic Conversation. Or, sometimes I think of them as Spider Woman'way of saying Hello.

We included in the event a  spoken word piece about  Grandmother Spider Woman, performed by Briana Wunderlin.  A day before the performances,  I rummaged in my open suitcase and a rather large spider jumped out!  It sat beside the suitcase for a few minutes, and then slowly walked away, disappearing into a curtain.   I took that as yet another Blessing, and Encouragement.

“Aurora, Keeper of the Dawn, Your touch paints the world anew. With your morning winds you whisper hope.”  Ovid


                                          Aurora

 Liminal Goddess of the Dawn,   and  Herold of the Mature Power of the Divine Feminine            


(play Finnish “yoik” Call) https://youtu.be/hFjwW8Ranrg?si=m5AZ9bZ_lB60Tzkd )

What you just heard was something Sami shamans do when they call or sing “the Yoik.”  I know because I once heard a Sami shaman do exactly that (but that's another story).  It’s a call to the Divine, to the Ancestors, to the Protectors.

I wanted to begin this gathering  with just such a Call to the Goddess, who is returning powerfully into the world now just as She is powerfully needed.  The world we have trusted in seems to be vanishing before our eyes, dissolving in chaos, political turmoil, and crisis.   And yet, I believe we are living in the chaos of a profoundly liminal time, in the transformative  hour  before Dawn. Light is emerging, a light each one of us has worked toward in our own unique ways.

Birth is painful, and rarely gentle. So together  we make our  Call, loud and strong, as Dawn, called Aurora by the Romans and Eos by the Greeks,  brings light to us all.  

Aurora was the Roman Goddess of the Dawn.   She is the Herald of each ascending cycle  - the Herold of new days, new life, and new paradigms. She is a truly "liminal" Goddess,  existing  in the generative "between" zone between day and night, between her siblings Luna and Sol, the light of the Moon and the light of the Sun. The light that Aurora brings is the light of hope, of possibility, of non-duality.

In Greek myth, Eos was also the mother of the Anemoi, the winds of change.   In exploring Roman mythology, I learned some interesting things about Aurora. She was also identified with  the Roman “great mother” Goddess Mater Matuta. Mater (from which we get both the words “Mother” and “matter”) and Matuta (from which the word “mature” comes) was associated with ripening:  the ripening of grain, the ripening of Dawn’s New Day, and the ripening  of women. “Matutinus” was also a Roman word that meant “early morning or dawn.”  Mater  Matuta was the goddess of female maturation, and I believe, archetypically speaking, we can see that what is “dawning” is the maturation of female power in the world.

The Return of the Goddess.  And the empowerment of women in a world in which, frankly, we have been marginalized, demonized, invisible, trivialized, and usually forbidden to participate in patriarchal world power.  In a nutshell:  enslaved,  for a long, long time.  

         A stone statue of a person

AI-generated content may be incorrect.

 

It Rome, Mater Matuta's festival was called  the Matralia, celebrated on June 11.  Yellow cakes were were offered,  and also consumed.  The festival was exclusively for women:  men were not allowed.  Many images have been found of Mater Matuta, and She was probably found in household, much as Catholics today will keep a beloved image of the Virgin Mary in their homes.  These statues showed Mater enthroned, and usually holding multiple infants in swaddling clothes on her generous lap.  Could there be a more direct image of the Great Mother, nourishing each new generation, holding them steadfast in Her wise and strong arms?  Stumbling on this discovery, I found some interesting metaphors there indeed, both for women of this deeply troubled time,  and for women many years hence. 

“There was a time when you were not a slave, remember that. You walked alone, full of laughter, you bathed bare-bellied. You say you have lost all recollection of it, remember . . . You say there are no words to describe this time, you say it does not exist. But remember. Make an effort to remember. Or, failing that, invent.”

― Monique Wittig, Les Guérillères

The Festival was a celebration of the Maturation of Womanhood and only free women were allowed to attend.  No woman who was enslaved could be allowed.  In fact, symbolically, a slave woman was “driven forth” to further demonstrate the power of free women. Women who had reached, like their Goddess, the fullness of their mature life and power, and would not tolerate anything else.

I’d say that’s a pretty good metaphor for our time as well, for the arising of women and the celebratory  arising of the Goddess in Her many manifestations. We are bringing forth a new world, a world in which no woman is a slave, not in any way. 

Friday, August 15, 2025

Dalias............. Extraordinary!


 I had the privilege of seeing the Dalia Garden in full bloom when I was there at the Mendocino Coastline Botanical Garden,  near Fort Bragg, California.  It was so wonderful to see the ocean again, and an extraordinary vision of the Great Artist Nature is.

 

   

















Saturday, August 9, 2025

On the Persistence of Butterflies, and the Emanation of Beauty

                   

Beauty above me, 
Beauty below me,
Beauty before me,
Beauty behind me,
I walk in Beauty.

Navajo (Dine`) Prayer


I am approaching my 76th birthday next week.  Wow.  I've had a long life.  And for some reason, perhaps the threads of synchronicity Spider Woman has been throwing me lately, I've been thinking about Butterflies.    

I love the painting above (which I did not create).  I don't know how I found it, and I have not bee successful in finding out who the artist is, even when I did an image search.  I loved it enough that I even made my own version of the painting - and if I ever find the artist, I would hope she or he would not see this as plagerism, but rather deep appreciation.

An old woman is walking, just a silouette in the distance, her name and identity unknown.  Or perhaps, with the passage of time and her long life walk, names just aren't important to her anymore.  The road, I imagine, is dusty.   Her back is a bit bent..... she is tired, it's been a long walk.  But........she keeps on walking.  Maybe it's a pilgrimage to her, or maybe a mission.  Maybe getting somewhere isn't important any longer - its the walk itself that matters.  

But as she  walks butterflies emanate from her out into the world.  To do their work of bringing  Beauty.  And to do their work of Pollinating the future.  

As an artist,  I think this is the legacy many of us would like to leave behind us as we progress on our own, often dusty, often long, roads.  We want to think our work has  flown forth, to bloom as it will,  in other's  imaginations, in another time perhaps.  Looking again at the painting, I think maybe that old woman doesn't think about such things.  She just keeps on walking.   But in the end, no one could ask for more. 

Pollen:  agent of new life, new hope, transformation. 

My prayer:  May we have butterfly minds, pollinator hearts.
Peace March against the war in Iraq, San Francisco, 2003



The ancient Greek word for "butterfly" is ψυχή (psȳchē), which means "soul" or "mind".  And I have often found them mysteriously "soulful", as they seem to flit in and out of mystery and of synchronicity.  The picture above, for example - it was from the San Francisco Chronicle at the time of the great peace march against the incipient Iraq war, and shows three friends with their "soul icons".   Me in the mask of Sophia, Alan Moore, founder of the Butterfly Gardeners Association with his sign, and Nicole, an artist who created "Cosmic Cash".  Note that her icon, also,  occurred in this synchronistic photo behind her.  


Transformers, pollinators .......... they begin their lives as caterpillars, build a crysalis and generate imaginal cells.   Imaginal cells (what a fantastic name) are cells in the evolution of a butterfly from caterpillar to winged butterfly that activate within the Crysalis, and the butterfly literally becomes mush as it is deconstructed and changed.   As the visionary psychologist  Anodea Judith explains it:

"When a caterpillar nears its transformation time, it begins to eat ravenously, consuming everything in sight. The caterpillar body then becomes heavy, outgrowing its own skin many times, until it is too bloated to move. Attaching to a branch (upside down, we might add, where everything is turned on its head) it forms a chrysalis—an enclosing shell that limits the caterpillar’s freedom for the duration of the transformation.....Tiny cells, that biologists actually call “imaginal cells,” begin to appear. These cells are wholly different from caterpillar cells, carrying different information, vibrating to a different frequency–the frequency of the emerging butterfly. At first, the caterpillar’s immune system perceives these new cells as enemies, and attacks them, much as new ideas in science, medicine, politics, and social behavior are viciously denounced by the powers now considered mainstream. But the imaginal cells are not deterred.  They continue to appear, in even greater numbers, recognizing each other, bonding together, until the new cells are numerous enough to organize into clumps. When enough cells have formed to make structures along the new organizational lines, the caterpillar’s immune system is overwhelmed. The caterpillar body then become a nutritious soup for the growth of the butterfly."





If we can see that our thoughts participate in  pollinating the future, we can  perhaps find ways of living with simplicity and honor, even in a time so very out of balance.  Regardless of where one is, there is a profound need to "walk in Beauty".  To be "on the Pollen Path".  

                    
             
Without the grace of the pollinators, the butterflies and hummingbirds and bees, there will be no future.  This idea is fundamental to spiritual traditions of native peoples of the Southwest, including the Pueblo peoples, the Navajo and the Apache.  As shown above, when this young Apache woman came of age and entered into her fertile years, she was blessed by the tribe with symbolic pollen.  Imagine what it would be like if young women in our world were so honored.  

 "The Pollen Path" is a healing and initiatory ceremony/concept among the Dine` that variously enacts a mythic journey, and demonstrates a cosmology of non-duality.  "Pollen Path" art and sand paintings often show the union of opposites, such as red sun and blue moon, as well as the directions and associated stories, representing the cycles that form a whole.  

As I imagine the metaphor of a  "pollen path" for our time,  as I consider the "emanations of  beauty" in the painting at the top of this essay,  I reflect as well that some butterflies, like the Monarch or the Painted Lady, are migratory.  Monarch butterflies will migrate over very long distances, as amazingly frail as they seem.  Some travel from Mexico to the norther parts of the United States and into Canada, a distance of over 2,500 miles.  Tragically, because of climate change and loss of habitat, they are among the endangered species.  

Lastly, I always seem to return to one of my favorite storytellers, Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, on the work of the Butterfly Dancer.  May we all, women and men, young and old, become Butterfly Dancers this May Day.

  "The (Hopi) butterfly dancer must be old because she represents the soul that is old. She is wide of thigh and broad of rump because she carries so much. Her grey hair certifies that she need no longer observe taboos about touching others. She is allowed to touch everyone: boys, babies, men, women, girl children, the old, the ill, and the dead. The Butterfly Woman can touch everyone. It is her privilege to touch all, at last. This is her power. Hers is the body of La Mariposa, the butterfly."


Clarissa Pinkola Estes  tells the story of waiting to see the "Butterfly Dancer" at a ceremony.  Tourists, unused to Indian Time, wait throughout a long, hot, dusty day to see the dancer emerge, expecting, no doubt a slender, ephemeral Indian maiden, and they are no oubt they were shocked out of their patronizing cultural fantasy to see at last the grey haired  Dancer/Pollinator emerge, slow, not young, with her traditional tokens of empowerment.


"Her heavy body and her very skinny legs made her look like a hopping spider wrapped in a tamale. She hops on one foot and then on the other. She waves her feather fan to and fro. She is The Butterfly arrived to strengthen the weak. She is that which most think of as not strong: age, the butterfly, the feminine."


Because in the agricultural ritual these dances symbolize and invoke, call in, the forces that initiate the  vital work of pollination, this is no job for for an inexperienced girl, no trivial token flight for a  pretty child. It's a job for one who has lived through many cycles, and can seed and generate the future from a solid base. Again, I take here the liberty of quoting Dr. Estes again:

"Butterfly Woman mends the erroneous idea that transformation is only for the tortured, the saintly, or only for the fabulously strong. The Self need not carry mountains to transform. A little is enough. A little goes a long way. A little changes much. The fertilizing force replaces the moving of mountains.

Butterfly Maiden pollinates the souls of the earth: It is easier that you think, she says. She is shaking her feather fan, and she’s hopping, for she is spilling spiritual pollen all over the people who are there, Native Americans, little children, visitors, everyone. This is the translator of the instinctual, the fertilizing force, the mender, the rememberer of old ideas. She is La voz mitológica."

"La voz mitológica". The mythic voice.  The voice that shows us the place where the Butterflies go, the voice that sings the threads of synchronicity as they weave into our lives and become visible.   The Mythic Voice re-enchants the world around us, lending luminosity to each footstep, and pollinates, energizes, en-chants those who hear.   

   

Some of my own butterflies