Lady of the Moonbow: Blessings, Dreams, and Celebrations of the Divine Feminine

By Ann Jamason

Ann Jamason is a living, breathing example of what can happen when a woman questions authority and rebels against society’s unspoken rules. With humor and reverence, Jamason describes her journey of personal empowerment touched by astounding magic and mystery from the ethereal, yet earthy, realm of the Divine Feminine.

Jamason invites others, whether “spiritual” or not, into her world as she shares insights she gained while evolving from a woman squelched by rigid rules to one who now lives a fuller, freer, juicier life of intuition, imagination, and joy. Within stories of celebrations, visions, rituals, rites of passage, and key relationships, Jamason reveals the healing transformations that awakened in her as she set out on a quest for wholeness. To her surprise, she discovered that playing, belly-laughing, dancing, and creating are all essential elements of a sacred path.

In this spiritual memoir, a dynamic, independent woman brings the reader along on her inner journey. Included with her personal story are questions that invite others to revisit significant moments in their own lives that helped them feel more connected to the heart and the whole that contains us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Nov 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781982215002

Ann Jamason

Ann Jamason is a retired Jungian psychotherapist and educator who blends the playful and profound into her classes and Sacred Circles. As an elder and wisdom teacher, she encourages others to add joy, understanding, grace, and balance to their own sacred paths. Fond of things that sparkle, Ann finds whimsy and magic nearly everywhere she goes. Ann recently moved from northern Colorado to Taos, New Mexico, where she plays, writes, prays, teaches, and celebrates life on the edge of an arroyo with her husband, three dogs, and four cats.

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Copyright © 2018 Ann Jamason.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

Balboa Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

ISBN: 978-1-9822-1499-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-1498-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-1500-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018912745

Balboa Press rev. date:   11/27/2018

For m

y women’s line, with love and gratitude:

past, present, and yet to come.

Contents

A Meeting at the Cauldron

Chapter 1   Through the Attic Wall

Chapter 2   Strengths of My Prairie Godmothers

Chapter 3   Just Go Along, Get Along

Chapter 4   Unzipped at Last

Chapter 5   Stirring the Mother Pot

Chapter 6   Summer Camp for Wise Women

Chapter 7   Circle ’Round the Altar

Chapter 8   Moontime with the Queens, Sluts, and Bitches

Chapter 9   Hold On to Your Tiara and Let the Celebrating Begin

Chapter 10   Creativity Unleashed

Chapter 11   I Came Here to Dance

Chapter 12   The Body Magnificent

Chapter 13   Limping Goddesses Raising Canes

Chapter 14   Tales of Pain and Grace

Chapter 15   Sparkle Queen Approaches Seventy

Chapter 16   It’s Never Too Late to Live Happily Ever After

Suggested Reading

Acknowledgments

A Meeting at the Cauldron

As I get comfortable in my favorite cushioned chair, I hold the intention to receive. My body slowly relaxes as I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and soften my heart by removing the shields I usually carry within me. In this inner space of meditation, normal becomes meaningless. I wait in silence, bravely opening to whatever will happen.

I’m delighted when I’m joined by a presence I’ve known most of my life, the goddess Brigid. She lives in my genes from my Irish lineage and has always hovered nearby, even when I wasn’t aware of her. I also know her from the bedtime stories my grandma, Lula May, told me when I was a child.

Brigid is dressed in an emerald green cape and a golden crown. Her age is a mystery, but her luminous essence is radiating love to me and I feel safe as she regards me with warm compassion. The strong will and fire that emanate from her fill me with awe. I know Brigid as my sister, my beloved aunt, a guide, my friend, and much more. This is no ordinary vision: it’s Divinity in a female form.

In this trance we are together under the old oak tree on my childhood Kansas farm. Brigid gently leads me to a cauldron that my mother and other ancestors used long ago to make soap, dye fabric, and sometimes stew a big pot of soup. The cauldron on our farm had a very busy life. Now Brigid encourages me to come close and look inside it.

The churning liquid within it contains my life story. It’s my own inner cauldron stirring with musings, memories, emotions, passions, visions, events, and long-forgotten experiences. As I approach seventy, I realize I’ve lived a long while and gone through a lot, but to see it all churning in this iron pot is a little daunting.

Gazing into this antique pot, I see that things have been constantly cracking, sizzling, and dissolving in my world. At times it has gotten quite turbulent. Clearly this has been the pattern of my journey: a process of constant change, letting go of lots of things and enjoying exciting new beginnings. There have been moments of delight and others that brought me to my knees. I’m amazed that I’ve made it through and am still here.

Realizations come to me through stories, meaningful symbols, insights, and primitive pictures. I recognize them all as images that have fed me during my inner processing. There are flashes of trouble, rebellion, missteps, fantastic ideas, and loads of creative endeavors. I see moments that confused me greatly, along with many contradictions—all of it adding up to the whole of me, making me who I am today. As I watch, I see myself as a woman whom others have thought eccentric, possibly insane, even a bit dangerous, while I’ve always felt I was quite ordinary. I consider all these moments dear to me and also teachers of lessons I’ve learned or still need to learn.

Now I look back at Brigid. Why is she here today and what does she want from me? How is my life about to change? Because whenever she appears, magic happens!

She lovingly smiles and reminds me that she is a muse for creative endeavors. She says she wants me to share my journey with others because it’s a journey that has moved me away from traditional roles and my religious upbringing. My roots are deep but I’ve also traveled different roads than my recent ancestors did. It hasn’t been a straight line but a circuitous path of ever-deepening layers of awakening.

Brigid tells me she wants to be known by all her faces. She acknowledges that God is far beyond gender, of course, and she’s not here to fight with the male God. She just knows that the world, especially women, need her story, too. Her feminine attributes, such as being able to receive, trust, allow, and participate more fully in relationships, are missing sorely amidst the discord and fighting that are so pervasive in the world. She knows it has been my life mission to explore some of these other ways of living and relating.

Brigid promises to help me share my experiences of leaving the more rigid masculine path and discovering another ancient way that called me out of numbness into a rich zest for life. By expanding from purely head knowledge to include the knowledge of my heart, I started to connect with the expansiveness of creation. In addition to prayer, studying texts, and sitting in silence, I’ve discovered ways to embody God through dance, laughter, movement, relationships, and celebrations filled with joy. My seriousness has given way to more playfulness and lightness. While real answers have often come, I’ve also learned to live more easily with not knowing. Brigid promises to help me reexamine the darkness I experienced in the past and, by my sharing, give hope to others. As I retrace those steps she will be there when I feel lost, lonely, and hurt. She’ll embrace me and open me to even more healing, discovery, love, and transformation.

I still have so many questions about my own life, especially as an older woman. She reassures me that she’ll be by my side as I share with others the tools for wrestling with the unknown. She loves all the questions that keep us humans growing and deepening. These questions, which have no quick answers, will take us far into the feminine way. Our wandering and wondering thrill her.

Brigid raises an eyebrow and asks me if I’m willing to try this. With trepidation, I accept the challenge. I know I can only share my personal journey and what has helped me. It’s not the way, but it has worked well for me. It hasn’t been a traditional path but it has been one of heart as I’ve lived my life in an intimate, experiential manner. Others are probably more confident of their beliefs and path, but I have relished the spontaneity and the many surprises along the way. Surrounded by Brigid’s palpable energy I feel hope, and where there’s hope there can be action. I’m ready to go forward with her.

It’s time to return to ordinary reality. I smile at Brigid and in gratitude I give her a purple African violet, a flower many of the women of my lineage loved to grow. She returns the smile and offers me a cactus quartz crystal to give me energy. We sit quietly holding hands because I’m reluctant to leave her enchanted, sacred world of beauty and goodness. But it’s time to do so and, if I choose to follow her guidance, I now have things to do.

As I return to this world, I stretch and touch the floor to ground myself. I sit quietly and think more about what I just experienced and what I want to share about my life. As I am used to doing, I pick up a notebook and start writing.

This book is the result.

It’s my hope that these musings will be useful as a guide, a book filled with ideas that I’ve tried, and encouragement for you to do so, too. I hope it will inspire you to be open to your adventures in life and cause you to think just a little differently. I want everyone to live an authentic, passionate, creative life, no longer blindly accepting all the rules and messages we receive. I’m dedicated to rediscovering and remembering the largeness of who we truly are.

The questions at the end of each chapter are there to inspire you to wonder about things in your own life, how they unfolded or are unfolding right now. As you read, notice what draws you in and what makes you squirm. Be present to how the stories impact you, confuse you, or leave you numb. Consider those reactions invitations to look deep within your own cauldron and see if there are similar stories to examine further. Remember, my life experiences are far from being the way. They’re just what have shaped me. What has shaped you?

I hope these musings will help you clarify things or inspire you in new ways. I want us to truthfully tell our stories to each other, to our families, to our circles of friends, and mostly to ourselves. We have voices to speak our lives. Let’s use them! The world is hungry for the heartful feminine experience. Whatever age we may be, we’ve likely endured great suffering and also great love—and if we haven’t yet, may there still be time to do so. Our lives are awesome affirmations that the Divine Feminine exists and, whether we believe in her or not, we are connected to her.

Together, Brigid, with her many faces and guises, and I invite you to journey further into the heart and wisdom of the sacred feminine and explore the open-ended horizons beyond outmoded ways of being and believing. May our lives be rich and may we continue to move toward ever-deepening wholeness, becoming who we truly were meant to be. Because we are present, lending our grace and our power of creation, the world is a different and more beautiful place.

Brigid sends her encouragement, her everlasting love, and her spark of fire to each of us. She also suggests we remember to have fun along the way. Blessed be.

AT YOUR CAULDRON

• Imagine that your very own big iron pot is sitting before you. Breathe deeply and look into the boiling matter that is your life so far. What do you see? What feelings come up for you? What images draw you to them, and what scares you? As you let the images flow, realize that you have lived a rich life thus far and that there is more to come. Sit awhile with these varied images.

• In my meditation the Divine Feminine appeared to me as the Irish goddess Brigid. It is said that the Goddess has 10,000 faces, such as Mother Mary, Isis, Kwan Yin, Yemaya, Pele, the Virgin of Guadalupe, and Sophia. If She appears to you, who is She? What does She look like? Are you comfortable with Her? What does She say?

1

Through the Attic Wall

In the early morning, a new archway had miraculously appeared in the slanting wall of my attic bedroom. Careful not to wake my older sister, I climbed out of the featherbed, crept toward the glowing hole, and peeked inside. There hung row upon row of beautiful princess dresses with bejeweled satin bodices and multilayered net skirts of rainbow hues, all exactly my size. Was I in heaven?

Imagine my disappointment when I awoke and found it was only a glorious dream, one that pleased every cell of my eight-year-old body. Stuck in the middle of gray Kansas, living with my family in a drab old farmhouse, I longed to step into those magical colors and yearned for my own land over the rainbow. Why couldn’t I, too, go through a looking glass? Everything seemed so much better in those magical places I read about.

The dream seemed to reassure me that somewhere there was another world filled with magic, color, fun, and beauty. In my childhood innocence I wholeheartedly believed I would someday find it.

Nowadays little girls’ princess dresses in many styles and colors can easily be found in box stores and children’s boutiques, but in the 1950s they weren’t available. On the farm, dress-up clothes were adult sized and usually made of somber-colored, practical fabrics. How I longed for a pretty pink tulle formal gown, ornately embellished and full of flair, and just my size!

As a solitary child in Kansas, I longed for excitement, color, and magic. Most days I played alone. My older sister usually ignored me; my mother was busy working in the house and garden, only vaguely aware of where I was; and my dad worked in town. I was left to invent my own little world and to roam freely without supervision.

I loved to lie on the ground in our orchard and watch the sunlight shine through the leaves. Fragrant lilac bushes made great places to hide and could be divided into rooms for all kinds of playhouses. Tumbleweeds, abundant on the dryland farm, were marvelous for stacking in tall piles and making cave-like structures. I ran freely all over the prairie fields, where I could feel the presence of people who had lived there long ago. Sometimes I thought I could hear their drumming and chanting, and their ponies’ hoofbeats.

Running alongside the pasture, just over the fence line, down the middle of a shelter belt of trees, were ruts from the covered wagons that once journeyed past our farm. It was one of the routes that eventually joined the Santa Fe Trail, which ran only ten miles north. I spent hours playing my own version of Little House on the Prairie and traveling in my own imaginary wagon caravan.

The old red barn was another favorite place for adventures. It smelled of our plow horse, Baldy, and our thirteen milk cows. As Dad squeezed the cow’s teats, filling the bucket with raw milk, he’d give the waiting cats an occasional squirt. While he milked, I sang and danced with great gusto. This made Old Bossy nervous, and several times she raised her right leg, kicked my dad in his shin, knocked him off his three-legged stool, and sent him sailing across the barn. Despite his huge bruises, Daddy never banned me from the barn; he was patient and indulgent where I was concerned.

In the barn’s loft, I rearranged the hay bales to make secret forts. From its big window it seemed I could see forever. I imagined having barn dances up there and turning it into a jazz barn or a juke joint, even if I didn’t know what those words meant. That kind of dancing—well, any kind of dancing—was forbidden by my little country church, but to me it sounded exotic and mysterious.

On our farm were several dilapidated outbuildings filled to the brim with interesting objects–in other words, junk. My frugal, Depression-era parents never parted with much. There were broken guns, a doctor’s bag filled with theatrical objects, and piles of antique furniture and farming tools. The shell of a grandfather clock played prime roles in some of my fairy tale enactments. Behind one building was an old Model-T car in which I took imaginary magic carpet rides with the mice who lived in it. I wondered, if I could only find my own fairy godmother, if they could be turned into beautiful horses.

I had a whole flock of chickens for friends, and my daily assigned chore was to gather their eggs. Often my mom would select a chicken to serve for dinner. She was an expert at chopping their heads off, and I was both appalled and fascinated to find that beheaded chickens do run around for a while. Then Mom would dip it into the boiling iron pot so she could pluck its feathers off.

Occasionally I’d discover a snake hiding in a hen’s nest. Because they kept the rodents under control, bull snakes were welcome. Rattlesnakes were another story. My mother once chopped the head of a coiled rattler off with a vengeance, her usual docility replaced by fierce determination. This had the double effect of making me feel safe and causing me to wonder who she really was.

As a child I always had a great urge to climb almost anything, seeking to go higher and higher. Inching my way through dense trumpet vines, I would scale the rickety ladder to the top of the windmill. In the upper branches of small trees I would ride the ever-present Kansas wind.

All roofs were made to jump off of, but they also provided marvelous stages for my many theatrical productions. My adoring audience was whatever cat showed up and always our one-eyed springer spaniel, Laddie. Naturally, I needed costumes for these activities and frequently confiscated items from my mother’s or sister’s closets. My favorite costume was my Mouseketeer shirt, ordered from the Mickey Mouse Club magazine, with my name printed on the front and the official logo on the back. I wore it with a blue knife-pleated skirt and, of course, the ears! The whole Mouseketeer club were my imaginary playmates. I pretended to dance and sing with them all over our yard and pasture, and up and down the long country driveway.

Once, after a family funeral, I was at my grandma’s house where there were lots of older relatives but no other children. Alone on the front porch, I entertained myself by doing an elaborate dance number. Suddenly I noticed a lot of the adults, with a variety of expressions, watching me from the window. My teenage sister looked horrified. My mom just shook her head and smiled while Daddy was probably applauding in the background.

Clearly, I was rarely bored as a child. I could fill hours swinging slowly in the old tire swing, sitting with our pets on a rock under a large oak, pouring water on the dry dirt to make mud pies, or reading books.

At night I loved to watch the sky. There were no other light sources on the farm to dim the brilliancy of the stars’ light. They seemed so close I could almost reach up and catch them in my hands. From this vantage point, my child-self realized that Earth just couldn’t be the only place life exists. With all this vastness, there just had to be much more out there.

I couldn’t have put it into words then, but seeing the night sky was an early experience of being drawn closer to something primeval. It seemed to bring to the surface a soul memory of a time when the whole world shared a brilliant, starry sky each night. I felt I belonged and was a small part of it all. Unfortunately, as I grew older, the wonder of the night sky that seemed to go on forever was lost to me because I simply forgot to look up.

As a child I would have been happy to roam freely in nature for the rest of my life, but school attendance was mandatory starting at age six. Thirteen students were distributed among eight classes in our one-room school, with only one poor teacher for all of us. In my first grade class there were only two other girls. When I arrived, I felt already behind because Susan knew how to read. I learned quickly, but for four years I competed to learn more and to be the first in everything. I felt a lot of pressure to perform, and cried in frustration when I couldn’t understand or complete difficult, often above-grade-level assignments perfectly.

All of us farm kids were wild creatures at heart so we all excelled at recess. We used the shed for jumping-off-the-roof contests, and we played and hid from our distraught teacher in the shelter belt. Circuses we’d been to or heard about inspired us to hang by our heels from the climbing bars. Someone always puked from spinning too fast on the merry-go-round but we always got right back on. We also played a primitive form of hockey, whacking our shins until they were black and blue. No girly-girls or crybabies were allowed to play.

Having only three little girls in one