I have found myself pondering meta-myths lately.
You know, the ones that keep showing up in different forms, with different faces?
The ones that appear in our collective dreams in archetypal form and haunt us for days with their subtle power.
One that has stalked me of late has been that of Pistas Sophia – the fallen female Christ.
Today (as I sit here writing this) is the first year anniversary of my grandmother’s death. One year ago today her soul woke me up at 3:33 am UK time – the very moment she was passing from one life to another (9:33pm Denver time). In many ways she is more with me now than ever, yet in others I still miss our times of practice that we shared together.
“Practice” ? You might think. That doesn’t sound like a stereotypical granddaughter, grandmother activity.
I know but nonetheless this was the essence of the deepening of my relationship with her in the latter part of her life.