After years of denial I have come to recognize this sad and bitter truth: Writers must market their books if they want them to sell. They must do this even if HarperCollins is their publisher. The better an author is at marketing, the more books he or she will sell.
As I was scrolling down my latest Willamette Writers newsletter I came upon Tonya Macalino’s ad for her book marketing workshop at Jacobsen’s Books & More, a cozy independent bookstore in Hillsboro, Oregon.
OK, I told myself, bite the bullet. You’ve gotta learn how to do this.
My sentiments exactly. Photo by Therese of “Life’s Tasty Adventures”
It was a cold, foggy morning on Main Street when I pushed open the bookstore door balancing a latte that was too hot to handle on my notebook. Tina, the owner of Jacobsen’s Books & More, escorted me past rows of books to the back of the bookstore. The books kept calling to me, but I ignored them and settled down at a table with several other middle-aged writers who looked like kids waiting for their first dental appointment.
Tonya did not sugar coat her message. Marketing a first book is a hard, thankless pursuit. She assured us that we would have to work like dogs for at least three years with very few rewards. But if we persevered, things would get easier.
Her first advice was “Don’t suck.”
Get your book edited by someone who knows what he or she is doing, preferably a professional.
Get a graphic artist to do your cover.
Get a professional to do the interior design. It’s not as easy as it looks.
A book must not only be a well crafted piece of writing, it must also be packaged in a cover that draws attention and presented in a professional looking format, otherwise no one will look at it twice.
Once you have something worth selling, the work begins.
As Tonya led us through the terrifying maze of pricing, establishing name recognition, marketing plans, SEO (search engine optimization), mailing lists, calls to action, web page creation, blogging, blog hopping, blog tours, blog tribing, Amazon, keyword proofing, FaceBook, Twitter, Pintrest, and Goodreads, my eyes began to cross. Tons of useful information crammed into one grueling day.
This is Tonya Macalino demonstrating how to set up an author’s table for book signings and fairs.
Tonya’s take-home message was that modern marketing is all about social networking, favors, and friends. The Internet is a tool that enables a writer to find and interact with a like-minded community of other writers and readers. Once a writer finds and maintains a place in it, if his or her book is good, it will sell.
If I look at marketing this way instead of as a method for pushing a product; and if I make a list of marketing tasks and focus on just one thing at a time for a few hours two or three times a week, I may actually be able to do this.
One of the highlights of Greece was its animals. They were everywhere. Dogs strolled down the sidewalks of Athens and snoozed in front of the Erecthion
Cats peeked from nooks and crannies and, if you were lucky, they came out and rolled on the sidewalk and let you scratch their bellies. Every restaurant seemed to have its resident cat. These furry souls didn’t care that I was a stranger in a strange land. They treated me like all the rest of the humans, making me feel comfortable and accepted.
The maître d of The Lions Restaurant in Matala, CreteNapping over ancient mosaics on the way to the Temple of DelphiEntertaining at the Delphi Museum CafeThis handsome black tom assured us that he was the real host at Maria’s Rooms in SantoriniRestroom duty at the Elefsina Archeological Site
Yes, I am well aware that most of those wonderful animals were homeless, but that didn’t make them any less cute or any less comforting. Greece has very few animal shelters and, according to the Greek Animal Rescue web site, dogs and cats and donkeys are horribly abused there. But, fortunately, we saw no evidence of this during our brief sojourn. And I would bet that more than a few of those street animals had homes. There are no leash laws and most cat owners let their cats roam outside. The Greeks have a much more laissez faire attitude toward their animal friends that we do, but that doesn’t mean they don’t care. Many animal lovers put out food and water for strays and there are a few, but not nearly enough, spay and neuter programs. Most families are struggling economically and have nothing left over to take the family pet to the vet. In fact, the worst looking cat I saw in Greece was Indy, the much loved, well-fed, mangy tomcat that had adopted Costas, a friend of ours in Athens.
The donkeys that shuttled tourists between Fira, Santorini and the Old Port were gentle, patient, and fun to watch. The were well treated and had free medical and dental care. I don’t even have free medical and dental.
Looking down from Fira to the Old Port, you can see the switchbacks that donkeys and pedestrians use. It was hot, so we used the cable cars, which you can just see in the upper right hand corner.
Looking down from the ruins of the Palace of Phaistos on Crete we were treated to a sight that would have been familiar to an ancient Minoan. A goat was leading this line of sheep to a new pasture. There was no human anywhere near them. There didn’t need to be. The goat was in charge.
On the way down from the Acropolis we came upon a turtle plodding toward the edge of the path, which was a sheer drop-off. A man walking toward us took one look at the turtle and screamed in heavily accented English, “Don’t do it! Don’t jump.” Everyone laughed but the turtle. He, of course, had no intention of jumping.
Our Greek animal hosts and hostesses were delightful and showed us glimpses of their country that we would have otherwise missed. And they did it effortlessly, as if by magic.
The town of Delphi nestles on the south slope of Mt Parnasus, and overlooks dramatic hillsides, acres of gray green olive groves and a small, sparkling-blue slice of Korinthiakos bay. It’s just plain, knock-your-socks-off beautiful.
Steps connecting an uphill street with a downhill street.
And this is only fitting, because back in the day, long before there were Greeks, Gaia, grandmother earth, had her sanctuary in this lovely spot and her child, the terrible Python, lurked underground. This was the time of the Titans. A time when the shadowy, frightful ghosts, gods, and spirits of the underworld reigned supreme.* Even then, legend has it that Gaia’s temple was a famous oracle.** And because it belonged to Her, it would have been the center of the earth, her belly-button or omphalos.
And then, down from the big sky steppes of the north, came Zeus. He was a new and strange god. He had no form and no personality. He was huge and incomprehensible and He ruled the vast heavens. And He was definitely a he. This new kid on the block set about becoming top god in his chosen land. First, he established his mythological identity by insinuating himself into the existing pantheon as the son of Rhea and Cronos, the king and Queen of the Titans. Then he created the Olympian pantheon, which at first consisted of his brothers and sisters. This wasn’t enough, so he took is sister Hera as his queen and proceeded to populate the rest of the pantheon with his offspring. Since the Queen of the Gods was not as compliant as he would have wished, the only Olympians Zeus managed to father with Hera were Ares and Hephaestus. So he raped his cousin Leto
Zeus “wooed” Leto in the form of a swan.
and fathered the twins, Apollo and Artemis. Dione, another aspect of grandmother earth, bore him Aphrodite (although this is only one version of her birth). Athena sprang full grown from her father’s brow (with a little help from Hephaestus), and Hermes was the result of his dalliance with the shy goddess Maia, daughter of Atlas. But Zeus didn’t stop there, he had a voracious appetite when it came to women and the numerous tales of his amorous exploits are offensive to most modern sensibilities.*** But I digress. Getting back to the omphalos, or center of my story:
Zeus’s infant son, Apollo, came north to the sanctuary of Gaia from his birthplace, the island of Delos in the Cycaldes, (or perhaps he came south from Thessaly bearing a laurel branch, depending on which myth you choose) and slew the mighty Python with his little bow and arrow. He left her to rot into the ground and claimed the sanctuary at Delphi for himself. His father, wanting, no doubt, to assure the universe that it was the Olympians who determined the center of the world, not the Titans, released two eagles, which flew around the earth and, wonder of wonders, met at Delphi, the physical center of Greece.
But the old gods still needed to be appeased.
Apollo was forced to flee and perform eight years of menial labor as atonement for his blood guilt, the slaying of Gaia’s child.****
The games that took place every four years to commemorate Apollo’s victory were called the Pythian Games, after the Python
The priestess of Apollo, who breathed the vapors of the earth, the pneumae, and spoke for him was called the Pythoness, or Pythia.
Omphalos at Delphi
Sacrifices made at the Omphalos were made to the chthonic deities, the old gods. The Omphalos on display at Delphi today is probably a replacement of a replacement of the original. A knotted net is carved into its surface to represent the knotted filets of wool that were draped over the original. These filets were traditional sacrifices to chthonic gods and spirits. According to Jane Ellen Harrison (Chapter II, Prolegomena), the only reason anyone would dare to draw the attention of these entities is for the necessity of atonement or appeasement. The person doing the atoning wore knotted bands or filets of wool from the animal being sacrificed. This way the filets would have the energy of both the sacrifice and the person. The suplicant then laid the filets on the omphalos, or earth altar and their energy was consumed by the spirit or god being appeased. It was vengeance, not food that these deities and spirits craved. The original Omphalos was probably embedded in the earth and may even have been a channel for the Pythia’s trance inducing fumes. (it’s hollow) But, according to illustrations at the Museum at Delphi, it might later (possibly around 330BC) have removed from the earth and the Chthonic deities and elevated toward the sky and the Olympians on the 13 meter tall column of the dancers.
Delphi was indeed the physical, political, and cultural center of the Greek world. Grateful nations sent tithes to the oracle, which were stored in the dozens of treasuries that dotted the way to the temple of Apollo. The site was a definite moneymaker.
The Athenian Treasury was one of the wealthiest on the site.
A theater that would seat 5,000 was built next to the Temple of Apollo, which became the Temple of Dionysius, Apollo’s alter ego, in the three winter months. Several important annual festivals and the Pythian Games were also held in Delphi.
Amphitheater at Delphi. The acoustics are amazing.Priestess of Delphi (1981) by John Collier. Shown with her laurel branch and dish of water from the Kassostis spring.
But the real reason for Delphi’s existence was the oracle. People from all over the Mediterranean came there for her advice. At the Pythia’s word, crops were planted, wars began, and history was made. As long as Gaia’s waters flowed under the sanctuary, sending up their trance inducing fumes, the money, prestige, and culture would continue to flow into the city. But eventually the waters stopped flowing. The site of Delphi is situated above two major fault lines, and every 100 years or so earthquakes shook the ground, stirring up the waters and releasing the entrancing hydrocarbon gases, but the earthquakes tapered off and the waters lost their kick. And so, when the Emperor Julian requested advice from the oracle in 363 AD his messenger was sent away with these words:
Tell the emperor that the great temple has fallen to the ground
Phoebus no longer has a shelter, nor a laurel diviner,
his spring of words does not babble, it has gone dry.
(Phoebus=Apollo)
Oddly enough, we know very little about the oracle herself. The Museum at Delphi is quite lovely and full of precious artifacts, but the only evidence of the Pythia that I remember in the museum was the occasional mention or picture of the tripod on which she sat. And there is no sign anywhere in the ruins that says with certainty, “This is where the Pythia sat and raved.” Most sources say that she probably sat over a vent located under the Temple of Apollo, or possibly on the main floor in the Adyton—the off limits part, or holy of holies.
A large chunk of rock called the Rock of the Sybil sits beside the road to the
Rock of the Sybil
Temple. The sign beside it explains that the rock fell from the Phaedriadae, The Bright Ones, two cliffs which form a cleft in the mountain located above and to the east of the Temple of Apollo. This, it says, was where the first priestesses made their pronouncements, where the Sybil Hierophile foresaw the fall of Troy. (1400BC). A stone pool was built there centuries later where the Pythia cleansed herself before her trances and where supplicants and athletes performing in the games washed. Just hair washing was, usually sufficient, but murderers had to totally submerge. Today the pool is dry, but my husband remembers splashing in its shallow waters 40 years ago.
The now dry sacred Castalian Spring
Delphi is an impressive and beautiful site, but there is a bittersweetness about it.
It reminds its visitors that, like the very earth beneath them, nothing is stable. Things shift. The Titans gave way to the Olympians who gave way to the Christian Church. The fabulous Greek civilization was conquered by the Romans who were eventually overrun by the barbarians.
The only constant is change.
* Prolegomena to the Study of Greek Religion, by Jane Ellen Harrison.
**Aeschylus, prologue of the Eumenides
***Zeus, a Journey through Greece in the Footsteps of a God, by Tom Stone, strings all the Zeus myths together into an authoritative and entertaining biography of the mighty Thunderer and the Olympians.
****Homeric Hymn to the Pythian
We are solar powered creatures. The further north we live, the less daylight we see at Winter Solstice and the lower the charge in our biological batteries.
The cold and dark take their toll at all levels. They dull our spirits, sap our energy, and make us susceptible to every nasty virus that comes along.
So what do we do? We deck the halls and party till we drop. We stress over what gifts to buy everyone and how to get it all done in time. We battle virus-laden crowds in soulless shopping malls.
And we wonder why we get sick.
This is a time for rest, contemplation, and meditation. A time to put another log on the fire or light some candles and watch the flames. A time to snuggle down with a hot drink and a stack of good books and inspiring movies.
Winter Solstice is a beginning and an ending. The old sun dies and a new one is born. It’s a time to release what no longer serves us and embrace what will.
Take a health and sanity break this Solstice and think of all the baggage, thoughts, and attitudes that are holding you back and write them on small slips of paper. Burn each one in a candle flame and let it go. Then bless a few hands full of salt, sprinkle them into a tub of hot water, climb in, and soak away any left overs.
Now make a list of all the good things that can happen as the next sun cycle unfolds.
Image by Nique Lionne
After tomorrow, if everything proceeds according to precedent, the nights will grow shorter and the long, hot days of summer will return and recharge our batteries. But right now is the time to honor the treasures of darkness and peace.
I just received the final rejection letter from my last batch of queries.
It was my forty fourth.
So why don’t agents and publishers want it?
There are several possibilities:
The writing isn’t good enough. Since I’ve never published anything before or won any writing contests, this was a big concern for me. However, my editor, Jessica Morrell, says I’m as good as or better than most of the writers she works with (she works with several best selling authors) and that Forging the Blade (old title: The Remaking of Molly Adair) is a publishable book.
The pitch isn’t good enough. The pitch is a quick description of your book. It says, in a few short paragraphs, what the story is about, why someone would want to read it, and why you are the best person to tell the story. It is even more difficult to write than the book itself. I’ve taken several pitch classes and written and rewritten it at least fifty times, and each time it gets better. Perhaps it still needs more work.
I’m pitching to the wrong people. The obvious advice is “If you write young adult fantasy, send your queries to agents and publishers that do young adult fantasy.” I have done this. All forty-four of my rejections were from YA fantasy agents and publishers.
I haven’t found the right agent. This is a possibility, and I will continue to send out queries.
The concept isn’t salable. This, I think, is the problem. Looking back over my stash of rejection letters, many agents say that they weren’t sold on the concept. Forging the Blade is the story of Molly Adair, a young woman who comes of age the hard way. Her parents die and her grandmother, a mage and her only living relative, sends her to Damia, a world where magic is strong and dragons not only exist, but also wreak havoc. The kingdom is at war and a rogue dragon is terrorizing the countryside. Her job is to get home. Her guides are a deck of tarot cards, a magical black cat, a mysterious gypsy, and a warrior mage. As she flees through Damia, one step ahead of Death, the dragon, and the king’s soldiers, Molly realizes that the true challenge has nothing to do with getting back to her grandmother’s house, it’s about figuring out who she really is and becoming that person. She must recreate herself, because the life she had is gone forever. Each chapter describes a major arcana tarot card, beginning with 0, The Fool and ending with 21, The World. It is a classic hero’s journey, well written and exciting, but YA fantasy agents and editors have read hundreds of classic hero’s journeys and are looking for something new. The thing that sets this book apart is the tarot angle. My tarot teachers have always said that the major arcana is the story arc of the hero’s journey; so I wrote a book that traces that story arc card by card, and it worked beautifully. But young adults (ages 13-18) aren’t interested in tarot; in fact many of them don’t even know what a tarot deck is.
I’ve written a sequel to Forging the Blade. It’s called Mainly by Moonlight and is set at Grant High School in Portland, Oregon. It’s a YA occult murder mystery, which is a much more salable concept. So I was hoping to sell the second book first and then publish Forging the Blade as a prequel. Sort of like George Lucas did in Star Wars. He waits to tell you about Darth Vader until after you find out he’s Luke’s father.
I’m reading Mainly by Moonlight to my writers group and asked them to determine if it could be a stand-alone book. In my humble opinion, every aspiring writer should belong to a writer’s group. We live with our work spinning around in our heads; it’s a part of us. When we read our words to a group of writers they come out of our heads and into the world and hang there, naked and shivering, as our colleagues pick them apart. This could be a brutal experience, but I’ve been lucky. The folks in my groups have been supportive and truly helpful. They have also been very exacting and on task about finding ways to make what I’ve written better.
The group said it’s not a stand-alone book. I have to publish Forging the Blade first.
Jessica gave me the names of a few agents who may be interested in it. She says I can use her name—a true gift. She suggested I downplay the tarot aspect and sell it as a timeless coming of age tale.
So, I’ll send out another round of query letters in hopes of finding “the right agent”, But I am also beginning to look seriously at self-publishing. It’s risky and expensive, but at least my book will be out where everyone who wants to read it can buy it.
Towards the front of the site at Elefsina, before you even get to what’s left of the Great Propylaia there is what looks like a large, brick barbecue. And that is precisely what it is. Except it is unlikely that any living soul got to taste the meat that was cooked on it. It is an eschara, a sacrificial altar.
“But wait,” you say, “didn’t the Greeks get to eat most of the meat from their sacrifices?”
Prometheus–Does anyone know who painted this?
They did. According to Hesiod*, the Greeks had Prometheus to thank not only for fire, but also for the privilege of reserving the best cuts of the sacrificial animal for themselves. The story begins back in the mists of time, back before Prometheus had stolen the divine fire and given it to mortals, back when the gods still came down from Olympus to dine with humans. Prometheus was having his first meal with Zeus and took it upon himself to portion out the sacrificial bull. He, of course, gave the best meat to Zeus, but disguised it by wrapping it in fat and bone. He gave the mortals the remaining bones and gristle and skin, but he wrapped them in a lovely, fat-marbled slab of meat. Zeus looked at the portions and switched them. With his own hand, he gave his worshipers the best of the sacrifice. And so it has always been.
But this only applied to the Olympian deities. The Chthonic*** deities, spirits of the underworld, and the souls of the dead went by a different set of rules. They were present long before Zeus and the Olympians arrived in Greece, and their rites were somber and filled with dread. The ancient Greeks regarded them as malignant and dangerous, and so, like wayward college students, they only phoned home when they really, really needed something or as an act of appeasment. An offering to them was not a pleasant communion, it was a true sacrifice—the whole animal was burned to ashes on an eschara—and was called a holocaust (from the Greek word holókauston, which means “The whole animal, olos, completely burnt, kauston).**
These rituals were performed in the dark of night, with no wine to ease the nerves and parched throats of the celebrants. Only black animals were killed, as opposed to the white ones that the Olympians prefered.
The main deities worshipped at Eleusis were Chthonic. Hades and Persephone, the king and queen of the underworld definitely qualify. But Demeter, whom we tend to think of as a goddess of grain and poppies and sunlight is also an underworld deity, an earth goddess, worshiped at wells and caves. (see previous post) Any gardener knows that death, in the form of the compost pile, is essential for abundant crops. And she can be quite harsh. She nearly killed off the whole world as she grieved for her daughter.
Demeter’s caves, Agrigento, Sicily
To make sure you don’t miss her chthonic connection, the Demeter caryatids of Eleusis wear a Gorgon’s head on their bodices.
And so, of course, there is an eschara at Eleusis.
Crossed Pine torches, symbol of the Eleusinian Mysteries, remind us that these were chthonic rites, performed mostly in darkness and probably underground.
*Theogony, written by Hesiod, a Greek epic poet, in the 8th century BCE
**Prolegomena to the Study of Greek Religion, by Jane Ellen Harrison, Chapter II, The Anthesteria, The Ritual of Ghosts and Sprites
*** from Greek χθόνιος – chthonios, “in, under, or beneath the earth”, from χθών – chthōn “earth”; pertaining to the Earth; earthy; subterranean. Henry George Liddell, Robert Scott, A Greek–English Lexicon, at Perseus.
This painting by Joseph Gandy, British artist and visionary architect, gives us his idea of what the site at Eleusis might have looked like around 200CE at the beginnings of the end of the Roman Empire. The Temple of Demeter is that big building in the center. The Temple and its grounds had two propylaia, or massive entryways, at this time. The outer, newer one is the Great Propylaia, built around 150CE by either Emperor Hadrian or Marcus Aurelius or both. It’s that large, columned building/gate to the right. The tiny building to the far right is probably the Temple of Artemis.
Layout of the site grounds. The Telesterion is the Temple of DemeterWhat’s left of the Great Propylaia.
The smaller gate with three entryways that’s closer to the temple is the Small Propylaia, built around 50BCE
The central gate of the Small Propylaia. Over the centuries the wheels that were under the doors wore those ruts in the stone. The view is looking out. The Demeter Temple is behind and the Plutonion is across the bridge and to the left. Note the column bases of the Small Propylaia, possibly for the caryatids, one of which is in the site museum.This is a section of the frieze at the top of the Small Propylaia. The writing at the bottom says that Appius Claudius Pulcher, a friend of Cicero, vowed to construct this propylaia in honor of Demeter and Persephone (Ceres and Proserpina in Latin) during his consulship (54 BC). It was completed and dedicated after his death by his nephews and heirs Pulcher Claudius and Rex Marcius.The wheat, stylized poppy flowers, and sacred storage casks are all symbols of the cult of Demeter.
In the site museum, which is quite nice, there is a statue of a woman with what looks like it might be a basket on her head. But this wasn’t just any woman. When I looked up into her eyes, may heart raced and I was transfixed. The sign at the base of the statue was surely wrong. This couldn’t be a caryatid from the Small Propylaia. She was nothing like the sweet maidens that support the roof of the Erechtheion in the Acropolis. She felt solid and strong, and the air around her vibrated with power. This had to be a statue of Demeter herself. The sign also said that she was one of two caryatids, but other was lost.
Caryatids of the Erechtheion, Acropolis, AthensHead and torso of a caryatid that once supported the roof of the Small Propylaia
Which brings me to the following story:
As I was researching the Elefsina posts I came upon matt barrett’s Athens Survival Guide and a fascinating entry entitled “The Curse of Eleusius”. It seems that around the beginning of the 19th century, the people of the lovely little town of Eleusius venerated a statue of a woman with a basket on her head. They believed that she was the source of the town’s fertility and good fortune. She was buried up to her neck, and they were sure that if she was ever removed from the earth the town would fall to ruin. Her name was St. Demitra, and the legend goes that an evil Turk stole her daughter away. The grieving mother moved heaven and earth and finally managed to bring her home.
Sound familiar?
A quick Internet search failed to come up with a St. Demitra, but the name Demitra did appear. It is the Greek pronunciation of Demeter.
A British antiquities collector, Professor Edward Daniel Clarke, fell in love with St. Dimitra. He had to have her. Since the Turks occupied Greece at this time, antiquities were cheap—if the proper authorities were bribed. Clarke gave the Governor a telescope and the statue was his. The people of Eleusis pleaded with him. If he took her away, the earth would no longer nourish the crops and they would starve. He, of course, ignored them and, after a monumental effort, managed to dig her out of the ground and get her on a ship to England. The people were sure the ship wouldn’t make it, and they were right. It sank. But the statue was somehow recovered and eventually donated to the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, England.
The next harvest in Eleusis was good, but the following year it was sparse and continued to get worse. A soap factory moved into town and provided jobs, but it also fouled the air and water. As the years went by Eleusis, the sacred city of Demeter, disintegrated into the dingy industrial nightmare of Elefsina.
So, is the legend true? Had the loss of its goddess/saint doomed the town? If the statue was, indeed, the twin to the one that zapped me in the Site Museum, I would have no trouble believing that it did.
This was one fact in the story that I could check. I e-mailed the Fitzwilliam Museum and asked if they had a caryatid from Eleusis, and included a link to “The Curse of Eleusis”. Two days later I received a reply from Dr. Sally-Ann Ashton, Senior Assistant Keeper. Yes they had it, and she provided me with a link to its provenance and pictures in their database. It was indeed donated by Edward Daniel Clarke in 1865, and yes, it was the twin of the statue in Elefsina, although much more worn. If it carried the same power, I could understand, if not condone, Clarke’s theft.
The Fitzwilliam Museum’s caryatid from Eleusis
But the Temple of Demeter itself is, as far as I could sense, simply the ruins of a temple.
Temple of Demeter at Elefsina
No trace remains of the powerful rituals that were done there for nearly 1500 years. And this makes total sense. I have no doubt that when the Roman emperor Theodosius I closed the pagan sanctuaries by decree in 392 AD, the priestesses of the Temple of Demeter decommissioned it in much the same way that the Roman Catholic Church decommissions sacred properties that it sells or puts to secular use. They would have bid a tearful farewell to the goddess, released all the spirits and daemons of the place, banished any remaining psychic energy, and retuned the vibes to “normal”.
But they forgot the two Demeters at the gate who had stood for centuries, welcoming initiates into the Mysteries.
We left the Demeter Well and headed up the steps, thinking that we were headed for the Site Museum, but we were waylaid once again. Just before the entrance to the Temple of Demeter, where the final part of the Eleusinian Mysteries took place, we came upon a sign that said “Ploutonion”. It also said that this was the spot where Hades abducted Persephone as she was picking flowers.
A Ploutonion is a sanctuary or shrine dedicated to Hades, god of the underworld. They are built at entrances to the underworld, and are, fortunately, rare. Strabo* identifies the only other ones I could find. Both were in Anatolia (modern Turkey), one outside Caria and one near Phrygia, and both had vents that released mephitic (noxious) vapors, and both were dream oracles.
There is another sort of sanctuary of Hades called a necromanteion. This is also an opening to the underworld, but it is an oracle of the dead. People go here to speak with the souls of the departed. Both deTraci Regula and Herodotus**
identify a site near the modern town of Parga on the northwest coast of Greece as a necromanteion. This is yet another place that claims to be the spot where Hades nabbed Persephone. Regula describes it as “grim and spooky”.
Nekromanteion of Parga
The Greek Orthodox Church, however, recognized a power point when they saw one and built a chapel over the ruins of the oracle. A Black Madonna presides over it—of course.
The Black Madonna over the Nekromanteion of Parga
Strabo* mentions another possible necromanteion at Lake Avernus, a crater lake near Cumae***on the west coast of Italy. Avernus is Latin for “no birds”. They were killed by the noxious fumes rising from the lake shore. Strabo says he only knows of this site from “the stories the people before my time used to tell”.
The only folks who ever built an actual temple to Hades were the people of Elis, a city in the western Peloponnese. They did this because Hades fought with them when Heracles (Hercules) and Athena invaded their country. But his temple was only opened once a year**** because, like all Greeks, they feared the Dark Lord’s cold reach.
In fact, the Greeks feared Hades so much that they hesitated to even say his name. Instead he was called by euphemistic names, such as Plouton (Giver of wealth), He who must not be named, The invisible one, and He who receives many.
But of course, the site of the Eleusinian Mysteries would have to have a sanctuary of Hades (or Plouton). He is the cause of the whole myth on which the Mysteries were based.
Ploutonion at Eleusius. The Demeter Well is to the left of the steps in the foreground, and the Ploutonion was built in front of the cave in the cliff face.
When we left Demeter at the well she still had no idea that Hades had taken her daughter. Finally Hecate appeared to her and suggested that she ask Helios, who sees all things under the sun. Helios told her that he had seen Hades in his black chariot pulled by four coal-black stallions burst out of the underworld and seize her daughter.
Flowers beside the Ploutonion. Perhaps the ones Persephone was picking when Hades abducted her. They were the only flowers we saw at the main part of the site.
Demeter was furious and demanded that her bother, Zeus, king of the gods, make her other brother, Hades, return her daughter. Zeus refused and Demeter, in her grief and rage, caused the earth to go barren and all the crops and cattle to die. The people suffered and died in great numbers and no longer made burnt offerings to the gods. Finally Zeus relented and sent Hermes down to Hades with Demeter to bring back Persephone. But Hades had one more card up the sleeve of his tunic (the ace of spades, no doubt).
“I would be happy to comply,” replied the god who never willingly let anyone leave his realm, “but your daughter has eaten six (or three or a dozen) pomegranate seeds. Anyone who sups in the realm of the dead may never leave.”
Hades and Persephone, Reubens
After much negotiation, they decided that Persephone would spend part of the year with her husband (fall, winter) and part of the year with her mother (spring, summer).
This myth describes the quintessential mystery of the death and rebirth of both the land and it’s people. Every pantheon has a story of a hero, often a woman, who goes down to underworld, dies, and is reborn. We will never know for sure, because initiates were sworn to secrecy upon pain of death and all we have are scattered impressions and brief summaries, but most historians agree that the mystery of Eleusina was that of death and rebirth. Many participants reported that once they had experienced The Mysteries they were no longer afraid to die.
The Ploutonion
All that remains of the Ploutonion at Elefsina is a small rectangle of foundation blocks in front of a shallow cave. But it still vibrates with power. The energy is strongest in and around the cave. It sent goosebumps up my arms, even though the day was hotter than the hubs of Hades. And we weren’t the only ones who had felt it. There were small offerings scattered on a stone in the center of the shrine.
Offerings left at The Ploutonion. Yes, that red thing is a split open pomegranate.
Craig handed me a fifty-cent euro. “Here,” he said, “make an offering.” A perfect gift for the god of all the wealth of the earth.
I slipped the coin into one of the many tiny crevices around the cave, and it was like putting a quarter in a juke box.
Hades began talking to me.
I stood paralyzed with shock, my finger still stuck in the cliff face, as his words surrounded me. They were the same familiar, encouraging words I’d often repeated frantically to myself as I stared, sleepless with fear and worry, into the uncaring night. But from the lips of the Dark Lord they sank deep into my soul, healing the weaknesses and banishing doubt. A heaviness lifted from my heart and confidence sparkled through me. I wept tears of joy.
Had I just been handed the Mystery of Elefsina on a votive plaque? If Hades, the fearsome King of the Dead, can bring comfort and rejuvenation then perhaps Death, the most dreaded part of life, brings these gifts as well.
The thing I do know is that Hades is alive and powerful and still rules the underworld.
And you can find him at his sanctuary in Elefsina.
To be continued…
*Greek philosopher, geographer, and historian, 64BCE-24CE. The reference appears in his Geography 5. 4. 5 ff
** Histories 5. 92, C5th cent, BCE
***the first Greek colony in Italy
****Pausanias, Description of Greece 6. 25. 2
At last. Against all odds (see previous post), we were standing on the site where the Eleusinian Mysteries were performed. Like good little tourists, we decided to hike straight up to the Site Museum and get oriented and then come down and go over the ruins. This was not to be.
First we were attracted to the remains of what had once been a stoa, a long Greek porch, where pilgrims probably rested after their long walk from Athens.
The Stoa of Attalos formed the east side of the Athenian agora, or market place. This distinctively Greek architectural form was essentially a porch lined with columns. They not only formed graceful entryways into buildings, but also provided shade and shelter for weary pilgrims, market stalls, or pedestrians. This is a reconstruction of the original which was built in 150BCE.
Then, as we headed for a huge set of steps that were on the way to the museum we were drawn to their lower left-hand corner.
The source of the attraction was a Demeter Well.
This stairway was built around the Demeter Well. You can’t see it, but it’s tucked behind that left corner. The Site Museum is that building on the hill.Demeter WellAbove the Demeter Well. Yes, that’s me with my husband, Craig (in yellow) and Dan. Wendy is the photographer. Some of the Greek photos you will be seeing are hers.
I had seen these before in Sicily at Agrigento and a particularly powerful one at the Rock of Ceres (the Roman Demeter) in the central town of Enna. The Rock of Ceres is another well-situated site. It overlooks the Goddess’s wheat fields and the place where the Sicilians say Hades nabbed her daughter, Persephone.
Enna, Scicily, overlooking wheat fields. Scicily and Egypt were the bread baskets of the Roman Empire. You can just see The Rock of Ceres to the right of the town.
The wells were built by the early chthonic (underworld) cult of Demeter. As far as I’ve been able to guess, they serve the same purpose as any other temple—they provide a link to the deity worshiped there. That was certainly the case here. Power surged out of that innocent looking hole and wrapped around me–grounding, soothing, and thrilling. I understood why they had it roped off. The urge to get closer was nearly irresistible. It didn’t surprise me in the least when a sign next to the well informed me that this was the point around which the entire site had been built.
And then I thought, Well duh! Of course there’s a Demeter Well here. The Eleusinian Mysteries were all about the myth of Demeter and her daughter Persephone, and how Persephone’s Uncle Hades, the dark lord of the underworld, blasted out of the earth in his fiery chariot pulled by two ebony stallions, scooped her up,
Does anyone know who painted this?
and made her queen of the underworld.
Persephone/Isis and Hades/Sarapis from the Temple of the Egyptian Dieties in Gortyn, Crete. They now live in the Archeological Museum in Heraklion, Crete.
Demeter searched the world over for her daughter and finally came to Eleusina, the ancient town over which modern Elefsina was built.
This is one of my favorite images of Demeter. It’s small and intimate, unlike the grand statues of her that we usually see. She was holding a cornucopia. Some of it still remains.This is also in the Archeological Museum of Heraklion. Knossos, 1st-2nd century CE
She sat by the well, disguised as an old, decrepit woman, and was given comfort by the daughters of King Celeus. They took her home and their mother gave the disguised goddess her infant son, Triptolemus, to care for. But when the queen found the old woman holding him over the flames in the midst of a ritual that would have made him immortal, she, of course, went ballistic and snatched her baby out of the fire. Demeter scolded the queen and revealed herself in all her glory. King Celeus was so awed that he built a fabulous temple for her in which her most sacred rituals were performed.
Demeter and Persephone with Triptolemus. Another version of the myth says that when Triptolemus got older, Demeter came down in a winged chariot pulled by dragons, took him up to Mt Olympus and taught him all the secrets of agriculture and food preservation. When he returned to teach these to his people, he built Demeter’s Temple at Eleusius. Relief from Eleusius, 440BCE
Seeing the Demeter Well at the site of the Eleusinian Mysteries was an electrifying reminder that from 400BCE until 200CE the Greek religion, and specifically the cult of Demeter, was a powerful, inspiring force in all the lands around the Mediterranean Sea.
It was a cold, foggy morning on Main Street when I pushed open the bookstore door balancing a latte that was too hot to handle on my notebook. Tina, the owner of Jacobsen’s Books & More, escorted me past rows of books to the back of the bookstore. The books kept calling to me, but I ignored them and settled down at a table with several other middle-aged writers who looked like kids waiting for their first dental appointment.
