February 2, 2020 - Oimelc

Out in the fields, there is an old woman with a basin.  The occasional passerby pays her no mind.  If they see her at all, they write her off as just an old drudge out in a half-frozen field.  If they think of her at all, they most likely think she’s a bit odd, to put it kindly.  Off her rocker, they might say.  And in truth, we do have quite a number of odd people here in Maine, and we like it that way.  But I know what she is doing, and I will tell you this:  She knows exactly what she is up to, and it is a good thing, too, because someone must still do it.

She walks among the semi-frozen furrows, looking for the best spots, and when she finds them, she begins to pour the liquid from her basin here and there.  It might be hard to spot because the liquid is milk, and it is the same color as the snow.  It is a rich and deep and warm and heady kind of milk.  It is the kind that feels thick on the tongue, the kind that coats the mouth with a heavy sweetness and a slightly oily thickness.  The kind that leaves its fragrance long after it is swallowed, warming and feeding the human condition.

And on the field it goes.  She pours and pours the milk.  At first it sits on the surface, and then it slowly sinks in here and there.  She smiles when she sees it, and she whispers a little prayer.  What are the words to the prayer, you ask?  Well, it is a prayer of fertility, a prayer of bounty, a prayer of abundance.  It is an offering, a gift, a trade.  Take this hard-won milk, the first of the lambs coming into season, and drink.  From the Earth it came, and to the Earth it goes.  And bless the seeds below the surface, frozen and eagerly waiting for a kiss from the Sun.  Let the milk mingle with their expectation.  All of the world is in a constant embrace of revival and reenactment.

Far beneath the surface, the white drops of sweetness fall, and their drip-drip-dripping plays a melody in the Underworld.  Persephone raises her head from her sweet slumber.  What is that irresistible sound?  What is that hypnotizing fragrance?  What are these deep and satisfied sighs I hear?  I have a memory . . . and I must bring it to fruition again.

The old woman calls it Oimelc.  You call her crazy.  I call her mother.  Persephone calls her sister.  There is a good deal of winter left still, but the milk is on the fields now, and it is just a matter of time.  She cannot be stopped.  Surely you are aware?  Surely you remember?  Fecundity is her handicraft.  This we know.