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child_of_the_airThis essay, titled "The Revolutionary Art of Hearth-Keeping," was brought to my attention about a month ago by a blog I occasionally follow. I've been wanting to write up my thoughts on it for some time, but I've had a very busy month, between travel and the start of a new semester, and I haven't managed to get writing done. So here's a rather overdue response:
Parts of this post certainly spoke to me. In particular, the idea that cooking and providing emotional support for the people on the front lines can be an important part of activism, too. A lot of my friends have been really involved in activism since the catastrophe last November, but it's something that I'm mostly just not able to do. I don't have a personality that can handle it: I find the very idea of going to protests stressful, and rarely have any spoons to spare these days as it is.
My friends have been trying to emphasize to me that I shouldn't feel guilty, because I'm providing emotional support for people who actually are going out and doing things and, well, maybe my role is to make pierogi for the revolution. Which, honestly, appeals to me a lot more, even if it's hard for me to find time or energy to actively do things of that nature rather than just being there for my friends in general.
At the same time, though, I'm kind of put off by the author's focus on tribalism and inherited community traditions. For me, at least, this sort of strength has always come from developing my own traditions, and creating my own community: I'm a bit distrustful of inherited family and community, and I certainly don't have one of my own that I fit in. But, as a friend recently told me, when I was commenting as usual that I'm not really part of the queer community, "Don't worry about it: you've made your own queer community, and it's the best."
I may not have an inherited community, but my efforts to build one by inviting friends over for Polish food, and by trying to introduce people who I think should know each other haven't been in vain and, to some degree, I've managed to build some communities in which I have a bit of a hearth-keeper role. If only I had the time and energy to actually do what it would take to keep them as strong and sturdy as I wish they were: that, unfortunately, is probably a full-time job.
Keeping this in mind, and recognizing that there is at least some connection between this part of my identity and my strong feelings about the sacredness of place, I should maybe make more of an effort to incorporate deities of the hearth into my practice. Given my largely Hellenic-inspired practice, Hestia would be an obvious focus for this. She is traditionally understood as the sacrificial fire itself, and when burnt offerings are made, the first is always to her. However, I've never found a practical way to do burnt offerings--a problem for Hellenic-inspired practice in general--and so I perhaps need to think of a different way to honor her.
Parts of this post certainly spoke to me. In particular, the idea that cooking and providing emotional support for the people on the front lines can be an important part of activism, too. A lot of my friends have been really involved in activism since the catastrophe last November, but it's something that I'm mostly just not able to do. I don't have a personality that can handle it: I find the very idea of going to protests stressful, and rarely have any spoons to spare these days as it is.
My friends have been trying to emphasize to me that I shouldn't feel guilty, because I'm providing emotional support for people who actually are going out and doing things and, well, maybe my role is to make pierogi for the revolution. Which, honestly, appeals to me a lot more, even if it's hard for me to find time or energy to actively do things of that nature rather than just being there for my friends in general.
At the same time, though, I'm kind of put off by the author's focus on tribalism and inherited community traditions. For me, at least, this sort of strength has always come from developing my own traditions, and creating my own community: I'm a bit distrustful of inherited family and community, and I certainly don't have one of my own that I fit in. But, as a friend recently told me, when I was commenting as usual that I'm not really part of the queer community, "Don't worry about it: you've made your own queer community, and it's the best."
I may not have an inherited community, but my efforts to build one by inviting friends over for Polish food, and by trying to introduce people who I think should know each other haven't been in vain and, to some degree, I've managed to build some communities in which I have a bit of a hearth-keeper role. If only I had the time and energy to actually do what it would take to keep them as strong and sturdy as I wish they were: that, unfortunately, is probably a full-time job.
Keeping this in mind, and recognizing that there is at least some connection between this part of my identity and my strong feelings about the sacredness of place, I should maybe make more of an effort to incorporate deities of the hearth into my practice. Given my largely Hellenic-inspired practice, Hestia would be an obvious focus for this. She is traditionally understood as the sacrificial fire itself, and when burnt offerings are made, the first is always to her. However, I've never found a practical way to do burnt offerings--a problem for Hellenic-inspired practice in general--and so I perhaps need to think of a different way to honor her.
