Ancients, Wisdom, and Mothers’ Day
Continuing the sporadic Story of Stu
Sophia is the Greek goddess of wisdom. Libertas is the Roman goddess of liberty. None of the stories are simple, nor is that of the Statue of Liberty (statue of Libertas). But it means something that we have several goddesses from the Ancients connected to these big ideas. In the modern world, these ideas are bigger than those of the power mythologies, but they seem fairly forgotten lately.
Libertas, and the history of the Statue of Liberty/Libertas, are less intuitive than broader/deeper concepts like wisdom and Sophia.
I should probably include more explanation here about what this poem is and is not, and where it came from in the larger Story of Stu, which equally about Rhettie and Wally’s efforts to make him real. Rhettie’s inward and outward vision is strongly influenced by her Grandma Dorie, the kind of figure we don’t hear much about in our continued Boomer era. She goes a little deeper, or a lot. Wally’s poem here is gleaned from his conversations from Rhettie, for Rhettie (and for Dorie).
Sophia and Liberty Wonder When
Someone said that we are free.
They might have lied.
It wasn’t me.
What is meant by free
when we’re surrounded on all sides
with others, friends and lovers, family,
where our heart resides?
Where’s that harmony we sing of?
Hymns of give and take,
restraint and circumspection
for the peace and love at stake.
Words are small, so after all
the tricks and gamesmanship,
after all the lofty calls,
persuasive craftsmanship,
we’re left with realizations
of the care it takes with words.
We’ve seen the work of shepherds
that don’t really care for herds.
They love the love of herds,
but that’s a far cry from the care
and thought it takes to question words
and spirits in the air.
Where can we find time and minds
beyond the slogans, daily grinds,
once said to make us rich and free,
a ploy that surely now we’ll see.
You say you want a revolution
although I think you know,
except for independence wars,
they’ve little gain to show.
They’re fraught, again, lack thought,
again, the passion rules the words
and gives them simple meanings
thought to arm and gird the herds.”
And there she waits in tears,
Sophia’s cries are soft and low.
She looks up at our Liberty
and what she could bestow.
If only we could finally see
beyond distracting claims
of freedom from a tyrant
and see Liberty’s real aims.
It’s joy and mindful agency;
it’s daisies in your eyes;
it’s lavender in fields beside
the homes where your love lies.
It’s not a common common sense,
but shines down from wide skies,
the irises along a fence,
a spirit on the rise.
The still small voice inside
knows there are different kinds of slaves,
but drowning out her voice
are shadows shown in Plato’s caves.
“Step out and look around,” she cries,
“you’ll see what’s brought you here.
Half-truths and peddlers’ lies
you read are not as they appear.
Those shadows on the wall, the screen,
you’ve purchased with your life,
come look and see what’s seldom seen,
the source of so much strife.
“Surely someone cares enough
to see behind the reels
and see what drives the flames and shapes,
what searching deep reveals.
The sun is bright; it hurts at first;
confusion, awe confounds.
The real world births a hunger, thirst,
a doubt of scrolls and gowns.”
The narrators in Plato’s caves
collect your mind, a critic raves,
and others follow…to their graves.
Praise liberty, but Wisdom saves.
And there she stands, our Liberty,
much wiser through the years,
aware of man’s devices
that pay well but end in tears.
To maintain liberty inside
our minds–it’s never free;
it takes a mindful life
and eyes that truly want to see.
And what’s the cost from all that’s lost?
Who bears the loss from treasures tossed?
I see their future faces now
they look at me and wonder how,
we traded facing doubts and fears
for their real sadness, their real tears.
A statue, full of minds inside,
wise Liberty…won’t let us hide
behind the hackers of our race,
The joy and peace that they’d replace…
Let’s leave the circus, leave the chase,
and face the future; it has a face.
It has a face, it has a field,
a rich old place allowed to yield
the flora and the fauna now,
the stories that for once somehow
must move the curtains meant to keep
our gaze away, scenes buried deep.
The future faces search and weep.
Another kind of freedom
for another kind of joy,
and free from hackers’ calls;
so few can see what they employ.
But Liberty, with light in hand,
uncovers, unveils, understands,
a freedom in a distant past
and longed for…and set free
at last.
And I see ponds with dragonflies
on lily pads and more.
I see the irises and daisies
on the noisy shore.
The grasshoppers, the frogs,
the crickets, sing and seek a mate;
a mushroom on a log…
a chirp…
katydids’ wings vibrate.
All the sights and sounds have reasons,
like that other world,
Sophia sees those reasons
as our hearts and minds are swirled.
With Liberty, we take a chance
and give that swirl another glance,
and wonder if we’ve won the war
or have finally understood it more.
“Who will hook your you?”
the Barred Owl asks from the old tree,
and wonders how we’ve been so blind
to our ability.
The Screech Owl mourns our loss
of joys she’s watched us give away
and trade for glass and steel,
and hearts that hurt, shrink, everyday.
Cicadas know what’s in the air,
they fear we’ll finally just not care.
They sing because, still, on the way
are future faces, and they will pay.
Liberty, show us the path.
Sophia, let us feel the wrath
of ignorance about our kind
so we might wake and change our mind.
It’s joy and mindful agency;
it’s daisies in our eyes;
it’s lavender in fields beside
the homes where our love lies.
It’s not a common common sense,
but shines down from wide skies,
the irises along a fence,
a spirit on the rise.
From Wally, inspired by Rhettie’s stories of her Grandma Dorie, according to Stu, according to me.
