La Befana Hekate

The day before Christmas Eve, And like every year for decades I think back to my childhood with my parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, and my only living grandparent, Grandma Rinaldi.

I spent some time researching La Befana yesterday because I am very interested in her pre-Christian presence. I have images of La Befana in my home along with statues. She has always been there in the shadows for me. My mother used to talk about La Befana quite often-- memoires of waiting for La Befana's visits on the Ephipany. This was in San Giorgio del Sannio, Campania, Italy. It sounded magical to me, and I was always drawn to her, but I was never interested in the Befana who was stripped of her powers, and her connection to the dead. She became that old woman who regretted not visiting the Christ child, and spent all her time trying to find him. I did not care for the christianized Befana who is no longer Judgment. I knew there was more to Befana than what was being presented to us in children stories and toys.

In her book. Encyclopedia of Spirits, author Judika Illes states, " Befana may predate Christianity and may originally be a goddess of ancestral spirits, forest, and the passage of time." In the blog post, "La Befana: Christmas Witch, Goddess of Ancestral Spirit, fascist propaganda (& Befanini recipe and spell)" (radicisiciliane.com) describes a dream where Befana identifies herself as "Hecate Befana." As I researched more, I learned that Befana is older than Father Christmas, Santa Clause, and even St. Nick. I was connecting with a primordial goddess who is so old, we are not even clear about her origins.

So finally, I have accepted that this time of year is not a "happy" or "jolly" time and it never has been for me. With Italian immigrant parents, we did not focus on Santa Claus. We did spend time tending to the graves at that time of year. And the house was filled with my mother's memories of Italy and my father's memories of the Great Depression.

For centuries, my ancestors struggled and made sacrifices at this time of year. Having to store food, caring for their animals. A time of suffering and of sacrifice; a time of death and rebirth. Who would survive the winter? Who would starve? And my primal self has known this; deep in my bones the dance of loss and rebirth is always there. It is a time of silence, a time to withdraw, a time to listen to the dead.

from James Joyrce's story, "The Dead":

"Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."