How a venture to a vulva-shaped cave created a quest into self, identity, the feminine, nationality and culture.
How a venture to a vulva-shaped cave confronted me with a great surprise at how much of my culture I have engrained within me. I embarked on this trip along with three international friends. All of whom have also built their lives in a place far from their home country and bring their individual perspectives of an immigrant.
This particular trip was linked to my culture in a way I did not fully understand, as we were discussing and planning the trip. It was a journey sparked by a friend. Originally from Russia. On an evening enjoying some drinks together she proposed that we go and visit a cave, linked to the legends of Mary Magdalene .
The exciting thing about this cave was that it looked very much like a vagina. From the moment of mentioning a woman, understated in the bible, and a cave shaped like a vagina, I was hooked.
This would be a possibility for a girls adventure and it was right up my street.
A mixture of road tripping, activity, history, legend and female power.
A tantalising recipe for fun.
How much it actually looked like a vagina was something that took me pleasantly by surprise and added an element to the trip that I had not fully expected.
See for yourself.
But at this whimsical moment I was unaware of how this literal journey to a vagina would actually take me on a metaphorical journey into my own past. Not only back to the idea of the feminine, the womb and birth. But to how much of our past, our teachings, our culture and beliefs is constructed within us.
Even when we have tried to do a full face lift so to speak – an entire reconstruction of ourselves.
As many great moments do: It started with female friends and a shared bottle of wine.
'How far do we really travel from the culture that made us who we are?'
I often wonder about how much of myself is tied to Ireland. It is where I am from. Where I grew up. And where most of my family resides.
Ireland and being Irish is something that lives inside me.
But it is true that living outside Ireland, travelling and discovering new cultures has also created a different self. One that sometimes lives in coexistence with my Irish identity. And at other times exists in entire contradiction of myself.
For any of us that leave our homeland I wonder how many of us look at the world and who we are through a seemingly entirely different lens.
The longer I live away from my home country the more I feel I look at it and analyse it. The more I feel that there is a part, in all of us, that craves reinvention and re-identification almost all of the time.
But I find myself wondering how much of that is possible.
How far do we really travel from the culture that made us who we are?
'Any religious pilgrimage, is, for me, laced with my complex relationship with religion.'
For this particular trip I literally just showed up. I did not plan , or research. I really thought at least that I had no idea of what I was embarking upon.
Highlighted further by my friends who had clearly googled the location, weather and stories surrounding and linked to Mary Magdalene.
I knew that I somewhat knew who Mary Magdalene was. That she was often an uncelebrated disciple. More than likely, a life partner to Jesus. Supported by the sacrilegious, blasphemous and denounced by the church kiss. As mentioned in one of the gnostic gospels. Despite the churches attempts to possibly rewrite this. I also knew that she was the first to witness Jesus resurrection, as mentioned in all four gospels, and he choose to appear to her and not the others.
As legend and the bible states.
I also thought that she wiped the face of Jesus. On his way to execution. And the miracle of his face appeared on the cloth she had used to wipe away his pain.
But that was Veronica. Saint Veronica. What a relief. I don’t know the gospel by heart. But frankly, I was slightly disturbed by how much I did know.
The nationality and culture part
I grew up on the border of Northern Ireland and for the first 10 years of my life the Northern Irish troubles were very much in full swing.
As an Irish person who has lived away from Ireland. Almost all of my adult life. I have struggled with the stereotypes and negative associations with my culture. Being considered as a drunk, unreliable and the butt of many jokes. After all, as Irish people, we should just understand it all as ‘a bit of craic’. The complete misunderstanding of a phrase meaning to have fun.
I fundamentally believe that in order to understand what ‘having the craic’ means you absolutely have to be Irish. And other cultures trying to define and use their, quite mean jokes, under the guise of ‘a bit of craic’, has been one of the greater banes I encountered living abroad.
This and the general ridicule you get daily for being Irish.
The sterotypes surrounding culture
Despite my professionalism and hard work in my job I have often found that I have to fight to be taken seriously, simply because I am Irish. I am expected to be an uncultured layabout. Even when I prove consistently to be the opposite.
This cultural expectation has always provoked me. My current response is along the lines of: Have you looked at Ireland? Have you seen what the country has done? Do you actually know anything about Ireland? Beyond the leprechauns and our apparent wearing of green (because we are Irish and not because it is just a colour)?
I kid you not that in my 15 years abroad I cannot wear green on a single day without at least one person saying: “Oh you are wearing green because you are Irish.”
'Oh yes I respond internally – absolutely. ‘I got up this morning at 6am and decided – you know what I am Irish and so I better wear green, it’s been a while.’'
But mostly when confronted with, not always intended, but nonetheless bashing stereotypes, I ask: ‘Do you understand that we are a country with a population of just 4.5 million people? And with that we have dragged ourselves from an economic failure into one of the most advancing and powerful countries? Do you think that could happen if we were drunken layabouts?
I also find myself defending the arts, our writers, our actors, our sportsmanship and so forth. Ask people to question and consider this before they presume colonial induced stereotypes. Finally I say ‘has there ever been a regular work day in your life that you picked the colour of your clothes based on your flag?’
And if there is I would really like to understand the psychology behind this.
It may seem like an overly aggressive and reactive response. Of course it does not fall at any simple comment. But it is tiring to be met with these comments on an ongoing basis. Somedays they take their toll.
The deeper question
But then is the deeper question. If I choose to defend my country so much then why have I also, similarly to James Joyce and Samuel Beckett, decided not to live in it. And that answer is a simple one to me.
The Church.
I often find the church to be responsible with not only my complex relationship to my homeland, but also to the pain that exists within the psyche of Irish people and culture.
So let me tell you the surprise I faced on this venture to the Vulva. On the first part of this trek we visited the Church’s representation of Mary Magdalene. Where she presumably ended up after being exiled from the holy land.
Once Jesus was crucified stories suggest that she landed in France accidentally. Apparently THE (Virgin) Mary’s sister, Martha, and Lazarus were with her too. A seeming boat without an oar situation. Maybe metaphorically, or maybe suggesting a ship wreck. But anyway at this point she lived in a small town ‘Saint Maximim’. And for some reason the final years of her life in a cave (not the vagina one), a grotto in Sainte Baume (16km outside the town of Saint Maiximim). Maybe she went there for the views. It’s a natural park now. And says she lived there. In prayer. For about 30 years and the angels brought her closer to heaven.
The Church have beautifully designed this grotto in the style of a, yes you guessed, a Church. In honour of the miracles accounted for there and in Mary, as her being considered ‘The Apostle of Apostles’. Did you know that? It’s quite funny how small a deal are made of these seemingly very big things. How true this is to the nature of her living there is unclear. But it seems agreed in several texts, French History, The Da-Vinci Code, that Mary did bring Christianity to Marseille, along with Lazarus, while Martha headed off to Avignon and Tarascon.
'When I think about religion from an Irish perspective, I see it as cold and cruel, brainwashing and laced with intentions of oppression, power and control.'
But either way as to it’s true harking to real historical events it now stands as a place with outlandish views overlooking the country-side of the south of France. It hails a particularly confronting display of Jesus on the cross. The sinners, by his side. The whole thing is quite in contrast to the peaceful landscape surrounding it. I did wonder at the placement of many religious sites and how they all seem to be perfectly selected in areas of breath-taking beauty. Did these saints and prophets just really have a great eye for beauty? Or a particularly liking for prime real estate? But I guess if they were highlighting the power of God the Almighty the locations make some sense.
'What particularly irked me on arrival though was the statues of Jesus on the cross and the sinners by his side.'
It is one of the most disturbingly dark depictions of this event that I have witnessed.
That is saying something from a Catholic perspective.
The idea of so much pain and suffering endured in such a beautiful place bothered me. The display seemed to embody for me all the teaching of the church.
Jesus’ perpetual suffering and death so that we could live in beauty. But the responsibility, guilt and confronting nature of this terrible pain in such a scenic and natural setting reminded me too much of the impositions and feelings of eternal guilt. Accepting suffering and living with great lament that is imposed by the Catholic church, from the moment we are born in sin.
I try to reject and look for flaws. Critiquing any signs of exploitation and idolising when I visit religious sites. When you grow up with the weight of Catholicism it can become natural to try to take it apart piece by piece.
In contrast to my critical viewpoint, my companions saw this presentation of a religious site as thrilling and exciting and even beautiful.
At this initial stage I questioned as to why I was so aggressively critical of the religion that I was brought up with. And the religion so many members of my family largely relate to.
When I think about religion from an Irish perspective, I see it as cold and cruel, brainwashing and laced with intentions of oppression, power and control.
'Needless to say that despite the beauty of this Church it reminded me too much of the conflicting messages of my childhood and the conflicting offerings of the church.'
Not many of us Catholics can deny that we spend our lives attempting to free ourselves from the inert guilt paced upon us for simply being born.
The constant reminder that Jesus died for our sins. So we must endure life and be grateful to simply exist. Even in terrible misery. Is something that is tedious at best and very dangerous at worst.
Echoing too much the toxic positivity of gratitude that has become a new age following.
It reminds me of a way for ultimate control. Make someone feel eternally guilty and they will eternally and ineffectually attempt to make up for it. Then on top of that ensure that they spend their days being grateful for whatever terribly tragic hand they have been dealt. And if that is really too hard then throw in the promise that they will be rewarded after death for all the suffering they survived.
We know too well that by this simple premise, even in the most basic form of relationships, people are controlled and become puppets to the ones pulling the strings.
Just imagine when a whole state is pulling those strings.
And it is humanity doing its best to please. Make up for their fantastical wrongs and live in eternal gratitude.
Needless to say that despite the beauty of this Church it reminded me too much of the conflicting messages of my childhood and the conflicting offerings of the church.
I was not enjoying it nearly as much as my companions.
as the day went on I realised that my statement that I had, just showed up, without any research, presented as entirely untrue.
But I was noting that I was suddenly a wealth of knowledge.
I knew everything about this part of the bible and I knew it deeply.
Suddenly surprised at my belief that I was the one arriving unprepared. And to my friends I looked like that person that maintains they didn’t prepare for an exam and then ends up coming out top of the class.
We all know these people. You don’t expect to be that person and continue to be liked.
On arrival I did not know, but quickly learned that my whole life had been a research for this moment. I also did not know how deeply religious knowledge was within me. More importantly I did not realise how these teachings were not in everyone I met.
I realised a deep error on my behalf. And that was approaching people and their actions based on the idea that they at least have the same understanding and experience of religion as I have had. I did not know I did this. Until that moment.
As we left the church cave, we started on our real adventure. To the more interesting and exciting part of the trip.
'They say the cave will appear when you are ready for it'
Find the cave that was not echoed in bible stories.
A cave with history leading back to greek mythology and tales of fertility.
This cave was known as a beacon to women throughout the past. Holding powers and possibilities for fertility. Women would trek there, in the hopes that it would help them become pregnant. And Mary Magdalene, legend has it, helped women with their children, in this cave and essentially ran a vintage creche.
'Like everything the meaning was in the journey.'
Trying to locate this cave is an epic journey in itself. The paths are winding and it is almost impossible to stay on the right one. Despite the cave being about a 40 minute walk from the first cave and an 25 minute one from the carpark we still scrambled up and down the rock face, grabbing hold of branches that gave way with a tug and slipping and sliding over rocks for a full 3 hours.
They say that the cave will appear when you are ready for it.
Apparently searching for it with the energy of four different women, with four different levels of faith in this power. Quite opposing experiences and means of thought processes, made the mission close to impossible.
So, with the small hint of global positioning we had. (The cave is not accurately marked and has no clear indication of place). We found ourselves sometimes above the cave, sometimes under it, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right.
Dare I mention the closeness in a legendary search for the clitoris.
Finally we discovered that someone/s had kindly left green markings to help guide us more efficiently. And after 3 hours of scratches, slips and slides this realisation was very welcomed. I am not sure that the cave would ever have opened to us, without these indicators. We may have had to leave the day, with cap in hand and admit defeat.
But then there it was, a great big gaping vagina in the cliff
'I do not think an artist could have created something more akin to a vulva.'
To say that I underestimated the power of this cave is an underestimation in itself. Despite my excitement and enthusiasm for this trip I was absolutely mesmerised by this remarkable presentation of nature on this rock face. Every singular and tiny detail on the exterior and the narrow passage into the cave was undoubtedly a reflection of female anatomy.
I do not think an artist could have created something more akin to a vulva.
And naturally as you make your way to the narrow passage you end up in the central womb of the cave. Where the energy is both powerful and peaceful. A corner is dedicated to Mary Magdalene. Candles and prayers of appreciation or hope.
The place is in every sense incredible and it silenced even the most doubting of us. Whether logically or creatively minded, the space was humbling and against all reasoning. There was equally no need to hyperbolise the energy, the feeling of time or the depth of history echoing through this cave.
This trip started as a fun and spontaneous adventure. It ended as a humbling space of awe, inspiration, femininity and power.
And since I have left it, it has offered me a great reflection on identity, knowledge, culture and meaning.
'It troubles me of how many of their stories remain unsung, or worse remain untold.'
Two things came up: one is that I felt my non Catholic indoctrinated friends had a more positive experience of the initial cave than I did. I am left quite disturbed that as an agnostic person and someone who moved away from the Catholic Church that so much of it resides in me. It has left me questioning the lens that I look at life through. I am also wondering how much this engrained knowledge still has power over my actions, thoughts and feelings.
The second is that when we have true legends and folklore bringing us back through centuries of time, no matter our background, it is impossible not to feel the ultimate strength and power of the space. It is impossible not to be humbled and impossible not to have faith in something.
On this particular day I had faith in the feminine. A great respect and recognition of these incredible women that have lived and fought through great hardships, great oppression and great suffering. It troubles me of how many of their stories remain unsung, or worse untold.
The elusive goddesses mentioned but not fully centred in our teachings and cultures.
The women that I went on this trip with I met through a women’s circle. A space dedicating itself to female energy and the power of the feminine. Since attending this group and surrounding myself with these independent, strong and like-minded females I have felt more myself than I ever have at any other period of my life.
'I believe that this is a point true for many immigrants. That we can only become our true selves when we leave the culture that we grew up in.'
And again I think back to how my own culture placed women in prisons; confined to home and roles, and with connotations of destitute and sin. Oppressing the true powerful nature of the feminine and likewise not not allowing men to unleash the sensitive feminine parts of themselves.
The contrast to the “man cave” also came suddenly to my mind and I noted the absence of feminine space in our society and thinking.
More deeply though I note that I can only reflect on these things. I can only go on vulva ventures. Can only explore the true nature of myself and use words like, ‘clitoris’ and ‘vagina’, in my writing, because I do not live in Ireland anymore.
Even as I write I worry about what my Irish audience would feel about this and I am sure that many would think I had lost my mind or was writing a whole pile of nonsense.
And this is the point
I believe that this is a point true for many immigrants. That we can only become our true selves when we leave the culture that we grew up in. We can only go inside ourselves when we place ourselves outside and we can only really know ourselves by first understanding that we do not know ourselves at all.
That beliefs, ideas and stereotypes are so engrained within us, so strongly influence our thinking that we have to first learn that and then attempt to deconstruct it.
Legend and Folklore
Before I visited this space I was pretty confident that I knew myself well. After leaving I felt a deep disturbance at how much my life lens is speckled with religious doctrine. But now I realise that I need to use that to find a greater power – to understand that each of us come, knowingly or unknowingly covered in the teachings and beliefs of our culture.
From this point I am reflecting further that when I am judged superficially on what it means to be Irish. And how deep and powerful the meaning actually is. As an Irish person, like many other cultures, we understand that we hold a long history within us.
We understand that legend and folklore is taught in co-existence with history. From that we understand that we often live in surrealism, something akin to the magic realism of South America. We know that because of these stories of power and magic, such as The Children of Lir, The Salmon of Knowledge, the bible stories of Zacchaeus and the Good Samaritan. In this there is a deep teaching to be good, to be creative and that anything is possible.
And so we know that these childhood teachings do not seem to fully align with a church that has caused us to grow up in guilt and shame. Or with a church that brings much shame to our country.
'And this I believe is how Ireland succeeds against all odds.'
As a people we know that we should be unassuming and work hard. That we have an added pressure to go in contrast to the more negative stereotypes (namely uncultured drunks). And in alliance with the more positive (friendly, kind and funny). We also know that you don’t make a storm by creating a racket. You do it by being calm and watchful, gently brewing under the surface until it is your time to be magnificent.
Even though there are many things I have rejected and shed like an old coat from my upbringing and culture, this is the reason that I protest in favour of Ireland’s prosperity.
It is also the reason that I can face my nationality, culture, identity and look at what it has done and what it can still do to us. Even as I move through the world as an ex-patriot or settle as an immigrant. It is why this journey presented to me a confronting mix of who I was, who I am, who I would like to be and how that can all exist simultaneously.
Now I understand the lens in which I view the world and this knowledge will help me step back, reevaluate and reconstruct again. After all this is the ultimate power to continued growth. The ultimate resource to keep on a path of openness and reflection.
