God of Nature, Just thinks of the Wiccan Lord and Lady including beloved of many non-Wiccan Pagans, a long-haired woman wrapped in vines, fruits and grain, he a man hirsute and burly and surrounded by large, wild mammals. One can imagine Artemis other name called Diana like huntresses, carriers of the moon. Or perhaps Gaea, her swelling belly the Earth itself and wager that nine times out of ten, the deity you first thought a form of a human, but almost certainly created in our image. Also, want to tell you about the forgotten God of Nature, the ones whose stories never written down because their loving things never wrote a word in their lives. I want to tell you about the gods who refused to give up their shapes and vowed never to bow the hubristic human ape. I want to say about the God of Nature underfoot, hidden the trees, nestled in the rocks swift-running currents and ride breezes higher than the cirrus clouds that never soil themselves with the earth. Let me tell a few tales of nameless divinities, all but obliterated by the rise of woman the deities.
The God and Goddess
I sing to the Goddess and God of Nature of the family of Salmon, whose children hurl themselves upon stone every year so that the family may go on. I sing to you of the angelic twin faces; he is strongest, boldest coloring of the spawning male, she the skeletal maw that wants to slay all who mate in the birthing pool. It is who beckons the salmon on madness, even as plunge to their deaths; he it is who urges onward and fills their muscles with strength pulled from every last fiber of being. For several years, the young salmon hear tales of the gods’ irresistible pull, but even the Vehement Naysayers among them who helpless the moment hear divine fate’s song in their bones.
I sing to you of the wind god of the family of Pine, generations furthered by the swift breeze, but who laid low to the ground in the fearsome storm. I sing to you of prayers whispered through clasped needles and released into gentle eddies of air, God merciful in spring storms and winter blizzards, in the autumn night which is chill and the summer squall. For it is the God of Nature decides which line of trees go forth into future, with a capricious wind that carries the pollen safely to the cone–or onto the barren stone to die. And it is the god who brings the trees away from his terrible anger, leaving one standing but snatching a root-mate has an instant away.
I sing to you of the deities of the Dictyostelids slime molds, sexless at once a thousand voices. I sing to you of times hardly when the wood rotted away, the sun bakes the earth, together thrive. The divinities ask for sacrifice, voices more than thousands demand it who die to give life to the others, raises up the generation that they may spread far and wide–these become a part of that sacred host; voices immortalized not in cells but spirit.
The Primary Source
I sing to you of the duotheism of the female fig; the Great Tree Mother fruits shelter tender wasp eggs with the Nematode Demon strikes down the tired egg-layers to feed its spawn. I sing to you of duotheism of male fig wasp to the Dark Goddess. Also confining spheres few male wasps ever escape, and the Seductress calls the males to mate and send issue forth into the world, promising the close thing to the freedom, they will ever know in lives. The Tree and the Nematode, the Fig including the Wasp–their tales whispered as their mother lays their eggs to the young in the cradle, all they will ever know of her.
God of Nature is Creator of clownfish; morning is a God, at noon shines brightly, who in the afternoon is a goddess and also who in the evening lays her eggs, and who night dies, only reborn as a god again at the next dawning. I sing to you of those Pisceans who hold vigil each night, awaiting the return of the Creator with the light, and quitting the troubled who huddle in darkness and quaking faith.