The Goddess is the "All of Creation". She is the Creatress and the Created. She is the Life Force of All There Is.  She is One, Whole, and Complete. Before Her, Nothing was. She arose from the Great Void, giving Birth to Herself, before anything else had ever been born. She separated the Sky and the Water, and She Danced. In the Ecstasy of Her Dance did She conceive of All There Is.

In every culture, in every part of the world, the Goddess has been revered as the Birth Giver of all Life. From the very beginning of time, in our earliest primitive state, we sought to explain the unexplainable by drawing from what we knew. The female of every species brought forth life, therefore the Creatrix had to also be Birth Giving Mother and the Great Mother was given Her identity.

She has been loved, feared, respected, honored, and glorified in every way imaginable throughout thousands of years of human development. She has been given a "face" for every conceivable aspect of Her nature. She has taken the form of animals, humans, and elemental energies. She has been given associations with plants, colors, sounds, stones, music, and more. For every aspect and every view She has a face.

She awaits you now. Enter through any of the links to the left, take your time, and explore each page of "The World of the Goddess". Take my hand, come in love and most of all, with joy in your heart.

The White Goddess

All saints revile her, and all sober men
Ruled by the God Apollo's golden mean -
In scorn of which we sailed to find her
In distant regions likeliest to hold her
Whom we desired above all things to know,
Sister of the mirage and echo.

It was a virtue not to stay,
To go our headstrong and heroic way
Seeking her out at the volcano's head,
Among pack ice, or where the track had faded
Beyond the cavern of the seven sleepers:
Whose broad high brow was white as any leper's,
Whose eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips,
With hair curled honey-coloured to white hips.
The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir
Will celebrate with green the Mother,
And every song-bird shout awhile for her;
But we are gifted, even in November
Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense
Of her nakedly worn magnificence
We forget cruelty and past betrayal,
Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

Robert Graves