Libations anyone?

Otun ~Sinuka ~ Kuya

The Water Pot

In every Orisha shrine, and in just about any ceremony or ritual in our traditions, there is always a small container of fresh water set out. A gourd, a clay vase, cup or bowl, even a glass or jar, always with water. While most of the time it just sits there, the water slowly evaporating, it is also used to make libations. Usually, these libations are made quickly, with mumbled, quiet prayers breathed over them as a prelude to other, more elaborate and noticeable rituals, such as divinations and consultations with the Spirit through Elegbara and Ifa, or the often boisterous, jubilant ceremonies and celebrations so appreciated by ourselves and outsiders to the tradition, or the secret, hidden rituals known only to elders, witnessed by few others. In all this, one hardly notices or remembers the little pot of water.

Yet libation is the first and primordial act of our religion.

Almost all of our rituals begin with making a libation. Pouring or sprinkling water from a small vessel, while remembering aloud the names of those who have brought us to being we call for safety, security and blessing. Libation, a pouring out of water upon the ground, repeats the first act of Creation, the fecundation of Earth by Water. Libation recalls rain after draught, semen entering the womb, the arrival of Spirit into matter, consciousness to unknowing, the remembering of ancestors and Deity by their children, the giving back to Nature by humans, and thus, the Self making meaning of existence.

In Brazilian Orisha traditions we use clay vases or water jars to hold water we offer to the Orisha. Such a jar or pot is called a cuarta, (when larger) and quartinha (when smaller.) Quarta means “a quarter” or “a fourth,” so it’s like calling the pot a “quart” in English. Such ceramic jars follow traditional designs and are also called moringas, a uniquely Brazilian word derived from the Kimbundu word moringi meaning a pot for holding water. Usually made of terra-cotta clay or of porcelain, sometimes made with handles, mostly without, sometimes provided with a lid, sometimes not, they are almost always wide mouthed and rounded. In the Vodun traditions the water pot is called sinuka, a Fongbe word. In the Angola, Kongo, Bantu traditions the gourd for water is called kuya. Within the practice of African traditions in Brazil every shrine or place of spiritual practice, wherever the Spirit is thought to rest or is invoked to be present, will have a quarta or quartinha put there, almost always full of water. In Cuban Lukumi tradition this practice also exists; there they use a small gourd called a jícara.

Libation, like most magical, spiritual acts, is contradictory, paradoxical. In offering water or other beverages, we end up giving only what isn’t really ours. We have nothing in and of ourselves that doesn’t come or inevitably go to the Spirit. So how can we offer something to the Spirit? Like the water poured out in libation all life flows in and around us and can never really be held for long. The water pot represents that moment of holding which we humans like to dream of as being eternal, yet, like the body holds the fluids within it, in truth, there is constant evaporation, refilling, seeping and pouring out. It’s never still, never staying. (Some only fill a quartinha 3/4 full to approximate the ratio of fluid in the human body to flesh and bone.) The reserving and offering of water to Orisha affirms this natural fact of existence and making libation is acknowledgement and celebration that giving is having, that one gains oneself only in going with the flow.

Water makes clean, quenches thirst, gives life. Water brings coolness, peace, serenity, beauty. Water washes all away. Water returns.

Omi o l’ota o.

Our traditions teach that without water we have nothing.

Without water we are just dry earth, dust, inert, lifeless matter. It is said, omi o l’ota o, “water has no enemy.” Everyone loves water because it is essential. Yet water is probably also our fiercest enemy; too much of it and we are washed away, we drown, and yet, with not enough of it, we wither and die of thirst. Only in the right relation with water do we exist. While water’s presence may at times be problematic and difficult for us, even drowning us, its complete absence is worse. It is the same with the Spirit; we exist and are happy only in right relation with the Spirit.

With water our life begins and thus only with water can our worship begin.

Water, for us, is the emblem of right relationship, of harmony and balance; embodiment of divine generosity which creates, sustains and destroys our lives. Water is the symbol of the formless womb of possibility from which all things constantly spring forth. Thus, in almost all of Africa, water is not only a requisite ingredient to almost any and all rituals, it is also primary and fundamental; water comes first. Our formalities always begin with the sharing of water. All other ritual acts are either an elaboration of our initial libation of water or they bear some relationship to this initial gesture, conditioning the reality it invokes, adding or subtracting some element of water’s initial invocation of life. It is no exaggeration to say that the whole of our tradition is born, flowing from the libation of water.

          Omi tutu     Cool water

          Ona tutu      Cool the road

          Ile tutu         Cool the home

In old, pre-modern West Africa, as in much of the world in the not-really-so-distant past, the day began with a walk to the well to bring fresh, potable water into the home. The only activity which may have preceded it was the sweeping out of rubbish from the previous day. Nonetheless, the primary, first act of beginning a new day, after pushing off the day before, was to go fetch water. In our initiations and in the daily life of Vodun or Orisha shrines, (as well as in rituals marking the passing of weeks, months, and annual celebrations) this act of gathering water is still the first step in our initiation and its liturgies. In shrines, usually performed by women, in silence, the daily walk to the well or stream is heralded by the ringing of sacred bells to let anyone around know to not disturb this holy act. The return home with new, fresh water, symbolizes the continuity of life and well-being and, during annual festivals, is one greeted with joyous acclaim upon its completion. One must remember that back before the miraculous, technological convenience that is modern plumbing, obtaining sufficient water for drinking, cooking and bathing was usually not an easy task and certainly not one taken for granted. Whole civilizations could rise and fall with the a change in water’s appearance. If a well went dry, if the sky didn’t rain, if the river changed course, well, your whole life changed.

We went to the water and not the other way around.

In the Yoruba diaspora to the Americas the water pot used during the course of a new priestesses (iyawo) initiation is called the otun. In Yoruba language this puns on the word ọtun meaning “renewal” or “newness.” It is not surprising that we see the new life of the iyawo, the renewal of the Spirit in her life and in her community, start with the journey to go bathe at the river or well, washing away her old life, and then gathering up fresh water to walk it back home in the otun to begin her new day, her new life married to Orisha.

So while during the “normal” days in the present industrialized world our relationship to water is one of use and abuse, with water just being something taken for granted, another thing we use, our relationship with the Spirit, however, remains as it was when our foremothers made their daily hikes to the river to seek water and life: we sing and dance when it rains; pray when the dew falls. We go to the Spirit, seek life in its cool, quiet waiting presence. We rise and let go of the previous day to go out into the wee light of dawn to find it, fading sleep and dreams seeping into the hard earth of reality as daylight climbs forth. We  draw the water/spirit up with our strong arms, balance it upon our heads and shoulders, walk it back home for ourselves and our loved ones, feeling its weight heavy on our heads.

We do not waste it.

Back in the day, if someone came over you always offered them water. In Orisha tradition it remains the same. Our first gesture of hospitality and love for others is expressed in sharing our water, in giving a bit of what we have of the Spirit. A traveler or guest arrives from outside in the heat, we bring water and greetings, seat them in a cool place to rest. This is the truth of libation, its mystery. We go to the Spirit and the Spirit is in us; there is only this flowing forth, this sharing of the essential goodness of water, Spirit. Water evaporates, precipitates, flows away again. So, really, there’s just the sharing.

Again: rain upon dry earth; living spirit seeping into the inert, the material; blood coursing in the veins; semen coming into the womb; our tears awakening the compassion of the beloved.

Back in those ancient days when we worshipped trees there was little separating daily chores from holy practices and mysteries; it was all one, of a piece, unity pervaded and eroded all divisions. Remember this when filling your water pot, gourd or jícara. Remember too that the waters of the Earth are at present in danger. Ecological disaster looms. Our religion is thus in danger, as is our lives. Water has no enemies. The only enemy then, is ourselves.

No separation. Just as water flows through and comprises the mass of your body you will, like a drop of rain, one day flow back into the salty, heaving tides of the ocean, returning to the Spirit that you’ve never really left. Remember: your only separation from the Water Mother’s womb is in your mind, which is in your body, which is in her body, her mind, her heart. No separation. You are more the water/spirit more than you are you. Long after you are done being you, you will be water.

Take care of yourself. Make no enemies.

          O iya omi n’ibu

          Omi ro d’orisha

          O ‘lele.

Go take a bath, feel the water washing you clean, let the past go, let go of worries and preoccupation. You can come clean.

If you do nothing else, have nothing else, just get a small container of water and pour or sprinkle some out on the ground or floor in front of you. Pray. Pray to whatever you like, however you like. We usually call the names of those who brought us here and then name all the forces of good in our lives; we remember the limitless, unending Creator that is as inseparable from creation as wet is from water. Even if you have no faith, know no ancestor or deity, just open your heart and speak, let it out. Speak to the eternity of creation, what some call Nature, this reality you just remembered and took part in by pouring out a little bit of yourself into the world. Take a sip of the water. You’ve given into the Spirit and the Spirit has been poured into you. From this point you can begin again.

This is our religion. All the rest we can teach you is a belaboring, elaborating just this one act; all the rest is fanciness.