Ascensions and synchronicities

In the past week I've experienced a couple of strange synchronicities.  In the first, I was talking with a friend about the strange Swedish musical instrument called the nyckelharpa -- it's sort of the unholy offspring of a fiddle and a typewriter -- and only a couple of hours later, a (different) friend sent me a link to a video of two women playing a nyckelharpa duet.

The second occurred just two days ago.  A post I saw about conspiracy theories brought to mind the be-all-end-all conspiracy theory novel, Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum.  In particular what I'd read reminded me of the character of Agliè, who said he was the Comte de Saint Germain -- a strange figure from French history who claimed to be immortal.  (If you want to know more about this curious fellow, I did a post on him back in 2023.)  Then, later that day, I was on the way back home from helping out my wife at her art show in Rochester, and I was listening to the wonderful radio show This American Life -- and I caught the tail end of a story about, you guessed it, the Comte de Saint Germain.

The Comte de Saint Germain by Nicolas Thomas (1783) [Image is in the Public Domain]

I'm dubious that these kinds of synchronicities Mean Anything.  If it's a message from the Powers That Be, it's a pretty fucking obscure one.  And if this is some kind of Glitch in the Matrix -- well, I'm a little baffled as to why the Matrix works fine in most respects, but struggles with nyckelharpas and the Comte de Saint Germain.  Me, I think this is likely to be nothing more than dart-thrower's bias -- our tendency to notice (and give undue weight to) oddities and outliers, and ignore all the random background noise that fills our daily lives.

After all, yesterday I was thinking about King Louis IX of France (research for my current novel), and no one later on said to me, "So, how about old King Louis IX of France, amirite?"  Most of the random stuff that occurs in our heads never gets weirdly repeated, so we simply forget about it.  But strange, rapid-fire repetitions?  Those we notice.

In any case, the bit of the story I heard from This American Life seemed to indicate that there was some kind of odd connection between the Comte de Saint Germain and Mount Shasta, in northern California, which was new to me, so I thought I'd look into it.

And holy shit.  This stuff makes Glitches in the Matrix sound like hard-edged science.

You ready?

In 1930, an American mining engineer named Guy Ballard was hiking on Mount Shasta, and had an encounter with a young man.  Here's how Ballard himself described it:

It came time for lunch, and I sought a mountain spring for clear, cold water.  Cup in hand, I bent down to fill it, when an electrical current passed through my body from head to foot.

I looked around, and directly behind me stood a young man who, at first glance, seemed to be someone on a hike like myself.  I looked more closely and realized immediately that he was no ordinary person.  As this thought passed through my mind, he smiled and addressed me saying:

"My Brother, if you will hand me your cup, I will give you a much more refreshing drink than spring water."  I obeyed, and instantly the cup was filled with a creamy liquid.  Handing it back to me, he said: "Drink it."

So he did.  At this point, the young man identified himself as the Comte de Saint Germain, who was an "Ascended Master."  He appointed Ballard and Ballard's wife and son, Edna and Edona, as the "sole accredited messengers" responsible for bringing Saint Germain's teachings to the world.

The result was what is called the "I AM" Activity (later called the Saint Germain Foundation), which attracted tens of thousands of faithful adherents despite stuff like Ballard claiming that in previous lives he'd been Richard the Lionheart and George Washington, and Edna (not to be outdone) saying she'd been Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth I of England, and Benjamin Franklin.  They published a couple dozen books, including Unveiled Mysteries and The Magic Presence, before Ballard's death in 1939.

You have to wonder who he was reincarnated as this time.  My guess is Deepak Chopra.

Anyhow, what appears in Ballard's teachings is really nothing more than a rehash of stuff from early twentieth century Theosophy and other occult philosophies, although it is notable that Ballard et al. make the unusual claim that the books they published weren't written by him, but dictated to him (or through him) by other historical figures.  For example, one of them, Comte de Gabalis, he said was written by Francis Bacon. 

What strikes me about all this -- and, in fact, I have the same objection to most "revealed knowledge" -- is that it hardly ever tells us anything we didn't already know.  A lot of it is usually well-intentioned advice (of the "we need to be loving and kind to each other" sort), a lot of it is stuff about famous people who are allegedly now Celestial Guides or whatnot, and almost none of it is anything that would count as a scientific revelation.  I mean, Ballard was working back in the 1930s, so just think of what an Ascended Master could have told him about discoveries which were at that point still in the future -- the nature of DNA and its role in genetics, the plate tectonic model, where to find evidence to confirm the Big Bang, how to make an interstellar warp drive, or even practical stuff like how to make antibiotics and do gene therapy to cure human diseases.

You'd think that Ascended Masters would be eager to give us critical information, instead of vague pronouncements that impress a handful of people for a while and then leave the world pretty much loping along as it always did.

Because that, honestly, is what happened to the Saint Germain Foundation.  After Ballard's death his wife Edna took over; she saw it through the pivotal moment of July 1, 1956, when the Age of Aquarius officially started, at which point Jesus retired as Grand Ascended Master and the Comte de Saint Germain took over (I swear I'm not making this up).  Edna died in February of 1971, but her death wasn't reported publicly for months because -- direct quote -- "The movement doesn't believe in death."  It still maintains a temple in downtown Chicago and presents an annual pageant on Mount Shasta every August, but the number of true adherents worldwide apparently only amounts to a few thousand total.

In any case, I find all this curious, but more because of what it tells us about human psychology and our desire to find meaning than any kind of big revelations about the cosmos and how it works.  As far as synchronicities go, I'm still inclined to attribute them to dart-thrower's bias.  On the other hand, we'll see if the universe decides to teach me a lesson.  If I start seeing random references to King Louis IX of France showing up in unexpected places, I may have to eat my words.

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Batman's watching you

Lately, the political scene in the United States has been dominated by not just the single-cause fallacy (the tendency to attribute complex phenomena to one root cause), but the simple-cause fallacy.  This is the KISS principle (Keep It Simple, Stupid) writ large; make everything the result of one, easy-to-understand origin, and you'll have a convenient scapegoat when things go to hell.

How many times have you heard our current government officials saying stuff like "(Some bad thing) is because of (pick one: illegal immigrants, Democrats, brown people doing bad stuff, socialism, LGBTQ+ people)."  And unfortunately, this kind of thing has its appeal.  Complexity is challenging.  We often don't like to be confronted with difficult-to-solve problems, especially when solving those problems involves (1) working with people we disagree with, and (2) facing situations where the solution involves painful compromises.

It's why there was very little pushback a couple of days ago when J. D. Vance, somehow maintaining a straight face the entire time, said that high housing prices were due to illegal immigrants.  Lest you think I'm making this up, here's his exact quote:

A lot of young people are saying, housing is way too expensive.  Why is that?  Because we flooded the country with thirty million illegal immigrants who were taking houses that ought by right go to American citizens.  And at the same time we weren’t building enough new houses to begin with even for the population that we had.

This is in spite of the fact that as of the latest data, the total number of illegal immigrants in the United States is less than half that, and the awkward question of how illegal immigrants (all thirty million of them, apparently) would get bank loans to purchase homes without steady, good-paying jobs -- and Social Security Numbers.  Despite this, the person interviewing him -- unsurprisingly, it was Sean Hannity -- nodded as if what Vance just said made complete sense.

I saw a fascinating example of this tendency just yesterday, which I saw more than once appended to commentary to the effect of "Wow, people sure are stupid."  It's a study in Nature by a team led by Francesco Pagnini, of the Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore, in Milan, and is entitled, "Unexpected Events and Prosocial Behavior: The Batman Effect."

What the researchers did was send a volunteer who was visibly pregnant onto a train, and counted the number of people who offered her a seat.  Then they did the same thing, but right after she boarded, a man dressed up as Batman boarded as well.  The number of people who gave up their seat for her almost doubled -- from 38% to 67%.  And the vast majority of the posters and commenters I've seen mention this study were snickering about how gullible people are.  Did the passengers really think that was Batman, and he was going to go all Justice League on their asses if they didn't give up their seat for the pregnant lady?  One even went into a long diatribe about how our current online culture has made it hard for people (especially young people, he says) to tell the difference between fiction and reality.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons William Tung, San Diego Comic-Con 2024 Masquerade - Cosplay of Batman 3, CC BY-SA 2.0]

Well, okay, maybe that's one possibility; that being reminded of a character who stands for fair play makes people think they should Do The Right Thing, too.  But I can easily think of two other reasons this might have happened -- one of which the authors go into, right in the damn paper.  (Highlighting another unfortunate tendency, which is that people often comment on social media posts just from the tagline, and without even clicking the link.  I can't even tell you the number of times I've had someone post a comment on a Skeptophilia link that left me thinking, "Bro, did you even read the fucking post?")

The explanation that the authors went into is that having something unusual happen -- like a guy showing up in costume -- makes people take notice.  I don't know about you, but when I've ridden trains, I'm seldom giving a lot of attention to the other passengers.  (I've usually got my nose in a book.)  Unless, that is, one of them is doing something peculiar.  It wouldn't have to be Batman, or anyone associated with Smiting Evildoers; all it would have to be is something odd.  Then I'd look up -- and be more likely to notice other things, such as a pregnant lady standing there hanging onto the grab bar.

The other possible explanation, though, is one that definitely would have occurred to me; if there's a guy standing there nonchalantly, dressed like Batman, is this part of a stunt?  If so, there'd certainly be others watching and waiting to see what the other passengers do -- and possibly filming it.  That would cause me to look around.  It might induce me toward more prosocial behavior, too; if I know I'm being filmed, I wouldn't want to end up enshrined forever on YouTube as the lazy bum who sat there while a pregnant woman was hanging on for dear life trying not to fall down when the train lurches.

The point here is that an interesting finding (people are more prosocial when somebody nearby is dressed as Batman) is not proof that the passengers think that Batman is real, and (by extension) that they don't know the difference between fact and fiction.  That might be true, at least for a few of them.  But in this case, the simple (and wryly amusing) explanation is a vast overconclusion.

The fact that it has shown up over and over, though, is yet another example of confirmation bias; the people who are claiming this interpretation of the experiment obviously already think that humanity is irredeemably stupid, and this was just another nail in the coffin.  So instead of doing what we all should do -- thinking, "what are other possible explanations for this?" -- they stop there, sitting back with smug expressions, because after all if they see how dumb everyone else is, it must mean they're smart themselves.

Or maybe I'm just falling for the single-cause fallacy myself.  It's why I wouldn't want to be a psychologist; people are way too complicated.

But one conclusion I will stand by is that this phenomenon only gets worse with people like J. D. Vance, who not only falls back on simple one-liner explanations, he makes up the data as he goes to support them.

So anyway.  Despite what you may have heard, most people don't think Batman is real, and therefore act nicer when he's around.  My guess is people would have had exactly the same reaction if someone had showed up dressed as the Joker.  It's always best to stop and question your assumptions and biases before jumping to a conclusion -- or commenting on a link just based on the tagline.

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Mental maps

Picture a place you know well.  Your house, your apartment, a park, a church, a school.  You can probably imagine it, remember what it's like to wander around in it, maybe even visualize it to a high level of detail.

Now, let's change the perspective to one you probably have never taken.  Would you be able to draw a map of the layout -- as seen from above?  An aerial view?

Here's a harder task.  In a large room, there are various obstacles, all fairly big and obvious.  Tables, chairs, sofas, the usual things you might find in a living room or den.  You're standing in one corner, and from that perspective are allowed to study it for as long as you like.

Once you were done, could you walk from that corner to the diagonally opposite one without running into anything -- while blindfolded?

Both of these tasks require the use of a part of your brain called the hippocampus.  The name of the structure comes from the Greek word ἱππόκαμπος -- literally, "seahorse" -- because of its shape.  The hippocampus has a role in memory formation, conflict avoidance... and spatial navigation.

Like the other structures in the brain, the hippocampus seems to be better developed in some people than others.  My wife, for example, has something I can only describe as an internal GPS.  To my knowledge, she has never been lost.  When we took a trip to Spain and Portugal a few years ago, we rented a car in Madrid and she studied a map -- once.  After that, she navigated us all over the Iberian Peninsula with only very infrequent checks to make sure we were taking the correct turns, which because of her navigational skills, we always were.

I, on the other hand, get lost walking around a tree.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Edward Betts, Bloomsbury - map 1, CC BY-SA 2.0]

The topic comes up because of a paper I came across in the journal Cell that showed something absolutely fascinating.  It's called "Targeted Activation of Hippocampal Place Cells Drives Memory-Guided Spatial Behavior," and was written by a team led by Nick T. M. Robinson of University College London.  But to understand what they did, you have to know about something called optogenetics.

Back in 2002, a pair of geneticists, Boris Zemelman and Gero Miesenböck, developed an amazing technique.  They genetically modified mammalian nerve tissue to express a protein called rhodopsin, which is one of the light-sensitive chemicals in the retina of your eye.  By hitching the rhodopsin to ion-sensitive gateway channels in the neural membrane, they created neurons that literally could be turned on and off using a beam of light.

Because the brain is encased in bone, animals that express this gene don't respond any time the lights are on; you have to shine light directly on the neurons that contain rhodopsin.  This involves inserting fiber optics into the brain of the animal -- but once you do that, you have a set of neurons that fire when you shine a light down the fibers.  Result: remote-control mice.

Okay, if you think that's cool, wait till you hear what Robinson et al. did.

So you create some transgenic mice that express rhodopsin in the hippocampus.  Fit them out with fiber optics.  Then let the mice learn how to run a maze for a reward, in this case sugar water in a feeder bottle.  Watch through an fMRI and note which hippocampal neurons are firing when they learn -- and especially when they recall -- the layout of the maze.

Then take the same mice, put them in a different maze.  But switch the lights on in their brain to activate the neurons you saw firing when they were recalling the map of the first maze.

The result is that the mice picture the first maze, and try to run that pattern even though they can see that they are now in a different maze.  The light activation has switched on a memory of the layout of the maze they'd learned that then overrode all the other sensory information they had access to.

It's as if you moved from Tokyo to London, and then tried to use your knowledge of the roads of Tokyo to find your way from St. Paul's Cathedral to the Victoria & Albert Museum.

This is pretty astonishing from a number of standpoints.  First, the idea that you can switch a memory on and off like that is somewhere between fascinating and freaky.  Second, that the neural firing pattern is so specific -- that pattern corresponds to that map, and no other.  And third, that the activation of the map made the mice doubt the information coming from their own eyes.

So once again, we have evidence of how plastic our brains are, and how easy they are to fool.  What you're experiencing right now is being expressed in your brain as a series of neural firings; in a way, the neural firing pattern is the experience.  If you change the pattern artificially, you experience something different.

More disturbing still is that our sense of self is also deeply tied to our neural links (some would say that our sense of self is nothing more than neural links; to me, the jury's still out on where consciousness comes from, so I'm hesitant to go that far).  So not only what you perceive, but who you are can change if you alter the pattern of neural activation.

We're remarkable, complex, amazing, and fragile beasts, aren't we?

So that's today's contribution from the Not Science Fiction department.  I'm wondering if I might be able to get one of those fiber optics things to activate my hippocampus.  Sounds pretty extreme, but I am really tired of getting lost all the time.  There are trees everywhere around here.

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Get thee behind me, Rover

If you live in Japan, own a dog, and have more money than sense, I've got good news for you: you can pay ¥ 31,000 (about US $297) to have a Shinto priest perform an exorcism on your canine companion.

I'm not making this up.  According to an article by E. S. Huffman over at UpRoxx, the D+ Spa in Kagoshima Prefecture is offering a special deal wherein you can come over with Fido, and a certified Shinto priest from the nearby Shingariyu Shrine will get rid of whatever evil spirits your dog has in attendance.

"Seven-year-old, ten-year-old, and thirteen-year-old dogs need to be careful of their health, as it’s easier in those years for them to get diseases of aging," the D+ website explains.  After all, it couldn't be because by the time dogs get to be ten years old, they're moving into the age bracket euphemistically known as "getting up there in years."

On the other hand, if creaky joints, bad eyesight, and wrinkles are caused by evil spirits that you could actually potentially get rid of, that'd be good news for People Of A Certain Age.  Like myself.  Unfortunately, however, D+ doesn't offer exorcisms for humans yet, only dogs.  And if the whole thing brings up mental images of Linda Blair puking up pea soup all over the place, not to worry; the exorcism ritual only lasts thirty minutes, is apparently calm and peaceful, and afterwards the newly-cleansed dogs get to go for a swim in a dogs-only pool.  Then, according to the website, they "are reunited with their owners for a relaxing meal and champagne."

Me, I'm not so sure it's a good idea to give a dog champagne.  But maybe the bubbles keep the evil spirits from returning, I dunno.

Actual photo from the D+ website of a poodle, settling in for a nice post-exorcism nosh

What comes to my mind, besides "Are you people nuts?  Or what?", is that in my experience all dogs have weird, quirky habits, so if you're attributing canine oddities to evil spirits, then every domesticated dog I've ever met must be possessed.  In my long years of dog ownership, I've known dogs who:

• never figured out that you can't walk through a sliding glass door
• tried to herd our cats
• thought a stuffed toy was a live squirrel and stared at it for hours on end waiting for it to move
• begged for cucumbers but completely ignored us when we were cooking steak
• was barking outside like a lunatic, and upon investigation, it turned out she was barking at a stick
• had a mortal hatred of ping-pong balls
• barked furiously at strangers -- until they walked in the front door, at which point everyone apparently becomes a friend
• would suddenly turn vicious and block the door, growling and snarling, when visitors tried to leave

I sort of doubt that any of this could be fixed by exorcism.  Myself, I've always thought that domestication just makes animals act weird.  In order for a formerly-wild animal to cohabit successfully with humans, it must kind of screw up the mental circuitry on some level.

On the other hand, if you want my vote for a species that really could use some intervention, evil-spirit-wise, I'd suggest looking at cats.  On a visit to a friend's house, I met a cat whose preferred mode of expressing affection is to jump on the top of the chair you're sitting in and bite a chunk out of your scalp.  Another friend has a cat who likes to climb into your lap, reach up with both paws, and attempt to give you a nipple piercing right through your shirt.

You have to wonder what a Shinto priest could do about that.

Anyhow, if you're ever in Japan with your dog, consider whether a family outing for a canine exorcism might be right for you.  As for me, I need to sign off here so I can go let my dog out, so he can go stand at the end of our dock and bark at his own reflection in the pond.

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Signs and portents

The general rule is that you should always try to rule out all the natural and normal explanations for something before you jump to a supernatural or paranormal one.

It's not, as I've said before, that I think outlandish explanations are necessarily wrong.  For one thing, even science can be an awfully weird place sometimes; just the (extremely well-documented) results of quantum physics and the General Theory of Relativity should be enough to convince you of that much.  Also, whatever your particular favorite flavor of strangeness -- be it aliens, ghosts, UFOs, cryptids, psychic phenomena, or whatever -- I'm not going to say any of it is impossible.  But what I stand by is that if you can find a rational, scientific explanation for something, it's vastly more likely to be true, so you should go there first.

After all, the burden of proof is on the one making the outlandish claim.  Demonstrate that we have something outside of the realm of conventional science, and then we'll talk.

The reason this comes up is because of two claims in the last week of Signs and Portents, one from Colombia and one from India.  The first comes from near the village of Morcá, where a musician named Jimmy Ayala reports coming back from visiting a shrine to the Virgin Mary with his family, and coming across some people who seemed to be praying to a rock outcropping.  He came closer, and found this:

I'm guessing you can tell what it's supposed to be; if not, the inset and arrow in the upper right will help.

The devout apparently consider this a divine message; many are considering it a genuine miracle.  Me, I want to know if anyone's looked closely to see if it was carved with a chisel.  I'm reminded of cases where statues of the Virgin Mary were claimed to "weep holy scented oil," and then when investigators checked it out it turned out that they had a hole drilled in the back (the statues, not the investigators) and were filled with oil, then someone had used a knife to nick the glaze on the inside corner of the eyes so the oil could seep through.

Miracles, apparently, sometimes need a little human help, and I suspect that's what's going on with the rock wall in Colombia.

The second, which occurred in the village of Farabari, India, apparently alarmed the absolute shit out of a number of people, when the following appeared in the clouds:

More than one person was reminded of a scene from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire:

Others thought it was a divine omen of evil, or a message from aliens, or had something to do with comet 3I-ATLAS, the last-mentioned of which made me roll my eyes so hard I could see the back of my own head.

So that one is pretty certainly just a case of pareidolia, the common phenomenon where we see faces in inanimate objects.  Our brains are wired to key-in on human faces, pretty much from birth; it's a huge part of the bonding and socialization process.  This can misfire and cause us to think there are faces on tortillas, dirty walls, grilled cheese sandwiches... or on Mars:

[Image is in the Public Domain courtesy of NASA/JPL]

The upshot is that I'm not seeing either one of these as a convincing Sign or Portent or whatnot.  Maybe there is some superpowerful being who wants to send us a message sometimes, but it'd be nice if (s)he (1) did so in a less ambiguous fashion, and (2) made it clear what the Sign and/or Portent actually means.  For example, let's say the glowing face in India really is supernatural in origin.  What are we supposed to do about it?  Cower in terror?  Okay, but the thing dissipated completely in about fifteen minutes, so even assuming we cowered for another five minutes or so after that, just to be polite, it's kind of weak.  Repent of our sins?  A fat lot of good that'd do.  Knowing how humanity acts, once the face was no longer glowering at us we'd all be right back to sinning away like usual.

It'd be nice if just for once, the Superpowerful Being would do something big and obvious, like put up a sign in the sky saying, "STOP COVERING UP FOR PEDOPHILES.  NO, I REALLY MEAN IT, JUST STOP."

I wonder what Mike Johnson would do.  Despite his very public belief in an all-powerful God, my guess is that he'd piss his pants and then have a stroke.

But apparently such conspicuous, obvious miracles went out of fashion after the Old Testament times.  Pity, that.

In any case, if you know of a candidate for a genuine miracle, I'm happy to hear about it.  It'd be kind of cool if there was; it'd mean someone more powerful than humans was actually in control.  This would be good news, because at the moment, we humans are doing a pretty piss-poor job of running things.

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The weeping woman

Yesterday's post, about the remarkable similarities between mythological gods and goddesses in cultures widely separated in space and time, prompted my cousin Carla, who lives in New Mexico, to ask me if I'd ever heard of La Llorona.

I responded that she sounded familiar, but I couldn't recall any details.

"It's a legend all over the Spanish-speaking parts of North, Central, and South America," she explained.  "I think there's a version in Spain, too.  Each culture has a slightly different take on her, but basically, she's the Weeping Woman' -- someone who was involved in a tragedy, and now as a ghost can be heard crying in the night.  Sometimes, rarely, seen as well.  If you hear her, you're in deep trouble.  So next time y'all come visit, if you're out for a walk at night and hear a woman crying, haul ass right outta there."

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Statue of La Llorona in Xochimilco, Mexico, 23 September 2015, KatyaMSL, Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International]

Like the gods I wrote about yesterday, La Llorona has astonishingly deep roots.  The 1519 Florentine Codex, one of the most important extant documents about pre-colonial Mesoamerican history and beliefs, speaks about a crying woman as a fearful portent:

The sixth omen was that many times a woman would be heard going along weeping and shouting.  She cried out loudly at night, saying, "Oh my children, we are about to go forever."  Sometimes she said, Oh my children, where am I to take you?"

There's an even earlier parallel in Aztec mythology, the goddess Cihuacōātl -- who gave birth to a son Mixcōātl but abandoned him at a crossroads.  Cihuacōātl comes back to the spot at night, hoping to find him but only finding a sacrificial knife instead.  She can be seen and heard there weeping for him.  (It ended happily enough for Mixcōātl; he was rescued, and grew up to be the god of the hunt.)

La Llorona has, like the gods I discussed yesterday, evolved a bit from her presumed roots -- although wherever you find the story, there are plenty more similarities than differences.  In a typical version, she was the wife of a rich ranchero who found out her husband was cheating on her, and in a fit of insane rage drowned their children in a river.  Immediately remorseful, she threw herself in as well, but her spirit is unable to find peace -- she now haunts the riverbank, clad in a dripping white dress, wailing miserably.

The regional differences are fascinating.  In Mexico, she's mostly considered a monstrous figure, and her sin of drowning her children unpardonable (despite her provocation).  Interestingly, the rise of feminism in Mexico has led to some women identifying with her, and considering her the victim rather than the villain -- further evidence that attitudes toward beliefs can change over time.  In Guatemala, the legend has it that La Llorona was a married woman who got pregnant from another man, and drowned the baby when it was born to avoid her husband finding out.  In Ecuador, she's a tragic figure whose lover died, and she went insane and drowned their children -- and now, her disembodied spirit searches perpetually along the riverbank for them.  In Venezuela, she's a bereft mother whose children died of a sickness, and was driven so mad by grief that she's still looking for them in the afterlife.

Carla was right, there's even a version in Spain, which I find curious if the legend has Indigenous Mesoamerican roots; a woman named Elvira (not that Elvira) who led such a tragic life that she gradually becomes a wraith-like, weeping specter.  There's no mention of children or water -- common themes in the other iterations -- so I wonder if this one is "genetically" connected to the others, or only related because of there being an image of a crying woman.

After all, there are also parallels to similar legends in other cultures, particularly the Slavic Rusalka -- a malicious water-spirit sometimes said to be the lost soul of a drowned woman, who will grab handsome young men while they're swimming and drag them to their deaths -- and the Bean Sí (usually anglicized to Banshee) of Irish mythology, a wailing woman whose cries herald the death of a family member.  Unlikely these have any direct connection to the La Llorona stories, although considering how far back the roots of cultural cross-fertilization sometimes go, I do wonder.

In any case, there's another example of the evolution of folklore for your entertainment.  Something to keep in mind if you're ever out on a dark path near a riverside, and you hear crying.  Me, I still haven't quite recovered from finding out about the Black-eyed Children (I was so traumatized by this urban legend that I wrote an entire trilogy of novels about it so you can be traumatized, too).  In fact, given all the creepy things that supposedly roam at night, maybe it's better you just stay inside your house where it's safe.

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The old gods

My M.A. is in historical linguistics, focusing particularly on northern European languages and how they interacted in (relatively) recent times.  (While "recent," to a linguist, isn't quite as out of line with common usage as compared to how it's used by geologists, it bears mentioning that my earliest point of research is around fifteen hundred years ago.)  One of the difficulties I ran into was that two of the languages I studied -- Old English and Old Norse -- descend from a common root a very long time ago, so they share some similarities that are "genetic."  A simple example is that the Old English word for home (hām) and the Old Norse word (heim) are both descended from a reconstructed Proto-Germanic root *haimaz.  So if a word in Modern English comes from an Old Norse borrow-word -- one that came into English following the Viking invasions in the ninth and tenth centuries -- how could you differentiate that from a word that had been there all along, descending from the common roots of the two languages?

The most effective method is that during the time following the split between the ancestors of Old English and Old Norse, each of the languages evolved in different directions.  To take just one of many examples I used, some time around the eighth century, a pronunciation shift occurred called palatalization.  This is when words with a stop (p, t, d, g, and so on) followed by a front vowel (i or e) eventually "palatalize" the consonant, usually to y, j, or ch.  (It's driven by ease of pronunciation, and it's still happening today -- it's why in fast speech most people pronounce "don't you" as something like /dontchu/.)

In any case, words with /gi/ and /ge/ combinations in Old English all got palatalized to /yi/ and /ye/.  It's why we have yield (Old English gieldan), yet (Old English gīet) and yellow (Old English geolu), to name three.  So how do we have any /gi/ and /ge/ words left?  Well, if they were borrowed -- mostly from the Norse-speaking invaders -- after the palatalization shift happened, they missed their chance.  So most of our words with that combination (gift, get, girth, gear, and so on) are Old Norse loan-words.

That's just one of the patterns I used, but it gives you the flavor of how this sort of work is done.  Differentiating genetic relationships between languages (inherited from common ancestry) and incidental relationships (through migration, cultural contact, and borrowing).  Anyhow, the point is, I've been steeped in this kind of research for a long time.  (Since "recently," in fact.)

But what I didn't know is that the same techniques have been brought to bear not on linguistics, but on religion, myth, and belief patterns.  The work I saw was done on Indo-European speaking cultures (encompassing languages from the British Isles all the way to India), but there's no reason the same techniques couldn't be used for other linguistic/cultural groups.

When I found out about it, my immediate thought was, "Brilliant!  That makes total sense."  Deities can be "inherited" (passed down within a culture) or "borrowed" (adopted because of cultural contact), just like words can.  The names are a big clue; so, of course, are the physical, personal, and spiritual attributes.  Some of the more obvious ones -- here called by their reconstructed Proto-Indo-European names -- include *Dyḗws Ph₂tḗr, the daylight-sky god; his consort *Dʰéǵʰōm, the earth mother; his daughter *H₂éwsōs, the dawn goddess; his sons the Divine Twins; *Seh₂ul, the sun god; and *Meh₁not, the moon goddess.

When you start seeing the patterns, they jump out at you.  *Dyḗws Ph₂tḗr directly led to Zeus, Jupiter, the Vedic sky god Dyáus, the Albanian sky god Zojz, and the Norse war god Týr.  To take only one other example -- *H₂éwsōs, the goddess of dawn, gave rise to the Greek Eos, the Vedia Ushas, the Lithuanian Aušrinė, and the Germanic Ēostre or Ostara -- from whose name we get our word Easter.  (The word Easter has nothing to do with the Babylonian god Ishtar, despite the rather hysterical post to that effect that seems to get passed around every spring.  The two sound a little similar but have no cultural or linguistic connection other than that.)

Aurora, Goddess of Dawn, by Giovanni Francesco Barbieri (1621) [Image is in the Public Domain]

What I find most fascinating about all this is how conservative cultures can be.  If the name of a dawn goddess in the three-thousand-year-old Indian Rig Veda is linguistically and thematically connected to the name of a similar goddess revered in eighth century C.E. Scandinavia, how far back do her roots go?  That there is any similarity considering the geographical separation and the long passage of time is somewhere beyond remarkable.

Our beliefs are remarkably resistant to change, and when a belief is hooked to something in a language, that bit of language becomes frozen, too.  Well, not frozen, exactly, but really sluggish.  The old gods, it seems, are still with us.  

Changed, perhaps, but still recognizable.  

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