The New Vesta Secret

By Debra May Macleod

The New Vesta Secret: Finding the Flame of Faith, Home & Happiness

 

If reading Debra May Macleod's historical fiction novels on the Vestal Virgins of ancient Rome inspired you to light a candle and think of the eternal flame (why not? they say everything old is new again), this nonfiction offering may interest you. It shares the author's personal experience with this ancient religion and offers ways - some lighthearted, others more meaningful - for those who are so inclined to incorporate it into their modern life.

What if your home was more sacred than any church or temple? What if you could understand why looking into a flame makes you feel calm and reverential? What if you could find greater meaning and happiness in your home and life? If you've ever felt drawn to the "old ways," The New Vesta Secret may be for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debra May Macleod
• Release date: Jun 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781775058595

Book preview

Finding the Flame of Faith, Home & Happiness

By Debra May Macleod

© Debra May Macleod 2014

ISBN-13: 978-1503289468

ISBN: 978-1-7750585-8-8

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author.

The author has recreated events, dates, locales and conversations from memory. Names and identifying characteristics of people and places have been changed or omitted for privacy purposes. This book is for informational and entertainment purposes only. The practices mentioned herein are those of the author and may not be suitable for the reader on an individual basis; the practices should not be relied upon as a substitute for the reader’s own discretion. Should the reader choose to engage in any activities mentioned herein, including but not limited to those that involve the use of candles, they must do appropriate research, take fire-safe precautions and use their own judgment (e.g. follow the candle manufacturer’s recommendations, burn in a safe setting, burn on a safe surface, use fire-safe receptacles, never leave a flame unattended, do not add debris to a candle, have a suitable means of extinguishment nearby, etc.). The author cannot be held liable for any damages, consequences, or acts or omissions, allegedly arising, directly or indirectly, from the use or misuse of this book.

Cover photo: Gold design logo © Lahalah project

Image ID: 2268966287 Provided by Shutterstock.com

Inside illustration: Letter V logo © Steinar

Image ID: 206140168 Provided by Shutterstock.com

Inside images in the public domain:

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Trattato_generale_di_archeologia257.png CC-PD. Temple of Vesta in Roman Forum, Illustrazione da Trattato di Archeologia, Iginio Gentile, Serafino Ricci, 1901.

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Vesta_symbol.svg?uselang=fr. Symbol for asteroid 4 Vesta. PD Unicode-BMP-2600

From the author’s collection:

Ancient Roman coin

Photo, modern lararium

Bronze of Vesta

E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

DebraMayMacleod.com

CONTENTS

Introduction: The Via Sacra

Chapter I: Playing With Fire

The Master Plan

Conception and Denial

Crash and Burn

Cosmic Pushback

Acceptance

Chapter II: From the Ashes

Scared Straight

The Rebound

Taking My Work Home With Me

From Anger to Apathy

The Chills

Chapter III: Las Vesta

A Blast From the Past

Basement Excavations

A Risky Revelation

The Lararium

Chapter IV: Revelations and Roots

Lighting (and Lightening) Up

Finding Our Roots

Seeing Things in a New Light

Chapter V: Reigniting the Flamma Vesta

Trial by Fire

A Spark of Simplicity

Catching Fire

The Flame and the Furnace

The Voice of New Vesta

Chapter VI: Happiness and Heaven

Get Thee to a Nunnery

Mother Vesta

The Sacred Feminine: A Spiritual Void

The Search for Self

Finding Happiness at Home

Self-Creation

Chapter VII: Finding a Focal Point

The Power of Focus

Staying Focused

A Face in the Flame

Praying for Intuition

Chapter VIII: Vesta, Renewed

New Beginnings

Fire Power: Cleansing and Renewing

Chapter IX: Liturgy and the Light of Vesta

Greek Tragedy

Alpha and Omega

Ritual and Doctrine

Ritual and Revelation

The Elysian Fields

The Eternal Flame

The Power of Symbols

Chapter X: Spiritual Evolution

Life’s Main Intersection

Sparks and Superpowers

Sparks and Secrets

Supplement: Five Observances of New Vesta

Observance One: A Household Lararium with Vestal Candle

Observance Two: Daily Offerings and Prayer

Observance Three: Special Days

Observance Four, Part I: Light Reflection

Observance Four, Part II: Light Reflection & Renewal

Observance Five: Wearing a Vesta Symbol

Final Thoughts

Illustrations

INTRODUCTION

The Via Sacra

There are no foreign lands.

It is the traveller only who is foreign.

– Robert Louis Stevenson, Scottish author, 1850 – 1894 CE

It happened a long time ago, as the daylight first started to fade. I was twenty years old, small town all the way, and wandering – wide-eyed with culture shock and the thrill of traveling alone – among the colossal ruins of the ancient Roman Forum. I had wings on my feet and far more life ahead of me than behind me.

Looking back, I could weep for such freedom and potential. I could, but I don’t have time. There are clients to call, deadlines to meet, suppers to cook, laundry to wash and a galaxy of Star Wars toys to pick off the floor before the dog chews them.

The wings are still there. They’re just tucked into high-heels and sheep slippers, the footwear that defines the duality of my present life. Work and home. It may be no different for you.

If you’ve never visited or heard of the Roman Forum, it is the ancient rectangular plaza where the Romans forged their institutions, society and cultural identity. Starting around the 8th century BCE, it grew to be the heart of political, economic and religious life in the Roman Kingdom, and then the Republic and Empire in turn.

As such, it transformed from modest to magnificent, boasting all manner of architecture from the Senate house and the simple Regia where the first kings of Rome lived to the bustling basilicas, elaborate monuments, gilded statuary and splendid temples that honored the pantheon of Roman gods and goddesses.

During the glory days of ancient Rome, the Forum’s marble and gold gleamed under the Italian sunshine as a series of famous and sometimes infamous Caesars ruled the world and made history.

Julius Caesar, who had a love affair with Cleopatra of Egypt and was stabbed twenty-three times by senators; Augustus, who ruled during the Pax Romana, the greatest period of peace Rome ever enjoyed; Tiberius, under whose reign Christ was crucified; Caligula, the madman who made his horse a senator; Commodus, the sadist who fancied himself a gladiator and vomited up the assassin’s poison until those he terrorized finally strangled him in his bath.

Today, the Forum is in ruins. For many centuries, it was eaten away by time, weather, war, invasion, indifference and intolerance. Christian vandals decapitated statues of beloved gods and goddesses, carved crosses in their foreheads and stripped the marble off their temples to build churches. It wasn’t until the early nineteenth century that restorations slowly began. Broken reliefs and statues, chunks of giant columns, soaring arches and remnants of towering temples started to rise again and these continue to rise amid modern excavations. Current visitors to the Forum and surrounding areas can now see shadows of their former grandeur and glory.

I was walking among such shadows that early spring so long ago. During my first life. The life before the husband and child and dogs and housework and obligations and exhausted evenings.

The few foreign friends I had picked up along my travels had gone off in search of food and drink, and I was left alone to wander down the cobblestone of the Via Sacra, the sacred road that runs from the Capitoline Hill through the Forum and to the Colosseum.

On either side of the Via Sacra, massive columns and stones lay scattered among tall grass, dandelions and bushes. It is as if, many generations ago, the Roman god Jupiter scooped every temple and structure into his colossal hands, smashed them to near bits, and then sprinkled them along the length of the ancient road.

A cool breeze blew in and blew out the few straggling tourists on the path behind me. Being Canadian, I’ve always been able to tolerate the cold much better than I can tolerate crowds, so I was delighted to have the Roman Forum pretty much to myself.

I took a few liberties, too, veering off the beaten path in ways that would be virtually impossible today, but that to my memory was all too easy in those days, even with excavations all around.

With a rowdy gang of feral cats as my only companions, I spent some time admiring the details on a massive marble arch. It wasn’t until one of the cats let out a particularly creepy howl that I noticed how late it was getting. I tossed the scruffy creature the last remnants of a cheese and salami panini I’d been carrying around in my jacket pocket since lunch, and then began trying to find my way out of the Forum.

Picking up the pace under a darkening sky, I walked until I came across a woman who was looking up at the ruins of a small white temple where a few columns stood. She was holding a candle and she, or someone else, had placed a bunch of flowers on the ground near the temple.

In a country where ancient history defiantly refuses to stay buried, where it expects to be honored like its own religion – and rightly so – this was not so unusual a sight. In fact, only steps away, more flowers lay near the temple of Julius Caesar to mark the spot of the dictator’s impromptu and impassioned funeral pyre.

I nodded a polite hello, the universal greeting of travelers, and kept walking; however, I couldn’t resist a look back over my shoulder.

As if knowing I’d do it, she smiled warmly.

"Buona sera, stasera è tranquillo."

I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian, I said.

American?

Canadian.

Ah, more quiet, she said.

Maybe a little, I grinned.

I never go Canada, she said, "but go America many times. I have fratello, brother, in New York. Where in Canada you live?"

In a city called Calgary, I said. It’s in the western part of the country.

"Si, you have Winter Olympics last year."

Yes, I smiled, but I prefer summer sports. Like eating gelato in the park.

Me also, she laughed.

In her eighties, her wit was sharp and her body was sure. Her hair was that glossy silver that all but screams high style: shoulder-length, pulled back into a red clip.

In Italian fashion, she wore a long white sweater belted at the waist with fitted blue pants, high brown boots and brown leather gloves. Dark eyes, white teeth with red lipstick and a clear but mature complexion.

Yet her age – and her broken English – only seemed to enhance her glamor. She carried herself like a woman who was used to calling the shots. When the wind picked up, she shielded her candle to protect the flame and I caught the fragrance of a decidedly high-end perfume.

Her first name was Camilla, but her Italian surname was either beyond my grasp or just not important enough to remember at the time.

She told me – in that worldly fractured English that made me feel like a small-town pleb in comparison – that she tried to visit the Forum, specifically this temple, every Marzo. Every March.

I nodded, absorbing most of what she said. Her thick accent was as vogue as hell, but it took effort to follow.

"Tempio di Vesta she said, gesturing to the white columns and circular ruins. My family all honor Vesta. You have husband? Little one?"

No, definitely not, I said a little too quickly. I am going to university. To be a lawyer.

Maybe it was the foolishness of youth that made me speak with such certainty, as if the future I had planned was a sure thing. I would never do it now, especially not when surrounded by the gods. It’s just asking for trouble.

"Ah, università is good, said Camilla. Women not marry ‘til thirty years old. Much happier."

Yes, probably, I agreed. At twenty years old, the idea of getting married and having a family was as alien as life on Mars. I gestured to her candle. What’s the candle for?

"Goddess Vesta is the old flamma, the living flame, she said. Eternal flame. Vestal priestesses keep fire going all the time in temple. To protect the home, the life. Flame go out, very bad. My mother and sisters and me bring flame here, but now all gone."

Ah, I’m sorry to hear that.

Temple was round, she said, shrugging off what to her must have been some heavy thoughts. Sacred fire always inside, smoke come out of roof. She gestured to the top of the columns.

I have never been a religious person. Yet Camilla spoke of this old religion with such affection that it was impossible to not be intrigued.

I was raised in a nonreligious home and, although I had been exposed to religion through friends and extended family, it was never something that resonated with me.

Science makes sense, creationism is nonsense. Raised in a kind-hearted and good-humored family, I managed to become a decent human being without needing a supernatural savior.

Plus, I took issue with the character of an all-powerful god who did nothing to stop the suffering in the world and who seemed to place women in some kind of spiritually subordinate position. He didn’t seem like the type of guy I’d want to spend my lunch hour with, never mind eternity.

There was just nothing about Christianity, or the other religions that I knew of at that time in my life, that made me think, Hey, that makes sense! That gives me comfort. Sign me up!

That being said, I have always loved religious rituals and buildings. Weddings, baptisms, even watching my friends receive Communion. I am drawn to the idea of revering something larger than myself and giving thanks for those I love, and the time I have had with them on this Earth.

Although I’ve never believed in a creator, I have always believed there is something sacred about my life and all life. Churches, temples, cathedrals, basilicas, monasteries, shrines, synagogues, makeshift altars, ancient ruins of temples, you name it. I love them all.

When I was a child, there was a tiny but very pretty Orthodox Catholic church just down the road from my grandparents’ house in Flin Flon, Manitoba, the zinc and copper mining town in which I was born, and which is built on the solid rock of the Canadian Shield in the northern part of the province.

My grandpa worked at the mine.