Daring to Sit in the Red Throne
deTraci Regula
In the early years of my devotion to the Goddess Isis, I was fascinated by the “staircase” on her head. I quickly learned that this was the Throne symbol, and that the Throne of Isis supported, delineated, and held the rulers of Egypt during the long path of Egyptian history. It was a strong symbol of sovereignty, and like the ankh-like tyet or the amulet of Isis, was often considered to be colored red. Some see Isis as merely a personification of the throne, but to me her complex mythology indicates that she was quite a bit more than just a chair imbued with divine energy. She was the female throne, the female seat, the embracer and birther of the pharaoh or of whomever took their place at that seat. This “red throne” has emerged for me at various moments in my journeys to explore ancient sites of Isis.
On one visit to Greece, I encountered an actual “red throne” while visiting the ancient site of Cenchreae where the ruins of the famed temple of Isis described by Apuleius in his “Metamorphoses, or the Golden Ass” stands. There, the throne was a vivid red plastic chair sitting by the submerged outline of the temple, looking out onto the bay. It seemed to be waiting for a goddess – or, I hoped, one of her priestesses – and so I sat down on it and gazed at the water. In Apuleius’ novel, the scene at Cenchreae takes place at night when Lucius, despondent at being magically trapped in the form of an ass, pleads for help. A magnificent vision of Isis takes form in front of him, and the Goddess offers him words of comfort and describes how she has arranged that he will lose his asinine form by eating roses carried by one of her priests in the sacred procession that launches the season of navigation.
When I sat down on that red throne, it was not midnight, but midday. In Greece, noon is an equally magical time as the middle of the night. It is considered dangerous to be in the full, sharp sunlight, and it is seen as a time when many spirits are abroad and can do mischief. Even vampires are said to walk at noon in Greece. My experience, fortunately, was different. As I gazed at the water, the sparkling sunlight gleamed so bright that it seemed to wash away my ability to see any colors at all. The water turned grey, the sky turned white, and the obelisk-like shape of the sunbeam on the water directly in front of me looked like moonlight on a night sea. Though it was high midday on a beach in the heart of summer, Isis was transforming the moment into Lucius’ midnight vision. Every sparkle seemed to be a word, a hint of the mysteries beyond. I sat frozen in the “red throne” for a long time. When I finally moved, even the bright red chair had for the moment lost its color. I closed my eyes for a time, and finally, when I opened them, the world was back to normal, in full color.
A strong wind came up after I rose from the chair, shaking it and tipping it over. In the stiffening breeze, It seemed amazing that this symbol of the throne had remained perfectly upright on the beach as if waiting for my moment and had not blown away before.
I had another encounter with the experience of sovereignty that the Throne can convey. This was a number of years ago at the Throne Room of the Minoan Palace of Knossos. This divine chair was often described as the “Throne of Minos,” the controversial, erratic, womanizing king of ancient Crete. At that time, it was possible to sit for an instant on a replica of the throne nearby in the anteroom. But the replica chair was narrow and rounded, carved in wood after the design of both the ancient stone, one which still stayed in place in the room beyond, and of the charred image of a throne chair that had left its imprint against an interior wall on that spring day long ago when Knossos had burned. Years later, a savvy guide at Knossos would point out that the proportions of the chair were made for a woman, not a man, and he suggested it was made for a queen or a high priestess.
Sitting in this chair gave me several sensations. There was, first of all, the sense of apartness. Only one could be in the chair at a time, and though there was a line of those ready to take my place, for that instant it was indeed mine. But that was not all. There was also the sense of concentration and containment, of restricted movement and because of that, focused attention. One would look ahead at what was in front of the throne. You could not easily escape this. Finally, there was the sense of support. The form of the throne may have restricted me, but it also relaxed my limbs and held me in a posture suitable for meditation and inner attentiveness. All of these traits I find in the energy of Isis as I explore her in personal and direct worship.
I returned to Cenchreae last fall with a group of priestesses. This time, it was late afternoon. There was no red plastic throne chair; only the ruins which had been covered with a tidal flow of water at my first visit were fully visible now. We frolicked on the shore and said our blessings. I did not experience the day-to-night effect again, but instead enjoyed the lively spirit and perhaps something of the festival spirit that Apuleius had described.
While Isis may have acquired the meaning of being the throne, supporting, guarding, and guiding the usually-male occupant, I think the earliest occupant of the Throne would be Isis herself. She is both the throne and the occupant of it. In Egyptian mythology, there is a shared rulership between Isis and Osiris, and then a period of sole rulership by Isis while Osiris goes on his wanderings to inspire and civilize the rest of the world. The most beautiful throne from the tomb of Tutankhamen shows him with his wife Ankesenamun. At many times in ancient Egyptian history, the female line was paramount in establishing a legitimate succession – so a throne without a divine daughter or princess as wife was not enough to assure acceptance. In modern times, we sometimes skip over Isis in her role as supreme and ruling Queen of Egypt, though, surprising to some ears, she survives in Islamic folklore as a wise queen of Egypt.
One of the most simply profound statements on being a priestess of Isis came from a sister priestess, Diveena. She once said in a general conversation that as priestesses, we “must all be our own castle.” This was an interesting statement. I asked her about it, and she explained that she meant that we must all have sufficient strength and resources to maintain ourselves. Then we can connect with other individuals, organizations, and movements freely and as equals. I think this remains one of the best explanations of the concept of “sovereignty.” We all must be able to reign over our own temples, castles, homes, businesses. If we do it well, it gives us our own independence and power, and allows us to foster that in others. If we need it to be, it can be our own safe, fortified tower, firm against danger or opposition – but in better times, that tower can be the base for a lighthouse which can radiate outwards, illuminating, guiding, and connecting, even with those far away.
Thrones and seats show up in unlikely places, even in ancient geometry. I am fascinated by the discovery of an icosahedron marked with an ancient Egyptian deity on each face. The name “icosahedron” refers to the fifth natural Platonic solid, a twenty-faced shape which was used as a kind of dice in the ancient world. It may have been what was part of the so-called “Alexandrian Game,” but the one that intrigues me was found at one of the distant Oases. The word derives from the combination of the Latin word icosa, indicating twenty, and hedron, meaning throne or seat. These “thrones” were the “seats” of the chosen divinities, many of which are closely related to the goddess Isis in a number of forms, and to her divine family members of Osiris and Horus.
At our temple here at Isis Oasis Sanctuary in Geyserville, California, we have a number of special throne chairs, including a couple of different replicas of one of the thrones of King Tut. It’s interesting to observe how people react to these beautiful chairs – which, after all, are still just chairs, places for people to sit. Some visitors or event participants would clearly never dare to sit on one of them. Others try to organize who is worthy for which chair. But I’ve also observed hesitant individuals who visibly brace themselves, as if gathering enough power to do so, and then go sit down. If you are open to the energy of what it symbolizes, there can be a tangible influx of energy from these Thrones of Isis. A throne can support, comfort, inspire, connect. I think women who have fully taken their own “throne” are not intimidated by these thrones, and know them for what they are, a tool and a symbol.
Over the years, there has been a lot of criticism of “princesses” and to call someone a “princess” is to indicate a young woman of a rather petulant or difficult type. We have lost the sacred image of the Divine Daughter, produced and beloved by balanced parents, themselves noble kings and noble queens in the truest senses. I think when we sit in the sacred thrones, there is a rekindling of this sense of being the offspring of great beings, and of being a child of the divine, supported, protected, but also presented to the world for service. Perhaps one of our lessons in “sovereignty” is to reclaim the idea of a pure power, harnessed in service, not in oppression.
(To be continued)
Details of On the Wings of Isis are found here.