How High the Moon? Sandcastles on the Beach

It is vacation time - to be outdoors, in the mountains, in the garden, on the beach... Here are some romantic beach poems about the simple pleasures of life. Flying a kite, jumping in the waves, sailing, building a sand castle are all activities we used to take for granted. Now so much harder when we are told to stay away from each other, and wear masks, masks, masks.  The "mask" is a symbol of lies and deception, it is a barrier between us and life. Let's forget the masks for a moment, and enjoy summer in California, summer on the beach... with half-moon and full sun at the same time. 

Let's start by listening to the divine Ella Fitzgerald singing "High high the moon..." with incredible gusto and an epic scat https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=djZCe7ou3kY

Or if you are more relaxed, maybe you want to listen to Lola Albright, with her old-style charm, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4jFd0XYYb0

Slowing down to the sleepy, breathy,  yet resonant voice of Mel Torme (1961), you can doze off on the beach accompanied by violin solos https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4jFd0XYYb0

A Day Trip to Venice

 The stunt kite traces the infinity sign

over and over above our heads in June-gloom sky

until it twirls into a spiral nose-dive and hits the sand

so hard it falls apart.

 

Again, it floats up – patiently, gently,

like wings of the dove, so steady high above us, we

float up with the kite into the lucid, pearly milkiness

of clouds, shifting shapes on this strange afternoon.

A lone sailboat disappears into the distance.

Pacific Ocean is cut in half by a sharply outlined pathway

of light leading towards the steely white sun – so hard, so relentless

it pierces through the mist, carried onshore by steady winds.

 

We watch the stunt kite dance its dangerous dance.

Ominous steel waves turn into lead. Darkness falls

around us until we cannot see, only feel the tug of the

outstretched lines that keep the kite balanced in the air.

 

This is the trick of living well, this balance,

staying afloat on marine air currents

lifting us above – higher and higher

into pristine clarity – to postpone

the inevitable crash, avoid

the death spiral at all costs,

any cost – live here and now

in the sweet bye and bye –

forever –

Carving Sand

 

On the shore of the Pacific

a man carves out a sandcastle

with the straight, sharp edge of

a credit card. Crenellated ramparts,

tall arched gates, Gothic windows and

elaborate turrets – the castle comes into being

just for a moment – until the high tide washes it away

and the dream vanishes among the waves.

 

So do we – build our own sand-castles,

on credit, with cards we struggle to pay off

after darkness passes and the fog of despair

lifts up. Was it worth it? To keep the house for kids

and have no time to be there for them, with them?

Working, always working… Was it worth it? To mortgage

your whole future for a dream of finding refuge in a rose garden,

filled with the sweetness of birdsong and orange blossoms?

 

Bright sunlight pours onto the beach,

outlines the carved contours of the sandcastle,

standing proudly alone, just for a moment,

for this moment, for us.  

The ocean is friendly.  How do you know? It waves!  An old joke from a children's book tells the truth: the ocean is our friend. Its rhythms, waves crashing with 5 and 7 seconds between them stimulate the calming rhythms in the brain and peaceful, serene emotions. The waves are hypnotic and you could spend hours looking at the breakers, listening to their noise. The ocean's clean air, full of ozone and iodine, heals our lungs. The salty water heals the skin and muscles - just do not drink it! 

 

Here are some videos from the beach, with the serene lulling motion of the waves.

Sunlight and Saiboat Regatta in Hermosa Beach:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fYOFxNfWl9c&t=2s

Pacific Ocean Calmly Waves

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dWExcVWGsDs

Streams and Birds, or the Simple Joys of the Summer

I discovered that I can wade in "my" stream. I share it with the whole community, of course. Someone built low rocky dams across the flow, and the water, still abundant after the spring rains, creates small pools, knee-deep at best, with sand, or gravel, or rocks on the bottom. The green algae and moss are gone, either torn away by rushing stream earlier on, or cleared away by those anonymous magicians that made this summer gifts for all of us.

There is a family with kids splashing and playing with a colorful plastic ball, the Mom or Big Sister floating by on a neon-green inflatable chair. Cheerful music is barely a distant whisper as I walk by the next mini-pool: deeper, with more soft sand. Here, a pudgy boy is learning to swim.  I wade downstream along a narrow "trickle" in my old shoes, protecting my skin from cuts - I learned this from an ancient Tibetan folk-tale about a wise princess, who thought that shoes could be thrown out, but wounded feet were hard to mend. After some narrow straits and thicker bushes, I come across the third rocky dam, barely one to two feet tall, yet it blocks enough water for a pleasant respite from summer heat. I see small fish darting this way and that around my feet, and sunlight ripples reflect on the sand.  Mountain sunflowers, or "black-eyed Susans" grow on the side.

Perfection of a moment. These wild pools will disappear when the stream will dry out. It was dry for so long, I stopped going there, did not want to see ugly rocks festooned with dry, yellow moss. Now the wash is alive with visitors - five horse-riders went by, three dog walkers, their charges greeting me by the stream. The "owners" of this place are here, too - I saw a rabbit with white spot of a tail hopping away from the trail, the bees are so abundant this year, the whole wash, covered with California buckwheat, round white flowerheads, is abuzz with the noise of their wings.

I love bees since my childhood. My grandma had an ancient, huge linden tree to shade her yard growing right in the middle, dividing it in half, between the part where the orchard and garden ended, and that where the barn and farm machines were. My uncle made a small wooden bench to sit under that tree. It was all humming, so loud, full of bees. The linden honey is very light in color, like clover, with a different scent. The buckwheat honey is darker, aromatic, like Baltic amber. So happy to hear so many bees in California too.

They are mostly wild mason bees near my garden. I know because I find their handicraft on my roses. It seems of all petals found in my garden, some types of roses have the softest, most pliable leaves that can be made into cocoons for bee babies. I saw quite a few cutting a semi-circular shape out of the leaf, from edge to edge, leaving a strangely maimed leaf behind. I used to be angry seeing that damage, but we should all get along. The bees pollinate my fruit trees, and have made sure to give me lots of  grapefruit last year and plenty of pomegranate for next fall. I can only say, thank you, and let them take what they need.

Peaceful coexistence is the key. I am happy to share my garden with birds too. The finches make nests under the roof's eaves, on the porch and the patio. This year, their efforts were rewarded with babies. Two years ago, crows found the full next and went into frenzy - at least four were attacking at once, fighting, while the finch-parents in a panic were fighting back. But that was then, and now I'm happy with being such a good host to these tenants, that pay me with their song.

Here's a brand-new poem, celebrating their presence with gratitude and delight.

The Song of the Summer

The house finches are back! The four little ones disappeared
on Friday. Their crowded nest under the porch roof
was full of wide-open yellow beaks crying out for breakfast.
Now, blades of grass are scattered on my front steps.
The nest is empty. They learned how to fly.

I was happy yet sad, a bittersweet moment.
My home was their home. Here they grew up undisturbed
in the safety behind switches for Christmas lights,
on top of a white wooden beam. Gone to their new adventures
like my children to Boston, Tucson, San Diego.

Look, my finches are back! They returned to the only
home they knew to practice flight from rooftop to rooftop,
porch to garage, to the end of the driveway, the Japanese pine
that all birds love to perch on, its branches stretching
like fingers to the sky – an open palm of a tree.

Listen, my finches are back! They study their song
at six in the morning. It is simple, repetitive, one phrase
spiraling down through fluted eddies of pure music,
measuring the hours of summer. The song never changes,
I used to think it boring – just a step up from
the monotone chirping of sparrows, and yet –

My finches are back and are learning to sing.
Note by note, motif by motif, they try out brief snatches
of their Dad’s tune and fail, and fail, and fail again.
I did not know it was so hard. The three notes on the top
ti-ti-ti – these are easy – then, the babies stop, all confused.

“Let me show you, how it’s done!”  The patient parent sings
again and again. Young birds repeat the fluid patterns
in shy, quiet voices, growing louder, more confident, true –
until descending swirls tumble at top speed, like droplets
in a mountain stream, rushing on, sparkling in sunlight.

The finches are back.

(c) 2020 by Maja Trochimczyk

A Mystery Solved
.
"Look, a goldfinch is eating a yellow rose. Oh, wait,
it is an Oriole." Quite fittingly named. The rose is Orogold.
Oro, d'or, aurum - the most precious treasure.
It is all about brightness - flashy feathers in warm,
sunny hues contrast with black wings, head, tail.

Golden blossoms flourish among vibrant, green leaves.
The Oriole wife, in camouflage, opts for a much more
mundane meal, picking ants and rolly-pollies off the lawn.
Striped with gray, she is used to living in his shade.

Look, another Oriole nibbles on a silver-red, two-tone
rose of love, by the pomegranate. What a scene!
Vivid colors outlined against white walls of the shed
at the end of a pathway lined with river rocks.

Pity, I cannot take a picture. I drowned my cell phone
in a mountain stream on Sunday. An accident waiting
to happen for 13 years, since I fell down a flight of stairs
and did not break my arms in five places as doctors
thought, X-raying me to smithereens.  Instead, I lost grip
in my fingers. I drop things when I do not pay attention.

"Take a picture with your eyes, Mom." My daughter
used to say. Enamored with a brand-new camera, I'd stop
at every blooming rose, slowing down the progress
of a family walk. My kids are gone now. I wade in streams
alone. I have all the time in the world to explore the geometry
of petals, from every angle documenting for posterity
the ephemeral gold and scarlet rainbow.

I've always wondered why my fully-opened roses
has such shredded edges, why they lost perfection so quickly.
I see it today. I take a picture with my eyes - as I sip the steaming
amber tea from a gold-white porcelain tea-cup and admire
an Oriole eating the Orogold rose for a fancy, fragrant breakfast.

(C) 2020 by Maja Trochimczyk

June in Blue and Gold - With a Taste of Loquat Fruit

  

June in Gold and Blue 


“It was June and the world smelled like roses. The sunshine 
was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.”    
   ~ Maud Hart Lovelace


Hidden among stiff, broad, dark-green leaves, as if from 
an exotic isle, ripe bunches of loquat glow in afternoon sunrays
like “powdered gold” scattered on the slopes across the valley.

I am content to share a loquat, juice dripping down 
my chin, with a woodpecker that cut a groove in one side, 
tasting its tart sweetness. With a shrill call, the bird flies 
along a sine wave – rising, falling – too heavy for its wings. 

I thought it was a parrot, one of our Pasadena invaders,
relentlessly chased away by my resident finches and doves.
I was relieved to see a bright, scarlet spot on its head, 
black and white striped wings peeking beneath the branches.

“Hello, my dear. Welcome to my June Paradise. Please enjoy 
the fruit on the top. I cannot climb so high. Let’s share these 
life-giving delights.” The bird will not stay long. Its departure 
will leave a strange gash of absence, stretching shadows in its wake. 

Just like that dolphin, ten years ago, that joined our boat trip
to Catalina, jumping above the waves with such glee, we had to laugh. 
The dolphin laughed too, playfully teasing us with his ephemeral 
dance, contours outlined against the blue expanse of water and air.

Just like the striking, gold-furred grizzly bear, a mountain 
of primeval power, curling to sleep on my lawn. Misiek. 
My Protector. I’d swear I saw him once, at sunset. He came 
to my Oasis to rest, dream lucid dreams about me – 

– as I eat luscious loquats straight off the tree, listen 
to euphonious birdsong, gaze at the azure clarity 
of endless sky. Serene, I am here, where I belong. 
The taste of summer fruit. One June after another.

This poem to celebrate June, was written on a set of prompts created by Kathi Stafford for the Westside Women Writers group.  The prompt includes two quotations about the month of June, and a set of words to which synonyms were to be found and used in a poem. 

"Green was the silence, wet was the light,

the month of June trembled like a butterfly.”

 ~ Pablo Neruda

"It was June and the world smelled like roses. The sunshine 

was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.”    

~ Maud Hart Lovelace

Please write down a synonym for each of the following words:

Dramatic - striking

Musical - melodious, mellifluous, euphonious 

Garden - paradise, oasis

Premonition - inkling

Quiet - serene, tranquil

Pleasure - delight

Ancient - primeval, olden

Scratch  - groove, gash, gouge

Please write a poem about the month of June incorporating most of your synonyms and your first reaction to the Neruda or Lovelace lines."

I do not have much experience in writing on prompt, partly because I do not like it, it seems like putting your mind in a cage of someone else's design, limiting the imagination. So after reading the prompt I decided to skip writing entirely. The next morning, as I had my tea on the patio I heard a new shrill bird call and looked for its source. It seemed foreign to my garden, maybe a parrot? It turned out to be a woodpecker that came to have some loquats! So I wrote about the encounter, using a paraphrase from the second poetry prompt and not worrying about the synonyms at all. I have not looked them up yet. 

Once the poem took shape, I went through the synonyms and replaced some of the words or descriptions with the terms found in my synonym search. I was quite pleased with the result, even though it was yet again on the same theme of being at home in my garden. I prefer to seek shelter in my garden in these trouble times. I share my garden with lots and lots of birds and I'm glad to see occasional visitors, like the woodpecker I saw today.  After emailing the poem, next day, I saw the woodpecker again. It was flying from the lemon tree to the loquat in a strange up-and-down pattern, that made me thought that it was too heavy for its wings. So I worked this line into the poem. 

Two other animals made their appearances too - a real dolphin, so playful, gleeful even - and an imaginary golden grizzly bear, Misiek my Protector. His corner of my garden is behind the pomegranate tree... It would be great to have such a "mountain of primeval power" to protect and defend me in my garden. I live alone, not even with a dog, my birds and roses as my pets. . . 

Why loquats, though?  To me, it is the ultimate exotic of fruit. I have never seen one or even heard about it while living in Poland and Canada. The first time I saw a loquat was when I went to explore my new garden in California in the spring of 1998! Apparently, it was fashionable in the 1940s and 1950s when this neighborhood was built.  In the early 2000s, we had lots of squirrels here, so there was no fruit left for us. Then the tree dried out and almost died in the drought. Stuck in a corner, it was easy to overlook. 

 Finally, after a rainy winter, the tree recovered, and is full of yellow fruit, that becomes darker, almost orange as it ripens, and has large shiny brown seeds inside. The juice is tart when the fruit is still greenish, but sweet and refreshing when the fruit is fully ripe. Alas, once you pick it, it quickly turns brown and rots. It just does not keep the way oranges or apples do. So the best solution is to eat it right away, right off the tree. . . 

In the Garden with Roses and Birdsong

Here, here, here

by Maja Trochimczyk

I love my mountains

blue and spring green still

under clear azure expanse,

their velvet pleats pile up

in layers above the valley

rock pathways in empty riverbed.

This is the Earth - naked

free of trees and houses, of rush

and pavement and cars on hot asphalt

in LA summers - this is

pure repose - serenely breathing

slowly, deeply - in the cycle of centuries

I love my mountains

the bluish shadows on distant slopes

manzanita and sage scattered 

on those close by- they open

like curtains into infinity - to let me in

beyond the next peak, the next canyon

into new worlds that grow within

in warm sunlight, under cool glow

of spiraling galaxies before dawn.

I'm here, I found my life

waiting for me under the indigo

cupola outlined with deep purple

at the ridges -  here crickets

measure the night as they sing

"we are here, here, here, here..." 

while birds sleep

hidden among branches.

Only the distant waves of truck noise

from the freeway remind me

that this paradise of mine

this magic, fluid, living 

folding and unfolding is my LA home

my own LA LA Land, of sweet

mountains under the brightest of Suns.

Reflections about Our Lady, Queen of Angels

Crystal Light of Crystal Mornings

Look at Madonna in her royal blue velvet,
bejeweled crown on her brow – see how
the air crystallizes into a gold lattice 
of purity? Angels’ wings flutter in the breeze.

The Lady of the Bright Mount sits still, with 
the Divine Babe in her lap, crowned with jewels, 
watching you –  eyes, eyes, eyes – see all – 
past, present, and future – oh, yes, they do –

“Stay at home,” they say, stay still, wait 
for the golden air to crystallize around you, 
fill with the mystic codes of sunlight, pouring in, 
transmitted at noon. All birds fall silent, in awe.

Breathe deeply. The diamond air 
of sunlit days is lighter than 
the feather-light heart – without 
terror, without guilt, without grief –

Think of babies, unborn 
think of children, lost
think of grandmas, alone – 
The Judgment Day has come.

Look at Madonna, she cares. 
Our Lady of Angels, Archangels. 
She wrestled the demon to the ground. 
The baby is safe in her arms. 

Our Lady of Seraphim, Our Lady 
of Diamond Light. You will pass the test, 
protected by the Lady of Infinite Mercy. 
Theotokos. The Majestic Mother of All.

Pod twoja obrone uciekamy się
święta Boża Rodzicielko. O, Pani nasza. 
Orędowniczko nasza. Pośredniczko nasza, 
Pocieszycielko nasza.

She changes the air into gold. Space fills 
with the diamond vortex. Seraphim wings.
So still. Crystal Air of Crystal Mornings.
So still. Diamond Light. Gold Lattice of Dawn.



NOTE: After Madonnas from the Norton Simon Museum 
and elsewhere. With a Polish prayer: “We seek 
your protection, Holy Mother of God. Oh, our Lady. 
Our Advocate. Our Mediator. Our Comforter.”
© 2020 by Maja Trochimczyk

March 25, 2020 was the Annunciation Day, when the Archangel Gabriel came to Mary and said... It is pretty close to Spring Equinox, so that association with natural order is not too far fetched.  I've always been fond of Madonnas and her Angels. The real Madonnas, not the Satanic impostor who now sings crazy songs locked in her bathroom and going crazy without her drugs... I've been quite offended (not even a believer yet!) when I first heard about this person taking the Sacred Name, the Most Holy Name of Our Lady, my Lady (Ma Donna)... And then spreading foul horrors around the globe, to bewitched masses who forgot that they have to look up to the Sign to be saved from this pestilence.  The less said about this person, the better. Nothing can stop what's coming. Nothing.

See how the angels with six gold wings carry her up? Six angels, you can even notice their heads peeking up, and the splendid wings, six by six - total of 36. She does not need to sit or walk in her golden magical garden of flowers and birds. She just floats on angels' wings. Sweet... I want to float like that, too...  There are more wings below, in the garden, where red, white and blue flowers blossom... Are these birds or angels? Three, six wings again. She looks at us, while the Baby Jesus stands up to look at her, and climbs to gently touch her face with outstretched hand. His foot rests on her hand, and she looks at us, as if saying: "See? I help Him. He is safe with me. You will be safe, too."

Be a Madonna

Angels are returning in vast droves
I see them - There is no turning back
Around me invisibly - tiny drops of light twirl-vanish
Air is clearer than crystal - like dew waters of heaven
So I sleep - peacefully - Breath deepens into a new world
we have longed for - Across all our pastures for truly to be 

(C) 2020 by Ambika Talwar

This Italian Madonna is in the collection of the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena. I like visiting her from time to time. Her, the Divine Baby and the Angels. All in gold. Did you notice how luxurious is her coat? Ermine has black spots on white, so maybe this is sable? Very rich and soft. And what about that splendid gold brocade gown? White, gold, and indigo are her colors. The flowers below carry the message of virtues - Faith (blue), Hope (green), and Love (red).

No wonder I so love to live in Los Angeles, the city of Our Lady Queen of Angels, properly named  El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles del Río Porciúncula.  The Village of Our Lady The Queen of Angels of the River Porciuncula... There is no such river Porciuncula... there is the Los Angeles river, and the Big Tujunga Wash, and Oak Springs, and Little Tujunga and other mountain tributaries of our seasonal river flowing only in rainy years.  No river, but there is definitely the Queen. For some reason, I prefer the Gothic arches with their sharp tips to flat roof-like decorations in frames of Rafael’s Madonnas in the same collection. That’s why I found  these two portraits of our Queen of Angels so inspirational. The Gold out of this world. The Queen of Angels who is here to help and guide and protect, if only we ask... Here she is, again, enthroned:

At the Summit 

Trust the Madonna on the Throne
In a luxurious cape of lapis and gold
With the Sun wheel on her chest.

She holds the Good Shepherd Baby
Stepping off her lap into the world.
Her hands keep Him safe in his journey.

She looks at us, curiously, with a challenge:
Can you hold the Divine Baby in your hands? 
Let Love flow from deep within your heart?

Her eyes are oceans of wisdom 
Her crown sparkles in gold halo 
Her throne is a tower of strength

The Star of the Morning
The Mystic Rose of Heaven
The Queen of All Angels


(c) 2020 by Maja Trochimczyk


This is yet another early Italian Madonna, enthroned in gold, with active Infant Jesus, who walks across her lap, like a little Good Shepherd leading his flock. She supports the Divine Child (the proportions are of an adult male, not of a baby), protecting Him with both hands - the gentle, strong, loving, maternal hands... And she also looks at us, as if pointing to her role of Theotokos.  Eastern Orthodox Churches on the Holy Mountain of Athos have started their prayers to Our Lady, for deliverance from the  pestilence, the virus of ancient evil.

It took centuries to spread around the world and slowly took over more and more aspects of our society, The Prince of this World had many devotees and his presence and their obedience to his cruel orders have severely tested those who refused to bow down to the Ruler of Darkness. This Ruler has no power of his own, none: all he has is the inverted and perverted power of real Creation. The power of Being itself, of this world that is good, very good - in its essence. Yet we live in a world so full of vicious distortions of what it is, in its essence, good, very good. Upside down symbols - the pentagram of the Divine Mother inverted, the three sixes associated with the Goddess - taken over.  Even the triangular, healing pyramid, the generator of positive energy when its gold capstone is on, became a symbol in reverse... Enough of that.

Our Divine Mother has defeated the demon, wrestled it to the ground - as in this illumination from an unfinished manuscript, outlined but not colored in - that I found on Facebook. Social Media are good for something, even with all the censorship and nonsense.

It is a rare image of Mary, with her Divine Crown, indigo robe and scarlet cape that fights the beast of darkness... Baby Jesus prays, safely held by angel with rainbow wings.  The artist painted this for his own amusement  I think, not for public displays, where a Madonna would be majestically seated, facing the faithful with a stern, penetrating gaze.

My "Crystal Air" poem also mentions Our Lady of the Bright Mount, the Queen of Poland, known from her sacred icon held at the monastery in Czestochowa, and reproduced in thousands of copies in every  Polish home in Europe, America, Australia... I have at least three  of those in my house, in both versions: the one painted on wood (the real Byzantine icon), and the one covered in jewels and crowns (the way it is displayed to the faithful), so only the hands and face of the original figures are visible and the rest is covered with silver crowns and gowns, studded with jewels.

Not everything about the "Black Madonna" is so inspirational, however at home I feel with her indigo silhuette, embroidered with gold lilies, and lined with scarlet, the exact hue of Jesus's gown. She has  a gold star upon her brow and both have solid gold halos, while the background is the green of hope. The Black Madonna has two scars from a sable on her right cheek, supposedly from an Tartar invader, who tried to destroy the holy icon and dropped dead, struck by lightning for this sacrilege.

Then, there are the monks, who claim a miracle during the Swedish invasion when carrying the precious icon on the walls of Czestochowa supposedly saved the city. What saved the city and the monastery from looting was a lot of treasures passed on to the Swedish troops as a price for being left alone... Ah, religion and politics... But because of this and other miracles, at the end of your two week pilgrimage, you are supposed to crawl on your knees in a narrow passageway behind the altar, below the venerated icon. I did it once, no, thank you. Not ever again. You really do not need to be humiliated in front of an object. It is much better to contemplate the stern image, or more gentle Italian ones, while sitting down in your garden and listening to the doves, children's laughter and the whir of hummingbirds' wings.

In Madonna, the Polish peasants do worship the Great Mother, her presence on every crossroads, here and there along paths in the countryside - they made small shrines with her image and put all over the country. Fresh flowers in each, I used to add little bouquets as I walked by... Or the Matka Boska Zielna of Harvest. Or the May Rosaries and Communions. In so many ways, she's Grander and more important than her Son...

Maybe I'll write a poem about the Black Madonna and one more about the other Italian Madonna, and yet again, about the lovely Gothic Sculpture of Our Lady of Kruzlowa, with its delightful S-symmetry of the body, that the sweet Madonna bended somewhat to support the weight of the Divine Baby on her hip. Having carried babies on a hip in the exactly same way around the house, in the kitchen, or in the park, when they got too tired to walk, I know this pose from bodily experience. I know what it means to be a mother, carry and care, breastfeed, and constantly watch over my child. I did it three times and my children are my life's greatest achievement.  It is this Power of Creation, the Power of Motherhood that all the icons of Mother Mary with Divine Son celebrate.  Our Mother. The Divine Mother. The Earth Mother. Theotokos, indeed.

Here she is with her divine baby, in her lap, surrounded by saints who rest in the Mystic White Rose of Heaven, the highest ring of Heaven in Dante's Paradiso. Beatrix, his Immortal Beloved shows Dante the way.  Giovanni di Paolo had quite an imagination, and an endless supply of lapis lazuli for the blue robes and heavenly skies...