The technical difference between mythology and folklore is that folklore pertains to the ways of prescientific people, while mythology deals with nonscientific explanation of material phenomena. The trouble with trying to understand the difference beyond that—or between both on one hand, and science on the other—is that the mystery remains regardless of what tools one uses to apprehend it.
You ask the greatest question and the next question remains to be asked, according to legendary SF scribe Theodore Sturgeon. If the world rests on the back of a turtle, this brings in the question of what’s below the turtle. The answer—“It’s turtles all the way down!”—seems to work until some smart aleck asks what’s below that infinite regress of shells and plastrons.
A child who won’t stop asking “Why?” will eventually fry the synapses or at least tie the tongue of the most serious philosopher.
So, putting aside the question of the meaning of life, let’s start with another unsolvable riddle: where do we come from?
As far as we know, the womb is the only non-vitro method of gestating a child and bringing it to term. The shortest route from the world to the womb is through the vagina. Terms like “Mother Earth” and metaphors that make use of fertility to talk about both crops and human offspring seem to recognize the consanguinity between human creation and that of all life.
Many religions throughout most of history recognized the sacral in the feminine, and worshipped female deities. With the passage of time, this has become less and less the case, aside from some voguish attempts by pockets of pagans here and there to revitalize the cults. And these are more about invoking the divine feminine for political and rhetorical reasons, rather than a resurgence of animist belief in the female divine. Not even the lady selling Reiki crystals on Etsy with the dreamcatcher earrings and ten Margaret Atwood books actually thinks she can converse with the vaguely vaginal innards of a strawberry and ask it for advice or help getting that promotion at work.
The Yoni: Sacred Symbol of Female Power, examines this history of worshipping female power and cults, symbols, mythology, and superstition tied to its anatomical analogue. It takes us from the animist—unicameral in the formulation of Julian Jaynes—to the integrated and conscious thinking of type and archetype perpetuated by Jungians. Although it’s short, the book is well-illustrated and contains numerous photographs as well as neo- and paleolithic totems, lignans, and fetishes of every stripe.
It’s informative while remaining conversational, with footnotes and sources and a bibliography, flexing genuine academic rigor without becoming turgid or unreadable. It countenances the crassness and misogyny of historical discourse on the Yoni (especially in recent history) without belaboring its point and thus perpetuating the coarseness. The glossary contains not only the “P” word but the dreaded “C-word” and its Germanic variant, Fotze, so be forewarned if you were expecting a simple paeon to pudendum.
Most men and women with a tangential interest in everything from human anatomy to prehistorical and early historical anthropology should find illumination herein. And while there are diagrams detailing things like erogenous areas, the “g-spot” and clitoral stimulation, one shouldn’t confuse it with a sex manual. Some of those texts, however—both ancient and modern—are included in the bibliography.
The reading didn’t quite arouse me, but as a middle-aged and not very libidinous dude who spends most of his time in the depressive equivalent of a refractory period, I’m probably not the person to ask about that, anyway.
Recommended, especially for religious studies scholars and those interested in archeology.