 Boo! I had a dog named Alex, a chocolate lab I’d had since he was a chubby bear-cub puppy, who would on occasion freak me out with odd behavior. [He died a year and a half ago and I still miss him!!!] He would stand up on the bed, growling at the door or wall in the middle of the night. One time, he started barking furiously. I woke up disoriented and turned the bedside lamp on. My heart was pounding like crazy. Of course, I saw nothing as he continued growling. It was hard to scold him; after all, that was kind of his job wasn’t it? Alert me if he saw or heard something. He’d also growl at people he didn’t like. It didn’t happen very often, but when it did, it always made me think twice and watch my back. So, is it possible that dogs can sense or see spirits? I found a reference to this very topic somewhere I’d never really thought to look: Greek mythology. Homer’s Odyssey to be exact. I was re-reading the part where Odysseus finally makes it back to Ithaka and sees his son, Telemachus, for the first time in twenty years. He doesn’t tell Telemachus who he is until Athena gives him the sign. “From the air she walked, taking the form of a tall woman, handsome and clever at her craft, and stood beyond the gate in plain sight of Odysseus, unseen, though, by Telemachus, unguessed, for not to everyone will the gods appear. Odysseus noticed her; so did the dogs, who cowered, whimpering away from her” (Odyssey16.161-170). First of all, let’s look at Athena. Homer says she basically appeared out of thin air and took on the guise of a tall woman. And she was clearly visible to Odysseus and the dogs, but not to Telemachus. That sounds a lot like the way we’d describe a spirit or ghost manifesting, right? Athena chooses who can see her; just the kind of thing we might say about ghosts, appearing to some and not others. What I find interesting is that in her invisible form the dogs see her and react. They cower and whimper in her presence. So, in this instance, the ancient Greeks found it plausible that their domesticated canines could see things that mortal eyes could not. I guess I wonder why Homer found it so important to add this part to the story? What is it about dogs? Was this just pure invention on Homer’s part, or is this part of our human understanding that dogs somehow know things we don’t? I guess we’ll never know for sure, but the ancient Greeks thought it could be true. Personally, I think they do. My Boys 
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In our modern American society, there remains a strange discomfort around a woman baring her breast—even briefly—when breastfeeding. I’ve always found this reaction curious. Breastfeeding is one of the most natural acts a woman can perform. It is, quite simply, what the body was made to do. So what, exactly, are people afraid of when they see a mother nursing her child? That it might somehow be inappropriate? That something inherently life-giving could be mistaken for something else entirely? Perhaps it says more about our cultural lens than the act itself. Maybe it’s time we question the unease rather than the mother. Since the earliest days of humanity, women have nourished their children this way—openly, instinctively, without shame. One of the oldest known human figures, the Venus of Willendorf (dating from roughly 30,000–25,000 BCE), emphasizes full breasts and hips—symbols not of modesty, but of power, fertility, and the ability to sustain life. So what does this have to do with mythology, Homer, and The Homeric Chronicles? According to the 2015 article “Breastfeeding in the Course of History” published in the Journal of Pediatrics & Neonatal Care, breastfeeding held deep cultural and symbolic value in ancient Mesopotamia and Greece, with numerous references appearing in mythology. From my own reading of the Iliad, the Odyssey, and other sources, this holds true. In the ancient world, breast milk was not merely nourishment—it was sacred. The act of nursing was essential, intimate, and worthy of reverence. The article goes on to note that it was not until the 20th century, when formula companies rose to prominence, that public perception began to shift, and mothers were increasingly made to feel shame around an act that had once been honored. This brings me to one of the most powerful scenes in the The Iliad. As Hektor prepares to face Achilles, knowing it will likely mean his death, his father, King Priam, begs him not to go. He grieves the sons he has already lost and fears the loss of his heir. But it is Hecuba’s plea that cuts deepest. She does not speak as a queen but as a mother. She bares her breast and begs her son to remember what she gave him from the beginning: life. Through that gesture, she invokes something older than war, older than honor—the sacred bond between mother and child. It is not a political plea. It is not even a rational one. It is elemental. And it is powerful. Throughout The Homeric Chronicles, I return to this motif—the breast, the act of nursing—as a symbol of that sacred connection. It is intimate. It is primal. It is life-giving. So when Hecuba is unable to nurse her second son, Paris, it becomes a quiet but profound wound. That loss stands in contrast to the deep, embodied bond she shared with Hektor, and it shapes her choices as a mother moving forward. She refuses a nursemaid for her later children, determined to preserve that connection for herself. Because in a world of war, prophecy, and the will of the gods, there are still things that belong solely to the mother and the life she gives. If you enjoy this post or Greek Mythology check out the Homeric Chronicles |
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Every story has its kings and warriors, but the women behind them often wield power just as sharp as any blade. Sometimes sharper.
While watching Sons of Anarchy, I found myself thinking about one woman in particular from Greek myth: Clytemnestra. At first glance, the worlds could not be more different. One ruled a Bronze Age palace built of stone and bronze. The other moved through the shadows of modern California, commanding respect inside an outlaw motorcycle club.
Yet the longer you watch Gemma Teller, the harder it becomes to ignore the resemblance.
Both women are mothers first. Not gentle, passive mothers tucked quietly behind the scenes, but women who understand that survival sometimes demands decisive action. They are protectors of their bloodline, guardians of legacy, and architects of vengeance when they believe their families are threatened.
Clytemnestra is often remembered for one act above all others: the killing of her husband, Agamemnon. To later audiences, it reads as shocking betrayal. But within the logic of myth, her actions are rooted in grief and rage. Agamemnon sacrificed their daughter, Iphigenia, in exchange for favorable winds to sail to Troy. A king secured glory. A mother buried a child.
Years passed, but grief does not fade simply because time moves forward. When Agamemnon finally returned from war, Clytemnestra did not hesitate. She exacted revenge with deliberate precision. Her violence was not wild or reckless. It was planned, measured, and rooted in the belief that justice demanded action.
Gemma Teller operates from a similar place of conviction. When she believed that Tara posed a threat to her son Jax and the future of the club, she acted with terrifying certainty. Like Clytemnestra, Gemma did not view herself as a villain. She believed she was protecting her family, preserving order, and defending what mattered most. Her choices were brutal, but in her mind, they were necessary.
That is what makes both women so unsettling. They do not act from madness. They act from purpose.
Both understand that power does not always sit on a throne. Sometimes it moves quietly behind the scenes, shaping events long before the world notices what has happened. Both women wield violence not as an emotional outburst, but as a calculated tool. They believe that hesitation invites weakness, and weakness invites ruin.
Yet there is always a cost.
Clytemnestra’s vengeance secured justice in her eyes, but it also set into motion the downfall of her household. Her son, Orestes, would one day return to avenge his father. Blood called for blood. Revenge created more revenge.
Gemma’s story follows a similarly tragic path. Her decision to eliminate Tara did not preserve her family. It fractured it. Her attempt to protect Jax ultimately contributed to his unraveling.
That is the quiet truth both stories reveal.
Women like Clytemnestra and Gemma Teller are not powerless figures reacting to events beyond their control. They are decision-makers. Strategists. Women who step forward when others hesitate.
They wield authority not through title, but through will.
And perhaps that is why they endure as unforgettable figures in their respective worlds. Not because they were gentle. Not because they were forgiving. But because they were willing to do what others feared. Queens of vengeance do not wait for justice. They create it.
— Janell Rhiannon
© 2015, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved.
While watching Sons of Anarchy, I found myself thinking about one woman in particular from Greek myth: Clytemnestra. At first glance, the worlds could not be more different. One ruled a Bronze Age palace built of stone and bronze. The other moved through the shadows of modern California, commanding respect inside an outlaw motorcycle club.
Yet the longer you watch Gemma Teller, the harder it becomes to ignore the resemblance.
Both women are mothers first. Not gentle, passive mothers tucked quietly behind the scenes, but women who understand that survival sometimes demands decisive action. They are protectors of their bloodline, guardians of legacy, and architects of vengeance when they believe their families are threatened.
Clytemnestra is often remembered for one act above all others: the killing of her husband, Agamemnon. To later audiences, it reads as shocking betrayal. But within the logic of myth, her actions are rooted in grief and rage. Agamemnon sacrificed their daughter, Iphigenia, in exchange for favorable winds to sail to Troy. A king secured glory. A mother buried a child.
Years passed, but grief does not fade simply because time moves forward. When Agamemnon finally returned from war, Clytemnestra did not hesitate. She exacted revenge with deliberate precision. Her violence was not wild or reckless. It was planned, measured, and rooted in the belief that justice demanded action.
Gemma Teller operates from a similar place of conviction. When she believed that Tara posed a threat to her son Jax and the future of the club, she acted with terrifying certainty. Like Clytemnestra, Gemma did not view herself as a villain. She believed she was protecting her family, preserving order, and defending what mattered most. Her choices were brutal, but in her mind, they were necessary.
That is what makes both women so unsettling. They do not act from madness. They act from purpose.
Both understand that power does not always sit on a throne. Sometimes it moves quietly behind the scenes, shaping events long before the world notices what has happened. Both women wield violence not as an emotional outburst, but as a calculated tool. They believe that hesitation invites weakness, and weakness invites ruin.
Yet there is always a cost.
Clytemnestra’s vengeance secured justice in her eyes, but it also set into motion the downfall of her household. Her son, Orestes, would one day return to avenge his father. Blood called for blood. Revenge created more revenge.
Gemma’s story follows a similarly tragic path. Her decision to eliminate Tara did not preserve her family. It fractured it. Her attempt to protect Jax ultimately contributed to his unraveling.
That is the quiet truth both stories reveal.
Women like Clytemnestra and Gemma Teller are not powerless figures reacting to events beyond their control. They are decision-makers. Strategists. Women who step forward when others hesitate.
They wield authority not through title, but through will.
And perhaps that is why they endure as unforgettable figures in their respective worlds. Not because they were gentle. Not because they were forgiving. But because they were willing to do what others feared. Queens of vengeance do not wait for justice. They create it.
— Janell Rhiannon
© 2015, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved.
Janell Rhiannon
Historian, Author, & Podcaster
“Tell me, O Muse…”
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