Growing up in the American heartland, the daughter of immigrant Lithuanian parents, I always knew we did things differently in our household. It was the 1950s and 60s, and we regularly ate beets, herring, and rye bread while other kids in the neighborhood feasted on mac and cheese, fish sticks, and Wonder Bread.
Then there were the Saturday mornings when my friends, still in their jammies, hunkered down in front of the TV with their hot chocolate to watch Tom and Jerry, Mighty Mouse and Yogi Bear. Meanwhile, I daydreamed about those cartoons while sitting in the church basement for Lithuanian Saturday school, where I was supposed to be learning about my parents’ culture.
But of all the peculiarities I endured, the worst was my oddball name. While the classrooms of my Catholic elementary school were full of Marys, Susies, Mikes and Joes, I faced the predictable mangled pronunciation of my name, “Laima,” as teachers read the class list on the first day of the school year.
It’s taken 50 years, but I’ve come to appreciate my parents naming me for Laima, the ancient Lithuanian goddess of fortune, who governed luck and happiness. Like so much of the Lithuanian language, my name is rooted in the ancient pagan mythology that honored nature’s power over humans. With their livelihood depending on agriculture, it’s easy to understand why Lithuanians would want to please the gods ruling the sun, moon, thunder, and Earth. In fact, the language and customs I learned from my parents remain tinged with the remnants of nature worship that have mingled with Catholicism since 1387, when Lithuania became the last European country to convert to Christianity.
Writing in Lituanus, the Lithuanian Quarterly Journal of Arts and Sciences, educator and translator, Juozas Tininis described many common Lithuanian expressions as “ancient,” adding, “They throw light on the mentality, convictions, national customs, superstitions of the people and, in general, on their mode of life throughout the long ages of their existence.”
Babies in Lithuania are given nature-based names such as “Rasa” (dew), “Ugne” (fire), and “Egle” (spruce) for girls, and “Azuolas” (oak), “Gintaras” (amber), and “Linas” (flax) for boys. Professional basketball teams in Lithuania choose names such as “Zalgiris,” (green forest) and “Rytas” (morning). And even as trendy craft breweries concoct recipes for the next generation of Lithuanian beers, owners give their companies names such as “Genys” (woodpecker) or “Dundulis” (thunder).
Lithuanians also spice their conversation with colorful expressions that call mythology and superstition into play. “She’s as beautiful as a fairy-child,” for example, or, “he’s fast as nine winds.” My mother – by her own admission mischievous and bratty as a child – learned from her older brother that she came into the world when “the devil kicked her out of a tree stump.”
Another interesting dimension of the language is how Lithuanians curse. My mother frequently made the point that pure Lithuanian is free of vulgarities. Danute Brazyte Bindokiene, author of the book, Lithuanian Customs and Traditions, agrees: “If we examine the purely Lithuanian swearwords, we will note they are distinct from the expletives and curses of other nations. Lithuanian oaths are a tapestry of folk beliefs from various timespans. They contain remnants of ancient paganism and Christian elements.”
Looking back, I realize the animated curses my parents uttered were potent, but not vile. They invoked the powers of toads, snakes, witches, and the devil. In anger, they would call on the powers of Perkunas, the god of thunder, to strike down any offender. A lack of curse words is not the same as a lack of cursing, however. I remember occasions when my dad would shift into high gear with choice expletives borrowed from Russian.
“There are Lithuanian websites I could point you to that would make you blush,” said professional translator and linguistics expert Gintautas Kaminskas. “It’s a quaint story we tell about Lithuanian not having swear words. What it really means is that most of Lithuanian filthy talk is borrowed from Russian. Language is a tool, an instrument. Its purpose is to be used in talking about things, all sorts of things. Every language finds a way to talk about all the things its speakers want to talk about.”
Pagan Celebrations in Lithuania
Pagan influences also bubble just below the surface of customs surrounding Christian holidays in Lithuania. For example, like Catholics around the world, Lithuanians commemorate November 2 as All Souls Day. They place candles on the graves of loved ones and pray for their passage to heaven. Lithuanians have always called this day “Velines,” for the pagan goddess of death, Veliona, the guardian of the souls of the dead.
A more joyful celebration is “Uzgavenes,” the last day before Lent. The Mardi Gras-like festivities include revelers parading in masks and costumes, burning an effigy of winter and a staged battle in which characters representing the forces of spring drive out the demons of winter. Major public celebrations take over streets in the larger cities, and one of the most popular is held at the outdoor museum of Rumsiskes, just east of Kaunas.
After Christmas, the most anticipated holiday is the midsummer feast marking the longest day of the year, June 24. Celebrated over the centuries as a pagan festival, Rasos–Feast of the Dews–conveniently coincides with the Christian feast of St. John the Baptist and so became known as “Jonines” in Lithuania. It’s a sleepless, enchanted night filled with burning bonfires, music, dancing and rituals, not the least of which is the search for the mythological blooming fern deep in the forest, a favorite activity among young couples.
Rasos/Jonines celebrations are held in every corner of Lithuania, but one of the most impressive is in the southeast, among the hillforts at the State Cultural Reserve of Kernave, the historic capital of pagan Lithuania and a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Lithuanian Mythology Sights for Curious Travelers
Lithuania offers curious travelers a whole new world to discover that goes beyond the typical ornate churches, charming old towns, winding rivers, and endless forests. The country is dotted with points of interest for visitors interested in mythology, folklore, prehistoric religions and neo-paganism: the Devils Museum in Kaunas, the Samogitian pagan shrine in Sventoji, the Hill of Witches on the Curonian Split, a pre-Christian observatory in Kulionys village in Aukstaitija and the Museum of Baltic Dieties in Naisiai village near Siauliai.
Though the neo-paganism movement has grown to about 5,000 followers since Lithuania gained independence from the Soviet Union in 1991, and seeks recognition by the government as an official religion, most Lithuanians today think of paganism as an interesting chapter of history.
“The pagan revival… it’s superficial, and people are just playing games,” said Kaminskas. “Mostly they [Lithuanians] are quite secular, as elsewhere in the world.”
My Lithuanian parents – devout Catholics above all – would have denied ever being influenced by pagan practices. Yet I, for one, am delighted to know that a deep respect for nature runs in my blood, though now I’m pretty sure my mom is waiting for me in the afterlife to confront my claims of paganism in her beloved Lithuanian culture. But I’ve already prepared my defense: the devil made me do it.
